lizbee | FIC: The Christmas Forecast (PG, Tegan) (Reply)

Title: The Christmas Forecast
Summary: Tegan has her own perspective on the Sycorax invasion.
Spoilers: LOL. I mean, "The Christmas Invasion".
Rating: PG
Characters: Tegan, her entirely fictional (in the sense of having been made up by me) family.
Notes: So I actually wrote most of this last year, with the hope of posting it on Christmas Day 2006 (when the action is meant to take place). Only I started it on Christmas Eve 2006, and then my mother called me over to help with the roast lamb, and somehow it just never quite came together. Woes.

The Christmas Forecast
by LizBee

Tegan opened her eyes.

It was dark. Raining lightly on her bare, sunburned shoulders. Lightning flickered overhead.

Not again.

She was standing on the roof of that new block of flats, looking down at the empty garden and unpaved drive. It was dark, whereas a moment ago it had been light.

A hand pressed against hers.

"Mum," said Trish, "what's happening?"

"I don't know," Tegan said, but she could make a pretty good guess.

Christmas in Brisbane meant oppressive humidity before nine in the morning. Cold roast lunch (cooked the day before, leaving the house full of delicious smells and unbearable heat). A sleep in the afternoon. The girls used to play under the hose in the evening, but they were too old for that sort of thing now, and anyway, there were water restrictions.

"Tegan!"

She turned, searching for the voice. So many people up here; it was like a party but more desperate. People crying, screaming, hugging. Someone had brought a case of beer. A group of girls, no older than Trish, were sharing a bottle of vodka.

"Over here," she called, but he'd already spotted them. Elbowing through the crowd with Anna in his wake. Mark pulled Trish into a one-armed hug. And Trish let him, tears spilling down her cheeks and ruining her already-messy eye make-up.

Tegan kissed him, then kissed him again to prove that he was still here and she was still her.

"Aliens," he said, and she thought he must have read her mind. "Over England. Crazy. All these people on the roof. High places. Ready to jump."

Anna was clutching her hand, looking far younger than seventeen. "At least you guys are okay."

It was raining harder now. They walked home. There were people everywhere. Gathered in front yards, illuminated by Christmas lights and the storm. Talking, drinking, crying.

"You were just blank," Mark was saying as they climbed the front stairs. "You and Trish were walking away--"

"Going up to the roof," Anna put in.

"Nothing we could do about it."

"Like zombies," Anna finished.

The house was stuffy from being shut up for hours, and the dog was manic with joy at their return. Tegan glanced in the mirror that stood in the hallway. She looked nearly as messy as Trish. And sunburnt. They were both burnt.

Coco was on her hind legs, tail wagging as if they'd been gone for weeks instead of hours. Trish almost smiled as she settled her, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I need a shower," she mumbled, and pushed past them.

It was too hot to stay inside. Tegan and Mark sat on the verandah, eating leftovers and drinking the wine they hadn't gotten around to at lunch. Anna was playing with the dog in the rain.

"Be strange," said Mark, "Anna going to uni next year."

"She'll be back," said Tegan. "Every weekend with a load of washing."

Mark poured a second glass of wine and said carefully, "Are you okay?"

"Fine," said Tegan. Too quickly. He gave her a sidelong look. "'Okay' would be a stretch. I'll be fine."

No point in explaining that alien possession wasn't new to her. This whole business was an unwelcome flashback, but she coped before and she'll manage again. Brave heart, Tegan, and all that.

She went inside and turned on the news. Aliens destroyed, a fireball over London and all the world rejoicing. There were no police boxes lurking in the background, no fair young men saving the world.

After that, it was all politics. The Americans were blaming the British for allowing it to happen. A dozen terrorist organisations were claiming credit. Pundits were making empty comments about protecting people from this kind of nebulous threat.

Tegan turned the tv off and went to find Trish.

She was in her room, with the door closed and the music pounding. Business as usual, really. Tegan knocked twice, got no answer, and went in anyway.

Trish was sitting at her desk, staring blankly at her monitor. She closed the window as soon as Tegan entered.

"I didn't hear you knock," she said. To Tegan's private amazement, she turned her music down. "Do the parenting books have any advice on what to say when your teen has been possessed by aliens?"

"I don't think so."

"Pity." Trish kept her eyes on the screen. "I might have actually listened."

"I don't think I own any parenting books, actually."

"It's one of your better qualities." Trish swung around in her chair. "Do you ever wish ... I dunno – that you could be somewhere else?"

"No," said Tegan, "I became a flight attendant because I liked staying in one place. All the time."

"Mum. I'm opening up here, and you're giving me sarcasm?" Trish paused. "Is this some kind of revenge?"

"You should be possessed by aliens more often. It's an improvement."

"Mum!"

Tegan laughed. Trish, she could see, was caught between laughter and sulks, but eventually she managed a smile.

"Look," Tegan said, "you can spend your entire life worrying that aliens are going to jump out at your, or take over your brain and make you stand on rooftops, or ... whatever. Or you can just ... go on."

"You mean let it go. Like it never happened."

"No ... I mean," Tegan struggled to put it into words. "It happened, and you can't change it, but ... you still get up in the morning. You still face the day." She played with the pens on Trish's desk. "Does that sound trite?"

"No," said Trish, sounding thoughtful, "it sounds like you know about this." She paused, giving Tegan a look that was full of hope and curiosity and all the naïvete of youth. It made Tegan want to flee. She opened her mouth, feeling the words well up within her.

And she stopped, picturing the look of disbelieve on Trish's face, the awkward questions, the secrets finally coming to light. Her past, on display for the world to see, when it was hers and hers alone, the only thing she kept safe and private when she gave everything else to her family.

"You'd be amazed," was all she said, and she tried not to recognise the look of disappointment in Trish's eyes.

"Yeah," said Trish. "I guess so." She stood up. "I need something to eat," she said. "Don't touch my stuff."

Tegan rolled her eyes. She'd never been one for snooping through her daughters' rooms, reading their diaries, interfering. She was better than that.

And yet, something compelled her to reach for the mouse and maximise the Internet Explorer.

And there it was. The TARDIS. Blurry photos of unfamiliar people. Rumours. UNIT press releasees. Everything. My Invasion Blog, said the header, by Ursula Blake.

Tegan swallowed. It was like – like finding her baby photos in the hands of a stranger. Worse, like finding her babies in the hands of a stranger.

She closed her eyes, willing it to go away. Pointless.

And Trish was reading all of it, and they'd visited 2006 once, and what if there had been closed circuit cameras or a trainspotter with a camera, or someone remembered—

She scrolled down, but if her face was known to these – these afficionados, there was no sign of it on this blog.

Tegan held her breath and closed the browser. The ultimate in pointless gestures, she thought, and almost laughed.

She could hear Trish in the kitchen, teasing Coco and making Mark laugh. Her resilient younger daughter, facing what was left of the day.

Tegan stood up to join them, to find out if Anna had plans for New Year's Eve, to sit with her husband, to watch Trish at play. Life went on. Even on Christmas Day.

And yet, as she walked away from the computer, she couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something had changed.

end