Writing Prompt: February

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[/url]! Anyways, here are three writing prompts you can choose from! You'll relieve 10 dandy points to do what you please with per character written for. [/ul]

February 14

Snowed In

Snowman

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[VICTOR FRANKENSTEIN]

Victor: Snowed In / February 14

[/i] hot cot cocoa, you ungrateful bastard."

"Oh." Victor stared. "Well, that's good. Thank you."

"You're welcome," James smirked back. Victor didn't really know why James was smirking, but he hopped anxiously from foot to foot once again as James continued making their drinks.

Two minutes later, he asked, "Are you done yet?" Because James was holding to steaming mugs and Victor really wanted one to warm his cold fingers, they were like little ice pops, and he'd been sucking on them anxiously when James turned around.

"Yes."

"Give me one."

James shook his head, "What's the magic word?"

"Please."

"Atta boy," James grinned, and Victor huffed, annoyed. And yet, he was still not given a cup. When he reached for it, James pulled back. "Ah-ah," he frustratingly teased. "I don't trust you to bring these up the stairs without spilling it everywhere and burning us both." Well, he agreed with that, Victor thought, though didn't voice it.

"Okay," he admitted, and followed James up the stairs, trailing him like a pup eager for dinner. "Why aren't you at work?" He suddenly realized James had rehearsal today, why wasn't he there now?

James made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat, "Too much snow, I can't get through the roads. When was the last time you looked outside?" Victor shrugged, because he didn't know. James rolled his eyes, because this was 'one of those things,' Victor remembered. One of those things James didn't like him to say, but wanted to know them anyways, because for some reason they were important and when he didn't do them James was sad. The reached James' bedroom; Victor didn't think twice about entering after him, quickly crawling underneath James' cold covers and shivering a bit. James handed him the cup, which he practically snatched away eagerly. Oh, that was good. He happily breathed in the chocolaty steam. James rolled his eyes again but crawled in after him, saying, "You know, you might be less cold if you wore a proper shirt."

Victor looked down at his shirt. It was proper, as far as he could tell. It was a worn t-shirt from university, and he liked it. It was soft, if not a little threadbare and holy by now. "I like it. Elizabeth gave it to me," he stated.

"Yes, I know," James said, adjusting himself against the headboard and taking a sip from his own mug. "Mm, that hits the spot." Victor almost asked, 'what spot?' but James said right after, "You know, it's Valentine's Day."

So, instead, he asked, "What's Valentine's Day?"

"Really, you should know by now," sighed James, but he looked a little amused. "It's the day when people give each other stupid cards and chocolate and profess their love to one another for no reason."

"Oh. Well. You've given me hot chocolate. Is that good enough if I share it with you?"

James smiled, and Victor felt like he was missing something, maybe. "I guess so."

"And I love you," Victor added, because it felt needed. James looked down at his lap, but he didn't mind. A few minutes of quiet later, and Victor said, "I think I like this day." James regained his contented expression then.[/font][/ul]

[SUNNY CRUSOE]

Sunny Crusoe/Snowed In (Or in which Sunny discovers snow)

“Robinson. It’s seven am. Out of bed. You’re missing the day.”

Sunny rolled over, groaning. “M’not missing anything, Grammy. Life doesn’t start in New York until Oh-nine-thirty. Or, well, eight-ish when Tuesday gets here and takes away the covers.”

There was a sarcastic snort of laughter which only made Sunny groan again, rubbing his nose against the sheets. Finally he cracked an eye open, glancing at where the old woman was sitting on his bed side table, watching him with the little smile she always had. She looked just as he remembered her from his childhood, waking him up the way she always did when he was a child – by telling him to get up and waiting for him to do just that.

That was the problem.

“You’re not real.”

“I’m real enough,” she dismissed. “Now, out of bed.”

“You’ve been dead for fifteen years and you’re still running my life,” he muttered, kicking the sheets away and rolling out of bed.

“When you can get yourself out of bed, I’ll let you run your own life.”

Sunny didn’t comment on how likely he thought that would be. Instead he made his way to the closet, throwing on his robe because there was a bit of a chill. He hated the cold. Everything was always much colder in New York. He knew he was further away from the sun up here, but you’d think New York would have invented some way to get heat pumped in. Instead, he wore irritating sweaters and bundled up like the abdominal snow man when everyone else was wearing almost nothing.

Hmm...abominable snow man in New York...perhaps he’d have to turn that into a children’s book...

He made his way into the kitchen, following the warm aroma of coffee. His only coffee mug was sitting on the counter, waiting just where he’d left it the night before, and he poured himself a steaming mug on autopilot. Really, it was amazing what his body would do without his say so. It knew where his drug of choice was, and look – he was already sipping it down without thought. It was almost like mind control. Maybe it was.

“Really, Robinson. Leave the science fiction for after breakfast,” Grammy chided, causing Sunny to roll his eyes a bit.

“Grammy, why does imaginary you insist on calling me Robinson?” he asked, moving to open up the blinds. “It’s not like real you didn’t name me...holy fucking shit.”

“Robinson!”

Sunny barely heard her. It wasn’t a terrible reaction to what he was seeing. As it was, he barely managed not to drop his coffee mug, even if his hands and shirt front were now dripping with the scalding liquid.

“Tell me I’m making this up, too.”

“Don’t be obtuse. You know it snows in the northern hemisphere,” Grammy chided, carefully re-folding the blanket that lived on the back of his couch.

Snows, yes. He was aware that they got snow. What he wasn’t aware of was how much snow he should have been prepared to wake up to that morning. His balcony was buried under heaps of the white and fluffy powder. It was climbing up his French doors, his windows were fogged because of it, which only made the world seem that much more bleak and dream-like. It freaked the hell out of him. For a boy who grew up on an island and then spent his adult life on the Pacific Ocean, it was like waking up in the Twilight Zone.

...he wasn’t going to rule that out just yet.

Setting his wet mug down, Sunny pressed his hand to the cold glass, feeling the chill grow stronger. He pulled his hand back, looking at the pinked skin and closed his fingers into a fist. Well, it certainly looked like snow, and it felt cold. The only way to know if there was snow for sure would be to open the door and see for himself. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but at the same time, he knew it would drive him crazy if he didn’t. So he reached for the handle and tried to push the door open. Only, it didn’t budge. He tried again, putting his shoulder into it until the glass creaked ominously and he forced himself to stop.

It wouldn’t budge.

He was trapped. He was snowed in, like Sam McGee and Jack London and Cocaine addicts. Oh this wasn’t good. Shit, there had to be something he could do. He couldn’t be snowed in!

Reaching for the phone, he picked it up and dialed the lobby, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

“Front Desk.”

“Jimmy, its Sunny Crusoe in 31 A. How bad’s the snow?”

When in doubt, ask a native, after all.

“We got a good dumpin’ of the white stuff, Mr. C. It looks like we’re going to be stuck in here until the plows get going and someone shows up with a shovel.”

Sunny hung up the phone sharply, glancing at Grammy with wide, terror-filled eyes. “We’re snowed in.”

“That’s not so bad.”

“Not so bad? What if we’re stuck here for forever? What if the power goes out and we run out of food? Well, we’re already out of food, but how is Tuesday supposed to get here with more? What if Tuesday starves to death?”

They were all real concerns. How the hell did people here cope? Why had no one told him to stock up on things like food and water and triple A batteries? He was going to die. And his only company was going to be his dead grandmother.

His feet seemed to have a mind of their own. He began to pace the length of his living room, from the window to the couch and back before turning again. He didn’t need this. This was not something he needed. It was bad to get agitated, or so the shrink said. The guy was useless. Still, the more agitated he got, the less things made sense. He was snowed in, he was going to die, and his only comfort would be that his thoughts were down on paper. Thank Christ were his thoughts down on paper. Without that, what was life worth? He would just rot away like a moldy husk up here without his legacy. His eyes would rot, his skin would turn to dust, and his fingers would fall off...

He was not going to let himself slip like this. He was going to persevere. He would survive. He survived an Island for nearly a decade. He could handle a little snow...

He was going to die. Who was he kidding? He was an Islander. He had no business being where it snowed. He had no business being anywhere cold. This whole move was a disaster waiting to happen. He saw that now.

“Really, Robinson,” Grammy sighed, but Sunny ignored her, continuing to pace. “Rob...Sunny. Sunshine, stop pacing. We are going to be just fine.”

“Easy enough for you to say – you’re already dead. I have a healthy fear of not dying.”

Grammy fell silent, an eye roll her only response. Sunny was too distracted to notice his slip. His thoughts were on a downward spiral, working harder and harder to invent things that would happen to him. It seemed like forever and a day later when there was a knock at his front door. Sunny paused, staring at it, wondering if he’d imagined that, too.

“Well, answer it,” Grammy prompted.

Sunny nodded, creeping over to the door and opening it slightly so he could see who was on the other side. Standing there was the best looking thing he’d ever seen – Tuesday. With a grocery bag of food.

“Thank god you’re alive!” Sunny exclaimed, lunging forward to hug the other man. “I was sure everyone was dead and I was the only person left. I never thought I’d see another human face again!”

“Uh...” Tuesday paused, trying to find something to say.

“I was alone for so long,” Sunny mumbled, face completely buried in Tuesday’s heavy winter coat.

“Mr. Crusoe, I’m only ten minutes late,” Tuesday sighed. “How about we go inside, put a dry shirt on, and have some coffee...and some Xanex?”

And as much as he hated medication, Sunny couldn’t imagine anything better than doing just that. Yeah, he’d survive this winter bullshit.

[PAZ SOTAMAYOR]

Paz / February 14th

Valentine's Day was a joke, it always was and it always would be. The commercial vomit that it spewn all over, chunks of red and pink hearts litering every surface, actually made Paz sick. Some things she did like about America but it's excessive living was just too ridiculous. She had come from a town in Mexico where, even though her family was wealthy, they still had less than most people in middle class America had. Watching people throw money away on flowers, cards, chocolates, and dates all because of some stupid "holiday" made Paz hate the country she had taken solace in.

A man was stoned for other's sake and people celebrate it by over indulgence.

Paz sat on her balcony, looking out over the busy Manhattan street, with wine in hand. There was a couple fighting across the street; the man hadn't given his lady friend the right bracelet or something along those lines because the jewelry was dashed against the ground and she was stomping away. Another couple stood at arms length, obviously uncomfortable with being together. Two people slipped into an alley, one's back immediately pressed against a wall as they slipped into the shadows together.

It was funny, Paz thought, that on a day that supposedly was meant for love, very little of it was found in the world.

An old couple moved down the street together, arms entwined. The gentleman helped the woman over a puddle and pulled his jacket off, winding it around her when she gave an only slightly exaggerated shiver. A father rushed across the street, his young daughter's hand in his, her little pink coat flapping as her small legs pumped to keep up with him. Paz smiled, took a drink, and refilled her glass.

The love that people thought of when they thought of Valentine's Day was the one that they should ignore, Paz figured. Romantic love wasn't steady, it wasn't forever like people thought. It ebbed and flowed, just like water. Some days it was strong and passionate, a tidal wave against a rock. Some days it was weak and meager, the most bare and dreary drizzle just after a big storm. Some days it was loud and angry, a monsoon wailing against windows and doors. Then again, the love between family was just as unpredictable and unstable.

Really, that means love was that way in nature.

Paz congratulated herself on coming to that conclusion by taking another drink.

She had plans with her newest sugar daddy, but he cancelled because his wife was getting too suspicious. She was supposed to be drinking champagne and wearing nothing but her brand new diamonds that she had been promised. Yes, she would have had to endure roses and wearing a red teddy that fit the day's theme, but diamonds were diamonds and champagne tickled her nose just right.

Instead, she looked a mess, sitting in a plastic lawn chair that she had bought for her very first apartment with her last five bucks. Sweatpants with a spaghetti sauce stain on the knee, a tank top with sweat stains down the sides from some boyfriend she had years ago, her hair in a pile on top of her head in some half-assed attempted at a top knot, no make-up on: Paz was only pretty and made up when she had to be, when there was an audience to impress. She could impress herself, sure, but what good was that? She wasn't going to give herself shiny things or half of her own fortune.

St. Valentine died, a massacre killed 17 people, and people exchanged heart shaped cards and frilly chocolate boxes.

In a world filled with superficial tokens of gratitude, longing, and love, Paz made herself her only pillar of reality. The stain on her pants, the sweat rings on her shirt, her knotted hair, her swollen, ashen face, and her almost empty bottle of wine were what was real. Love didn't exist, at least not the kind that people wanted.

It was all some very elaborate show and Paz felt like she was the only person who could see behind the scenes.

[RICHARD PLANTAGENET]

{I haven't posted as Rickyboy in awhile; this is to get my muse back in gear, so it may read a bit strangely. Also, I deviate from the prompt slightly in that Richard actually ventures outside but its all for the purposes of angst. ;D He did not appreciate what you said about him building a snowman, by the by, so all this angst is his way of revenge.}

Richard: Snowed In or How Snow Prompts Richard To Angsty Reflections and Poor Decisions

It was eerie, how suddenly things changed.

A few flakes of snow at first, dancing softly through the sky on their descent to earth - the calm before the storm. The snow soon was falling at full force, a torrent of frigid flakes which consumed the ground they fell on, enveloping the city in soft whiteness. Covering it like a dead man's shroud.

Richard watched this progression from flurry to fury with an impassive expression on his face, as though what was occurring outside was of little consequence to him, far more concerned with the thoughts whirling around inside his own head than the snowflakes outside.

Like a dead man's shroud. That was what rendered him motionless, only observing. That was what had him so deep in thought. Ever since he had acknowledged within himself his repressed feelings of guilt, the slightest detail could serve to remind him of his crimes. This snow, now steadily enveloping the city in its icy embrace, was a force that could not be stopped, a shroud that had to be placed. But Edward's shroud, Edward's death...it could have prevented. He could have lived, if only for a few more years.

Yet Richard had taken those years from him. In a matter of minutes Edward had died, and soon thereafter the city had been engulfed in mourning. But it had moved on. It was years now since Edward had been murdered. They didn't know, didn't mind any more. It was Richard who was left to comprehend and come to terms with the consequences of his actions.

But he could not.

This realization struck him with the swiftness and chill of the falling snow. He was unable to cope with his guilt. He told himself what he had done was justified, told himself he was in the right, but his justifications meant nothing now. He was haunted by his brother's ghost, by the ghosts of the other men he had murdered and he could not conceal it. The snow was bright, stark and pure - he never could be that way again. Was it possible he never had been?

Richard got to his feet in a sudden movement, as if continuing in that same attitude would only consume him further in his own macabre contemplations. And yet he did not let them go even as he donned his coat and gloves, took hold of his walking stick and exited the apartment, stumbling over his own feet in his haste. Outside the snow continued to fall, but its silence only served to make the voices in his head ring louder.

Pride before fall. Pride before fall. Pride before fall.

He barely registered where he was walking, or how treacherous the ground was swiftly becoming. He was at the cemetery gates before he had consciously directed himself there, and then at Edward's grave. The snow was falling even more heavily now, and Richard's gait faltered as he approached.

Looking at the headstone as though in a trance, Richard continued to advance towards it, but the snow was now so thick upon the ground that the intricacies of the path beneath his feet could not be distinguished. It took one loose cobblestone but he was felled, sprawled in the snow before the headstone.

He lay there for a moment or two, as though unsure whether or not he could right himself, shivering not just with cold but with fear, as though he was choosing to interpret this literal descent figuratively, as if it were a sign. When he at last raised himself to his knees, as if in supplication before the grave, he was shaking with sobs, a wretched sound that broke the silence of the snow and proved louder even than his reflections. He stretched out his good hand to touch the headstone, trembling, brushing the snow from the inscription with something like reverence in his manner.

Edward Plantagenet
28th April 1952- 18th August 2010
Mayor of New York
Beloved Son of Richard and Cecily Plantagenet
Loving Husband to Elizabeth Plantagenet
Father to Elizabeth, Richard and Edward
The Glorious Sun Has Set.
Rest in Peace.

Richard bowed his head, as though unable to face the evidence before him.

"Edward Plantagenet..." he intoned, in a voice solemn yet shaking. "Forgive me..."

It was eerie, how suddenly things changed.

[SIOBHAN "NYX" SHAW]

(Seeing as how these are both my babies, I had fun, even if it's another depressing response to this prompt ).

Thanks for Just Being You
Zander & Siobhan/ February 14, 2012


Leaning back into the leather couch, Siobhan couldn’t help but notice how quiet the apartment was. She had that despairing thought often since Jamie died, but there were certain nights of the year that made it worse than others. Valentines’ Day was one of them. The holiday devoted to lovers only helped to make the lonely feel all that more alone. Honestly, she could deal with that. Being alone had never bothered her, but losing what she’d had and being acutely reminded of it...that was harder to deal with.

Sipping her tea quietly, Siobhan glanced over at the overstuffed armchair Jamie had favored, imagining him sitting there, strumming away on his guitar or reading aloud from a book. Sometimes he’d even drag her into his lap, filling her head with all the plans he had for their life together. It was even where he’d proposed, ironically on Valentines Day. It had been cheesy and even he’d admitted that it was cliché, but it was supposed to be a fun memory.

She couldn’t look at that chair some days. She’d considered selling it, giving it away, shoving it into one of the bedrooms and forgetting it existed. But every time she considered moving it, it felt wrong. Jamie had only been dead six months. It was something she’d been dealing with admirably well, according to everyone who knew her, but there were some things she just wasn’t ready to do, some things that no one had any right to tell her to do.

Sighing, she rubbed a hand under her eyes, glad that she had opted not to wear mascara. If she had, it would have made her look like a raccoon after the day she’d had. The periods where she’d cried had already left her skin splotchy and her appearance tired. She felt drained, all out of tears, just completely void. Thus the tea. Her mother had firmly believed that a cup of tea made everything better. There was no making this better, but she did want to try. At least no one was there to judge her.

That thought was quickly derailed when there was a knock at her door.
Shifting forward, she set her tea down and futilely ran a hand through her hair in some attempt to fix up her appearance. Her sweats weren’t fashionable, and her t-shirt wasn’t flattering, but she wasn’t feeling like looking presentable, so whoever was at the door would have to deal with her as she was, no matter how she hated being anything less than her best.

Opening her door, she almost wished she had ignored it.

“Zander, what’re you doing here?”

Zander Devereux was one of her oldest friends in the city. When they'd first come to the city, Nick had been hired to paint something for Zander's office – some awful crocodile – and the two had hit it off. Drinking and partying together was what they’d done best. And even though he’d been childishly upset about their divorce, when Nick had dropped off the face of the planet Zander had checked in on her and – even though it was anonymous – paid her rent a few times when she was getting out on her own. When she’d met Jamie, he’d been her annoying big brother figure, checking him out and making sure that he was a decent guy. They’d never hit it off, but he’d been nice enough to pretend. From time to time, she’d had to head slap him back into proper behaviour, but she’d seen his mother do the same thing on many occasions so she’d never felt bad about it.

Right then, seeing the big dummy standing in her doorway with roses and a grocery bag, she was sure he’d taken all leave of his senses. If he thought they were going on some date then he was very much mistaken.

“I came to see you, clearly. You look lovely, by the way,” he offered flippantly, walking in without permission.

“Zander,” she sighed, watching as he closed the door and held the flowers in her face until she had no choice but to take them.

“These are for you. Now, I spent all afternoon cooking my favorite meal because I don’t cook things like stew and whatever poutine is. Sounds like something you scrape off a boat or off the bottom of your shoe...”

“Zander,” she said, more firmly this time, which made him duck his head a little. He was such a little boy sometimes.

“Alright, so I may have remembered it was Valentines and I may have remembered it was a bad day for you and...”

He waved his arm around, as if that summed everything up. She looked at him blankly for a moment as he toed off his shoes and walked towards her kitchen, humming some tune she didn’t recognize. God, he could be an irritating son of bitch, but he could also be the biggest sweetheart she’d ever met. He knew she’d been alone and this was his obtrusive way of being sly about being considerate.

“Zander I really don’t want to have dinner.”

He paused mid-step, setting the bag down on the table. “Fine, we’ll eat later. For now we can do something else. You could get gussied up and we could go dancing.”

“I don’t dance.”

“Or we could go see a movie.”

“I’m not interested in going anywhere.”

“Fine, we’ll stay in.”

She opened her mouth to protest again and he sent her such a sorrowful look that she couldn’t say anything.

“Work with me here, Vonny.”

“Fine. You can stay.”

“Excellent, I’m starving!” Zander beamed brightly, taking the food over to the living room table and making himself comfortable on the couch.

“We eat at the kitchen table,” she pointed out, but Zander only waved her off again.

“And miss...” he quickly flipped on the TV to some sitcom. “This? No, no, be adventurous. Try Jambalaya on the couch for once.”

She wasn’t sure how she felt about having Zander in her space when she felt so rotten, but she really didn’t want to sit around and be lonely anymore. So she put the flowers in water as Zander pulled Tupperware out and arranged it on the coffee table.

Dinner mainly consisted of Zander talking about everything from some new assistant – some poor man named Jeffry who probably wouldn’t last a week – to what his mother and sisters were up to. He even laughed at the show a few times when he wasn’t busy talking, pointing out how terrible the acting was. His voice filled the apartment, dispelling the quiet, and as he talked, Siobhan actually felt a smile tugging at her lips from time to time. Zander was like that – he could get anyone’s mind off of anything. It was still in the back of her head that she should have been sitting there with Jamie, with the man who’s proposed to her that very day three years before, but it wasn’t dragging her down the way it had been before. She’d been sad, and now she was making a new memory to help keep that sadness away.

Finally, after the food was gone and the lights were turned off, Siobhan rested her head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat and blankly taking in whatever they were watching on the TV screen. She was suddenly glad that he was there. As far as distractions went, he was the best out there.

“Thanks,” she said quietly.

“For what?” he asked, running a hand through her hair.

“Just being you.”

“Well, I am an impressive specimen,” he replied smugly.

Siobhan rolled her eyes a bit, hugging him a bit more as he chuckled at something on the screen. They watched for a few minutes before Zander finally broke it.

“And you’re welcome,” he said, slinging an arm around her waist. “Now hush – I’m actually watching this drivel.”

And she was perfectly fine with doing just that.

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

Greg: Valentine's Day

Lena had to explain to him what Valentine's Day was. He thought it was a bit silly, but after seeing all the fuss it stirred up, Greg supposed he ought to just go with its big deal. He'd met Lena in November, and they had been inseparable since. Greg loved her more than he had ever loved anyone, more than he'd thought he could love anyone.

She was younger than he was - she'd only just graduated from university and was a TA at a local middle school. Working towards being a school counselor. It was admirable, Greg thought. He'd certainly never have the patience to do that in a million years. But she was patient, and perhaps that was why the profession seemed to fit her. He would pick her up from school when he could, drive her back to Greg's apartment. They had a good thing. Well, a good thing most of the time. Lena's patience ran only so far as his stupidity, and she flat out refused to speak to him when he was drinking. Which was a good thing, really; the 'honesty' that poured from his mouth when he was drunk was only hurtful.

But it was on Valentine's Day, when Lena knocked on his door and kissed him numb, until she found it in herself to push his away and admit, "I'm pregnant." There were tears in her eyes.

Greg sat on the bed and thought; he could only think of silence. Lena left for the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. Did they have the money? he wondered. Surely they didn't. Nor did he have the determination. But then a feeling of duty suddenly convinced himself that everything would be fine. This was a good thing. When Lena came back with a mug in her hands, Greg jumped up and cried, "We'll get married!"

"What?" She asked, looking surprised. She so wanted to say, Yes, yes, please. But she forced herself to tell him, "No." She didn't like what she was doing. She wanted someone to stop her. "We don't have to do this. I mean... you've got a good career, Greg. If - if you want an out, I'm giving you the chance for-"

He interrupted her, "Lena! No, of course I'd never - no. We'll - we'll get married." He was determined. "And you'll move in, and I'll make money and it will be good, I promise." He swore to her. She cried and kissed him again, and he tasted her relief on his tongue, dull and salty.

"Thank you," she said softly. Gregory smiled - he was sure this was the beginning of a new, fantastic life; of a family. It would be good.

Now he wonders if that short lived goodness was really worth all the rest afterwards. And then he thinks, of course it was. He's got his daughter now, hasn't he? He sighs at the memories of what he'd long since ruined, and sits alone in his house, reading.

[DETECTIVE PETER ARAMIS]

Snowman
Peter and Sunny

Peter Aramis knew a lot of people from a lot of different places, but he always met the most interesting people at work. That was how he’d met Sunny Crusoe. It was a bit of an odd story – he’d gone down to booking to deal with one of his kids, and the booking officer had playfully referred to him as Peter Pan coming to retrieve one of his Lost Boys. Unfortunately, Sunny happened to hear the comment and the follow up curiosity was how he’d made a new friend. Sunny was a bit obsessed with the idea of a fairy tale, or story or whatever Peter Pan was, come to life, and Peter supposed this friendship was a bit more like stalking than an actual give and take like his typical friendship. But Sunny was an alright guy, so he didn’t take anything personally, and from what he’d checked out on the guy, he was more of a pest than a serious trouble maker. He knew the type. He could have been that type, if it hadn’t been for Don.

So, that was how Sunny happened to join Peter and the boys in the park, despite his loud dislike of winter, snow, cold, birds, the way his breath fogged, squirrels, hibernation, and a dozen more things Peter had tuned out. He’d spent most of his time building a snow fort with Charlie, Alan, and Corey – it was pretty impressive after a few hours of work. Unfortunately, that left the rest of the boys to their own devices. They’d started a snowball fight at some point, or rather they’d started snowball throwing practice.

Mr. Crusoe was adamant he wasn’t about to participate. So he just stood there there with his coat tightly pulled around himself, snowballs pasted on every part of him, and the most unimpressed look on his face that Peter had ever seen. If he hadn’t thought it would encourage the boys, he would have laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. As it was, he needed another distraction for the boys.

“Hey, let’s make a snowman,” Peter suggested, brushing off his gloves so he could ruffle Baze’s fur. The dog liked being out in the park more than the kids did, but he also ended up covered in snow and reeking to high heaven by the end of the day.

“Dude, a snowman? You tippin’?” Drake had snorted at the idea, causing both Sid and Jamal to snicker along.

“That’s like something you did back in the stone age, right?” Sid threw in.

Some days he hated teenagers. All the attitude took the fun out of life.

“It’ll be fun,” Peter cajoled.

“Right. Have fun being lame. We’re headed home.” Jamal waved him off, the three of them taking off in the direction of the neighborhood.

“Well, looks like it’s just the three of us,” Peter beamed at his remaining kids, only to see Charlie and Alan both look at their shoes like they were highly entertaining. Peter sighed a bit. “Go on, then.”

And they did. Kids these days. Back when he was young, getting him inside was a fight. These kids wouldn’t go outside unless Peter dragged them. He’d been lucky to get what he had out of them, and he knew it. Still, Corey was standing there looking at him like he felt sorry for the detective. He supposed that was something.

“Alright! Just you and me! We’ll show Mr. Crusoe how to make a real snowman.”

“Right,” Corey replied, bending over to start making a snowball.

Having grown up on an island, Sunny hadn’t done anything fun in the snow before. Peter glanced over at him, still seeing that he hadn’t moved an inch, and figured he still hadn’t done anything fun in the snow. Well, maybe making a snowman would help.

“C’mon, Sunny – it’s fun,” he called, waving a hand invitingly.

“I want to go inside,” he muttered. “Sane people are supposed to be inside when it gets cold. Insane people are even inside the Cuckoo’s Nest on days like today. This is not natural. How are you not a meat popsicle by now? Why do people stay in weather like this?”

He chuckled. In comparison to Sunny, he was practically naked. Where he was in his leather jacket, mitts, and jeans, Sunny was in a parka, scarf, gloves, snow pants, and fur lined everything. He looked like some kind of an Eskimo. And yet, to listen to him talk, Sunny made it sound like he was the one being frozen out by the elements. Sure, Peter’s shoulder would be screaming at him later, but he didn’t mind being cold right then. It was all part of winter.

“Winter’s fun,” he replied, packing his own snowball. “C’mon, help us make a snowman!”

Sunny’s withering look clearly said that wouldn’t be happening. Baze seemed to catch on that the other man wasn’t going to participate and sat down by his feet to watch Peter and Corey make a snowman. Lazy mutt.

It only took a few minutes to get the different parts for the snowman rolled. Peter was grinning like a loon the entire time, actually getting Corey to smile and enjoy himself too. Sunny seemed to get prissier as he watched, but that was fine. No one said he had to come. Finally, the snowman was complete – sticks for arms, pine cones for eyes, and a rock for the nose. The smile was raisins from the trail mix he’d brought for the boys to snack on – they ate everything but the fruit.

It didn’t look too shabby, if he said so himself. He and Corey admired it for a long moment, feeling accomplished.

“Can we go now?” Sunny asked, voice flat and clearly unimpressed.

“We’ve got hours of daylight left,” Peter replied. “We can make four more of these suckers and then maybe – HEY!”

Peter wasn’t the biggest guy out there, but he wasn’t tiny. Still, it seemed the lithe Mr. Crusoe could still throw him over his shoulder at a moment’s notice. Baze barked, clearly thinking this was some game. What a great guard dog...

“Nuh uh. I’m tired of this. We’re going, so grab your shadow, Peter Pan. We have a date with the great indoors.”

Peter had another moment of disorientation as Sunny turned and started walking. All the blood was rushing to his head and he pushed against Sunny’s back so that he could look up and watch Corey and Baze following along with this.

“Sunny, I can walk,” he sighed.

“I don’t trust you.”

Peter blinked. “What?”

“You like this. If I put you down, we’ll be stuck here until we’re frozen in place. Next time you want an excursion, I recommend something indoors – like a movie or a library. Kids like books, right?”

Corey snorted. Loudly. Peter just shook his head, committing himself to being carried across the park by the crazy ex-military man.

And to add insult to injury, the snowman looked like it was waving after them. Peter couldn’t help but laugh, figuring they should do this much more often. After all, they only got six months of winter.