( closed ) frosty the snowman —

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Who: Peter Parker and James Mace
When: Late December
Where: Just outside Christmas Village!
What: Heading back to the Winchester residence ... or so they hope. Dun dun dun.
Warnings: Rated P for Puns + Possible violence, if and/or when they run into any of the demon reindeer or creepy snowmen.

[ It’s Christmas Eve, and the sun is about to set, the sky going hazy and golden behind drifting winter clouds. For Mace, the last time these two things had coincided had been December, 2045. By March of the following year, sunsets had started becoming dimmer and dimmer, until one day —

Well, one day, the Sun hadn’t risen at all. Not in any real sense of the word. And look, Mace knows this place isn’t good news, knows all too well by now that whatever’s brought them all here means them only ill, but Christ. Being able to see the Sun again is a lining so silver, it might as well be gold.

So: it’s Christmas Eve, and instead of sitting in his ancient-looking easy chair back at home, flipping through the evening paper, Mace is out for a drive in a brown-and-grey station wagon. His eyes are pretty much locked on the sunset-tinged horizon right before he catches a glimpse of somebody trudging along the sidewalk, alone on an otherwise deserted street.

It’s ... not one of the townsfolk. Definitely not one of the godforsaken dead-eyed little shits that had been pissing him off since his arrival here. No, that looks like a teenager — and Mace frowns into the rearview mirror, because the kid looks vaguely familiar; and the station wagon screeches to a halt about ten feet away from where . And then he puts the gear into reverse, driving back slowly before stopping. ]

Hey. [ Called through the rolled down window of the station wagon. ]

You’re from the Winchesters household, right? Need a lift? [ Probably not the most reassuring of offers, considering where they are, so Mace adds, ]

My name’s Mace, I’m — I know Dean.

Comments

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( Peter is getting sick and tired of ending up in the Christmas Village. especially now, that it's a frozen and especially creepy wasteland. he isn't a Christmas guy to start, and this isn't helping matters. now he has to take a coat everywhere he does and put on shoes before he goes to the bathroom or he might end up somewhere he distinctly doesn't want to be. if Santa Rosita is trying to force him to feel festive, it isn't working. he can't catch a break, even on Christmas Eve.

he's walking homewards for the upteenth time, too proud to ask his "parents" for a lift. he's got winter gear, at least, having learned his lesson after having to walk across the frozen lake in his socks. at least it isn't a blizzard? that's a positive. but a limited one. the walk has been cold, long, and lonely, and everything feels more creepy than it should. even snowmen littering the yards feel uncomfortably off, or maybe it's the dark, Peter can't tell.

surprisingly, the old station wagon is the first car he's seen. he doesn't think much of it until it stops, suddenly, and rolls back in his direction. Peter stiffens, uncertain, a little too on edge despite himself. he's not in the mood to deal with a townie, and even on top of that, some stranger stopping feels weird, even if maybe he should find it neighborly. his hackles are obviously raised, though they lessen slightly at the mention of his not-dad. )

Yeah, ( he agrees hesitantly, because it's not like it's a secret, all the townies recognize him (and his supposed connection to Dean Winchester) whether he wants it or not. it's not until the name is provided that he manages to relax a little, because that name is familiar. ) Mace... like the astronaut guy? It's Peter, remember?

( stranger danger does remind Peter that agreeing to a ride with a strange dude is not the best of ideas, but. it's not technically a stranger, right? Mace seemed more or less like a decent guy after their short conversation. and maybe his pride has cooled a little after a long walk in winter weather, which is still surprisingly cold for California. ) You sure? ( somewhere in the back of his head, Peter knows that the offer isn't the sort you can quickly rescind and that it'd be bizarre for the guy to agree he wasn't sure and zoom off on his merry way, but, look. he's not used to this kind of neighborly, okay. )

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[ During his brief visit at the Winchester residence, Mace had only gotten a glimpse of the kid in family pictures. Hadn’t gotten a chance to ask for his name, either. But then he hears Peter, and a new bell in the back of his mind dings immediately, the light of recognition entering his eyes. The shadows at the corners of Mace’s mouth deepen at astronaut guy, because that’s quite possibly the single most teenaged way of putting it that he can think of, and he nods to confirm that he indeed fits that descriptor. ]

Peter, with the awesome aunt — and uncle. Yeah, ‘course I remember.

[ It reminds him of youngest sister, when she’d learned what he’d signed up for; and with that reminder comes the memory of him teaching her sternly to never, ever go anywhere with a stranger.

Peter has a right to look wary and uncertain, and Mace is — frankly — glad that there had been an initial clear distrust in his gaze when the station wagon had backed up. If it were a summer afternoon, if it were warmer and less ominously deserted, he’d probably be good to walk home on his own. But it’s goddamn frigid out here, and even if the kid’s safely in his winter gear, there’s a stillness to the streets that Mace instinctively dislikes. Strangely empty and quiet.

Like something’s about to happen.

The engine stays idling as he turns sideways to reach across to the passenger door. After a second, it unlocks; and Mace reemerges in the open window, nodding over at Peter to hop in next to him. ]

I’m more than sure. ‘Sides, it’s freezing tonight; can’t leave you outside in this. C’mon, kid, you’re riding shotgun.

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( his response is a frosted huff of a laugh, though it feels a little bittersweet. ) Yeah, that's me. ( his aunt and uncle were awesome, even if of late Peter has done increasingly little to merit it. hence his uncle being referred to in past tense, and his poor aunt constantly living in fear of a life he wouldn't tell her about. Peter hopes she doesn't realize he's missing, because that's another weight on her shoulders.

maybe a part of him is still a bit uncertain, but facts are facts: it is frigid. and this is definitely not the first time he's made this cold walk. the longer it goes on the colder and creepier it feels. and he liked and trusted Mace enough that he's willing to risk it. )

Okay. Thanks. ( he tilts his head slightly at the need to lean over to unlock the door before he remembers, oh right, we're in 60s Stepford town. Peter clambers into the front seat, all gangly limbs that ... actually fit better than he would in the tiny modern cars he's used to. after he rolls up the window again (because cold) he holds hands toward the heating vent, scrunching them to try and help the heat back towards his fingertips. )

Not that I'm not grateful, but what are you doing driving around on Christmas Eve? ( Peter wonders if he has to explain why he's walking around on Christmas Eve, or the spontaneous teleportation to the Christmas Village is common enough knowledge now. )

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[ God, Mace remembers being a teenager. He’d been heftier than Peter thanks to training for ROTC, but he’d still been as awkward as a new colt. A lot more awkward than the kid getting into the front seat next to him, honestly. Peter’s hands go the heater vent as the car starts moving, and Mace’s instinct is to turn the heat up a little more — but at the last second, he realizes he doesn’t know how hot would be comfortable for the little guy. ]

Turn it up as much as you need. And I haven’t seen a sunset like this in a while, is all.

[ Soon as he says it, Mace realizes how ridiculous it sounds, for all that it’s entirely honest; sure, the sky is a pale gold behind the ever-present grey, but it’s nothing to write home about. A low, amused huff, and without taking his eyes off the road, he tilts his face toward Peter slightly as he clarifies, ]

You know, out in space. How about you, how long’ve you been outside? [ Mace doesn’t ask why, thinks he probably knows the answer already: same reason he himself had ended up in the lake, earlier in the week. The memory of that prompts him to add, ] Do you wanna make a pitstop for some hot chocolate, or some ...

[ Food. He almost says it, and he sure as hell means to ask it, because not only does Peter look half-frozen, there’s a wanness to his face that speaks of not having had a full meal all day. But. The streets are a little too silent, and some sudden gut feeling is telling him it’s probably safest for both of them to head straight home. Behind four solid walls and the safety of a locked front door.

Frowning, Mace’s eyes flicker into the rearview as he trails off, and a foreboding feeling settles itself in the pit of his stomach. Because they still haven’t turned a single corner, and there’s no reason why he shouldn’t be able to see the rooftops of the Christmas Village —

And yet.

The horizon behind them suddenly seems to be bare, opening up into the darkening sky. ]

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( luckily the little is in his head, because Peter would not quite know how to respond to it. he's not been referred to as little since the first year of middle school, when he sprouted up like a beanpole and turned into the strange gumby creature he is today. he's only a little short of 6', though maybe it's hard to note how tall he is when he's most often hunched over.

the warmth coming from the vents already feels like it must be on max, which is a good indication of how cold his hands are. he shakes his head, offering a quick appreciative smile. ) I'll survive. ( he's managed a lot worse on the cold scale, and even on the pain scale. cold fingers are nothing compared to being tossed into a bullet train. and he'd know.

as for how long he's been walking... ) Half an hour, maybe? Felt like forever, but I think that's just the creepy midnight stroll talking. ( it couldn't have actually been that bad. Christmas Village was only a handful of miles away from town proper, shouldn't take longer than an hour to get back "home". time had blurred a little and it hadn't felt much like he was making progress but in theory, it couldn't have been that long...

it's only when the sunset is pointed out that Peter looks at it. he'd seen it, technically, in his petulant walk toward home. he hadn't been in the mood to appreciate it, though, and he leans back to do so properly. ) Yeah. It is kinda nice. ( now that he's in a warm car and not on his own, it feels a bit less creepy. maybe it never was creepy? hard to say, when looking out at the quickly blackening world does seem a little creepy still... thinking about something else. back to sunsets. sunsets are safe, and this one is nice. and it is an unusual thought but yeah, probably aren't a lot of sunsets in space, since the sun never goes anywhere unless you're constantly rotating.

Peter has a lot of hangups about hot chocolate, and he grimaces, visibly. ) That's okay. ( he doesn't want to get into why he doesn't like it — accidentally murdering your serious girlfriend is not second conversation material. eating something might have been more appealing, as while Peter is not wasting away, he's not great at cooking and since he doesn't expect his not-parents to cook for him, he's been struggling a little. ) Just a ride is great. You know where the house is, right?

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[ Give it a few years, and Peter’s probably on-track to be taller than Mace, who tops off at a solid six feet and not much further. Thinking of him as little, though, that’d been an entirely subconscious thing on Mace’s part— stemming not from Peter’s physicality but rather, his age. Young Gumby could be the size of the Chrysler building, Mace’d probably still be calling him kid.

He doesn’t realize that hot chocolate is what causes it, but Mace does catch that grimace, though; and it’s enough to get a glance out of him, despite his dedication to keeping his eyes on the road, as driving a vehicle this old is still a fairly new experience for him. It’s concern, as well as a swift double-check to make sure Peter isn’t injured beyond the chill settling into the kid’s fingers as he settles back into the passenger seat. Half an hour’s plenty long enough to get seriously cold in the extremities in weather like this.

No visible harm, but. Mace better make sure. ]

I know where the house is, yeah — should be there in about ten minutes, no sweat. When you say creepy midnight stroll, though.

[ And Mace’s head tilts slightly so he can glance into the side mirror, this time, because something new’s just popped up in his line of sight. His expression is still composed, nothing beyond a divot between his brows, but a muscle twitches subtly in his jaw as he turns back to the road ahead. The car picks up in speed, the engine giving a stuttering growl before obeying the press of Mace’s foot against the gas.

Should be there in eight minutes, max.

( Christ. Where the hell did that thing — ) ]

Anything give you any trouble? [ And it might be noticeable here that Mace doesn’t say anybody. Because in the distance behind them is something that looks very, very much like a hulking silhouette of a deer following the car — and although the windows are closed, the heater sighing loudly through the vents ...

The sudden, faint echo of a steady clop-clop somehow manages to reach their ears. ]

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( he's fine, in the same way Mace is fine, future tense. it's hard to find a new normal after tragedy, and while Peter has slowly learned how to get out of bed and more or less function now that his world lacks Gwen, there are still some things that ache more than they should. hot chocolate was her favorite, he can't remember a time they walked around Manhattan in the fall that she didn't have hot chocolate in her hand. hot chocolate reminds him of swiss miss kisses, the stupidly adorable sound Gwen would make after her first sip, and of course, that she's gone. that light extinguished, suddenly, and more or less because of him.

he can't drink it anymore. even the mention (which comes up more often than you'd think in December) makes him uncomfortable. it's not something that is easy to explain. with a stranger or with someone that knows him, really. so he's glad that Mace doesn't ask, because he distinctly does not want to talk about it. )

No, nothing. It's just this entire place is creepy, you know? Makes even snowmen seem ominous. ( his walk had been full of snowmen, that oddly seemed increased in number from the last time he'd made this walk. blank, black eyes, that seemed to stare at him. even though that was impossible. ) Probably just the whole, walking around after dark in the place I got involuntarily trapped getting to me, that's all.

( Peter sighs, but, hopefully that's enough of an answer to put Mace at ease. the guy seems a little on edge, glancing behind them in the rearview and subtle shifts in expression that are hard to track. )

Why, have you seen anything out here? ( there's a distant sound (like hooves?? maybe, Peter isn't exactly familiar with the sound of hooves) Peter can't help but turn to glance out the back window, but nothing seems to be there but dimmed sky and a stretch of lonely asphalt. )

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I know what you mean.

[ A slow murmur, his eyes now alternating between the road and the rearview every minute. It’s about the snowmen, because Peter’s absolutely right; they’re the creepiest thing he’s seen in this godforsaken town, including the jellied Bundt cakes, which is saying something. Unbeknownst to Mace, it’s also about the hot chocolate. Truth is, it’d been on his mind for a similar reason; it reminds him of his baby sister. But if he’d known what the mention of it did to Peter, though — that it made everything cold and dark for the kid, instead — Mace would’ve just gone straight for food.

Then again, either suggestion wouldn’t have amounted to anything, considering the shadow trailing after them right now. And it’s not showing any signs of disappearing any time soon, which means a race, at best. At worst ... it means a fight, with the two of ‘em at a hell of a disadvantage. No weapons. No protective gear.

Clop-clop, coming faster. ]

And yeah, I have. It’s following us. [ Quiet but firm, glancing over at Peter as he says it. Can’t help but be appreciative that Peter’s a kid with a seriously level head on his shoulders, given that he’d just turned around to give the thing a good look without even the first hint of panic. Good man, Pete. ]

Don’t worry. I’m gonna try and get us the hell out of dodge, but this tin-can doesn’t have any seatbelts, so.

[ Mace’s hand drops down to the gear stick, shifting to the second, ready to accelerate the moment Peter grabs onto something inside the car. Technically shouldn’t be too much of a hazard, not like the cars here can go at futuristic speeds, but Mace ain’t taking any chances. Not with Peter in the car, and definitely not in this hellscape of a town. ]

Hold on, kid.

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( you know, it'd be a lot more reasonable for him to panic a bit more, without all the superpowers to help him float any threatening situation. Peter is a perfectly normal guy since arrival in Santa Rosita, which has been a trip and a half all on its own. he never thought he'd miss his powers but also had never figured there was a way to get rid of them. now that they're gone he feels uncentered and uneven, though it seems having powers has irreparably changed how he thinks and reacts to things. he's learned to face danger when it comes his way, and apparently it's hard to turn that off, even when you're suddenly squishy again.

he does keep a relatively level head in a potentially dangerous situation, though. talking to girls or trying to hide things he stammers like he's only just learned to talk, but life or death? he's had to navigate that delicate dance more times than he can remember. Peter knows the importance of not letting fear distract from what he needs to do. )

What is it? ( he squints at the dark spreading behind them, like maybe his eyes are just failing him (he does have to wear his glasses in Santa Rosita, after all) and there might be something he just isn't seeing. and sure enough, it does seem like something is pushing closer, a steady clip of something against the concrete.

Peter doesn't have many options, but there's a handle on the door, so he grabs that and winds the other arm around the chair, so he can keep eyes behind them. ) I'm good. ( and suddenly incredibly grateful he'd decided to agree to a ride. whatever was chasing them, Peter is pretty sure he didn't want to meet it alone in the open. )

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[ It’s not lost on Mace, the level-headedness with which Peter’s facing everything, and he doesn’t mean this situation alone. Peter’s words from the network filter back into his thoughts — I can handle more than you think — and he makes a mental note to ask the kid what he’d meant, later on. But he doesn’t miss that squint, either; and that, coupled with Peter’s question, has a few pieces immediately falling into place that had been in limbo before.

Mace is quick to clarify. ] One of Santa’s reindeer’s gone rogue, right behind us — approaching fast, about thirty feet away, give or take five — and I don’t think it’s Rudolph. The nose isn’t lit up, but the eyes ... [ His last look in the rearview just now had shown him two dull red flames, glowing brighter and brighter below what looked to be incredibly wide-set antlers — and that alone is enough to confirm that this is, yes, deliberate. Not a regular deer. Something else.

A clear blue gaze flicks over at Peter in one final check to make sure he’s secure, and there’s something firm and approving in Mace’s voice as he notes the arm around the seat. ]

Good man.

[ And then it’s pedal to the metal — which is not nearly as impressive as it would’ve been about a century later, but to the station wagon’s credit, it does the best it can. Which seems to be a loud, sullen grumble that suddenly jumps in volume as the car lurches forward, the trees on either side of the road whipping past in a dark, greenish blur. Mace’s eyes don’t stray from the road in front of him, this time, because he’s got a single damn objective or bust.

Five minutes, ETA. Tops. It has to be, they’re going easily fast enough —

The sun dips below the horizon, plunging the world around them into night; and the darkness around them shatters with something deep and bellowing and monstrous, hooves clattering against concrete, suddenly far too loud to be anything but right behind them.

Clang. Something hits the trunk of the car, and Mace’s hands go tight around the steering wheel as he keeps the wagon from skidding into the side of the road. ]

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( he can't help it, he laughs. definitely not because he's having a great time (he is definitely NOT having a great time, very suddenly, no offense to his company), but because of course there's a murder reindeer on the loose. why not. the christmas village hadn't been creepy enough all on its own, so throw in a splash of spontaneous drownings, a tentacle monster, and snowmen that seem to multiply and watch you despite not being able to move. the crown jewel of the festive frights would obviously be a demented even reindeer. )

Of course Blitzen went rabid on us. You know what? I'm saying it. Not that into Christmas. ( it was weird enough being a modern jewish kid battered with quaint 60s americana-soaked festivity, but now it's trying to murder him, too? way too far. if this was some perverse scared straight, but make it about Christmas, they've shown their hand and totally blown it. Peter is going to be a straight up scrooge next year.

finally as Mace floors it and they peel off into inky suburban dark, Peter sees a better hint of what's just beyond. it's gaining on them, and unnervingly fast. animals are always unnerving in what they can do, unrestricted by the fragile limits of humanity. even still, there's something pushing the limits of possible, because yeah maybe a reindeer could hit 50MPH, but not for particularly long. as Peter is staring the thing down, he gets a sense of what it's trying before it happens. )

I think it's going to — ( well, there was more to that thought, but it's clipped short when the creature rams the car. Peter ducks his head into the seat cushion and braces himself against the seat, and he's more or less no worse for the wear, though his glasses definitely got uncomfortably pressed against his face. he straightens again to stare at the backseat, hoping for something they can use to retaliate. a windshield scraper really isn't going to cut it? what else do they have?

well, Peter has an idea, but, Mace probably is not going to like it. )

If it's going to keep charging, you could brake suddenly. It wouldn't have time to stop or turn, and maybe the impact would be enough to stop it. ( kill it? or at least daze it long enough to limp the car into a garage. or strand them right next to it, dazed and even more angry, in a car that no longer moves. so, there's that too. )