AN: Happy New Year! So I feel like a giant heel for not getting this up in time for Christmas, since it is actually about Christmas... I meant to post on Christmas day, but an ice storm knocked out our power for several days before Christmas and didn't come back on until the morning after. So a belated Merry Christmas as well. :)

No one else could see this apparition

But because of my condition

I fell in love with a little ghost and that was all

- Little Ghost, The White Stripes

Crumpled in a beam of yellow light, Mitchell flung a weak arm over his head. Something was wrong with the sun. It was blinking, flashing a morse code of red misery across the insides of his eyelids.

"Mitchell..." A voice spoke across a great distance. The sun ceased its bothersome flashing.

"Ungh," Mitchell replied.

"Mitchell."

Mitchell groaned. Grudgingly, he cracked an eye. "George," he acknowledged with a groggy nod. He regretted the movement as it sent a wave of misery crashing through his head. Already tenuous, his focus went into a violent tailspin. Peering over him, George's earnest face wavered irresolutely in and out of being.

"Morning," George spoke in a normal tone, but it boomed in Mitchell's head like the voice of an accusing god. "Welcome back."

"Cheers," Mitchell hissed. He swung his legs down and sat up. The world doubled and he hunched over, head in his hands.

"How was your bender?"

"Aces."

"How's your head?"

"Bloody fantastic."

"Liar."

"You're blinking too loud and I'm dying, how's that? I remember death, George, and it was this."

"Good to know that death is no worse than a spectacular hangover. I wondered what great secret from beyond you and Annie were keeping from me." George sat down on the sofa, nudging Mitchell over. Mitchell slid down the leather cushion, wincing at the rubbery feeling in his muscles. He risked a glance out the window. It was full dark. There were no lights inside or out. The mysterious sun had vanished.

"Mitchell?" said George.

"Mmph?"

George pushed his glasses up his nose in a businesslike manner. A bad sign, one Mitchell would have recognized immediately had he not lapsed back into a half-doze. His head dipped, chin grazing the neck of his wool sweater.

George continued. "Was it really a good idea for you to get completely pissed, then ride home in a cab, alone, with a human?"

Mitchell's eyes shot open. "Eh? What did I do? Oh, Christ, did I do something? I don't remember any cab. No, I can't have. I still feel... empty." He looked up, and the hollow longing in his eyes made George shiver.

"No, it's fine, you didn't hurt anyone," George hastily assured him, unsettled. The vampire slumped with relief. "At least, not as far as we can tell. But you could have, you can see that. You should have called, I would have come to get you. That would have been the safest thing."

Mitchell shook his head and winced. He patted his backside in search of a cigarette, then took in that he was wearing track pants. He examined himself further and discovered that he was also wearing a frumpy, vaguely familiar sweater; ivory, cable knit wool, with little woven balls that looked like pieces of popcorn.

He frowned. "I thought Annie might need you. She's gone... funny. Yelled at me. Locked me out. What the hell am I wearing?"

George pouted. "I gave you that sweater last Christmas."

"Sorry." Mitchell spotted his jeans on the floor. He fumbled through his pockets, came up victorious, and stuck a cigarette between his lips. Fiddling for a lighter, he felt something crinkle beneath his fingers and pulled a yellow paper folded into quarters. Curious, he smoothed the creases against his knee and squinted at a cloud of floating midges on the page. His vision balked stupidly. For all Mitchell could decipher he was examining one of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Or a coffee-stained restaurant placemat. Turning the paper sideways, he took a last stab at translation. Defeated, he passed the page to George with a shrug.

"I would just like to say for the record," Mitchell began, lighting his cigarette and inhaling in deep appreciation of the transient relief that washed over him, "that I did nothing wrong. Over the past hundred years or so, I've become adept at telling when I have, and I know, beyond a shadow of doubt, that this was not one of those times." He emphasized each point by jabbing a finger at his knee.

George was scanning the yellow paper closely, a furrow deepening behind the bridge of his glasses. "You might want to hold on to that thought," he said, and began reading aloud. "Destruction of public property... £750 fine, to be paid by one John Mitchell..."

The cigarette slid from its perch. Agitated, brushing ash from his lap, Mitchell stuttered, "£750? Is that a police report?"

George nodded gravely. He skipped down to where a long hand-written description detailed Mitchell's latest criminal spree. "It says that you cut down a tree in the middle of Victoria Park. When asked why you were cutting said tree, you informed the police, in front of a crowd of spectators, that you were "Father Fucking Christmas" and that this tree was for "the Ghost of Christmas Past." George lowered the paper. "Mitchell, what are we even doing here? We're supposed to be living below the radar. Do you know how lucky you are to have been sent home in a taxi instead of being booked on the spot?"

Mitchell shot from the sofa and paced the room. The walls pulsed in time to the non-existent thud of blood in his ears. He rubbed his temples. "They could have taken my picture, I wouldn't even have known. Christ, I couldn't have stopped them, not unless Herrick..."

George held up a hand and continued. "You then attempted to bribe the fine officers of Bristol with a half empty box of Hobnobs, suggesting that they forget they ever saw you. It was only natural to do so, you said, because you were dead anyway. When the police politely declined your proposition, you handed the remaining biscuits out to the crowd shouting, "Nollaig shona dhaoibh!*"". George stopped and folded the paper. He removed his glasses. They dangled from his hand as he leaned his elbows on his knees.

Mitchell sneered and shook his head. "Ah, that bit's rubbish. I never had any Hobnobs last night."

Eyebrows raised, George plucked an empty biscuit box from behind a stack of teacups and waggled it accusingly. "This was in the cab with you. The driver left the shopping bag you were carrying. Also inside the bag were a string of outdoor rated white Christmas lights and a hacksaw, thankfully not bloody."

"Why would the hacksaw be bloody?" growled Mitchell, frantically relighting his fallen cigarette, desperate for a dose of nicotine zen.

George shrugged angrily. "One never knows with you."

Mitchell froze. "That was low, George," he said quietly.

George was abashed. "Sorry. It got away from me."

Mitchell let George's comment go with a wave. "Well. What I meant before was that I didn't do anything wrong to Annie. That," he said, motioning at the police report, "does actually jibe with the few bits of last night that I can recall."

"Annie doesn't think you did anything wrong."

"Then let's not tell her about this."

"I meant," George clarified, exasperated, "that she doesn't think you did anything wrong to her. And I don't like secrets, Mitchell. We have enough already."

"But this is only one tiny, wee secret," Mitchell pressed. "In light of our usual kind, anyhow."

"Very reassuring. When I tell Annie, I'm sure that will make her feel better. This sort of thing concerns us all."

Mitchell glared at George then squinted around the dark room. "Where is Annie, anyhow?"

"Making amends. Not that you deserve any, as it turns out."

"I tried." Nettled, Mitchell blew smoke in George's direction. He was slightly mollified now that Annie apparently recognized that he had made an honest effort. "What was all this, some sort of woman thing? She hit me with it from out of nowhere."

George slid away from Mitchell's halo of smoke. "I do wish you'd do that outside," he sighed. "And no, it was a ghost thing, actually. A dead person thing."

Mitchell's face softened. "Now I feel like a bastard again. I should have realized."

"I think you did, subconsciously. At least, you did while you were drunk. It's odd," George mused, "you're actually more intelligent when you're pissed."

"How's that?"

"Before we got you out of the cab, Annie leaned over and you said, 'Annie, we're not the trees.'"

"I did?"

"Mm hm."

Mitchell shook his head. "What does that even mean?" He looked up. "What did Annie say?"

"She said 'I know.' "

Mitchell closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose between his thumb and finger. "I'm still a bit reely. I don't understand."

"Well, it's Annie logic, so it's a bit convoluted, but basically you brought a ghost a plastic tree, something that mimics a real, living thing. It was kind of a symbolic nose-rub. Ordinarily, that might not have made such an impact, but apparently Annie hasn't been visible to others for some time now. And in the taxi, I think you were telling her that, heart beat or no, she isn't just some pale imitation of life to you."

"I'm very profound when I'm in drink."

"Don't let it go to your head. Profound is not your norm. Usually you only want to have a wrestle."

"It's not too late for a wrestle."

"Oh, it's definitely too late." George got up swiftly and went to the window. He rapped his knuckle against the frosted glass and peered outside. "Annie, aren't you done yet?"

Annie materialized in the middle of the room. "Oh, thank God you're awake!" She rushed Mitchell, rambling nervously. "I wasn't entirely sure if vampires could get alcohol poisoning, then I figured that they probably could but then they would just get better anyway..." Mitchell's head reeled as he tried to keep up.

George grinned and backed out of the room.

Annie took a breath. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she began again. "Mitchell, I'm so, so sorry. I should never have asked you to go in the first place, and I can't stand myself for locking you out when you came back. I shouldn't even be asking you to forgive me." She bit her lip and stared penitently at her lap, where her hands were tightly clasped.

"No, you shouldn't be asking," Mitchell said. He took Annie's hands.

She blinked up, tears welling. "I really am sorry, Mitchell!"

Mitchell smiled gently. "I meant, you shouldn't be asking because there's nothing to forgive. Annie, why didn't you tell us you couldn't be seen again?"

"I didn't want to bother you with my little problems. You both have enough of your own."

"It's never a bother if you need to talk. Certainly it's less bother than being sent out on a fruitless errand in the middle of a snow storm." Mitchell leaned against her, nudging her in a gently playful way with his shoulder. "I'm joking. Let's have a smile."

Annie laughed, wiping away tears. "So are we're all right now?"

Mitchell smiled. "We always were."

"Come outside, then," Annie said. "I want to show you something." She disappeared abruptly and Mitchell was left holding hands with the air. He plodded to the door and opened it, cringing as a blast of cold hit him.

Annie was standing in snow up to her knees. Light flakes like fairy dust mingled with her ghostly curls.

Mitchell shivered. "Aren't you cold? No, of course not." He smiled at the foolishness of his question. "What are you doing out here?"

"I want to show you something," said Annie almost shyly. "Wait." She bent and fumbled in the snow. She held up two electrical cords and plugged them together. White light blazed around them.

Mitchell turned. The source of the glow, the Christmas tree he had pilfered from Victoria Park that evening, stood proudly in a snowy halo at the corner of the little pink house. Annie had outfitted it with silver tinsel and glittering pinecones until the light was magnified and scintillating brightly. Strings of lights outlined the door and windows, and bunches of holly, an Irish Christmas tradition, decked the door frame and window sills.

Mitchell laughed happily and went to Annie's side. They stood shoulder to shoulder, admiring the view, Mitchell shivering lightly. "It's lovely, Annie. The holly is the perfect touch," he said softly.

Annie glowed with delight.

A police car slowed and pulled along the curb. The window rolled down and a young officer with a cherubic face leaned out. "Evening," he called. "Or morning, more like. It's 4 a.m."

Annie glanced nervously at Mitchell and took his hand protectively. Mitchell tightened his fist, trying to make it look like he was not holding hands with an invisible person. He squinted at the officer uncertainly. "You were at the park."

"Park?" Annie mouthed in confusion.

The officer nodded at Mitchell as if pleased with the progress of a small child. "Officer Barrett. I signed your citation. I'm surprised you remember."

Mitchell laughed. "I don't remember. But it seemed safe to assume."

Annie raised her eyes to Mitchell in a You'd-better-tell-me-now expression.

It came as a surprise to them both when Officer Barrett looked directly at Annie. "Well, it all makes a bit more sense to me now," he smiled. "Love and all that. Hope I didn't just get you into more trouble."

Annie managed a blush and Mitchell stuttered.

Officer Barrett nodded pleasantly. "Keep your feller in line from now on, Miss, but don't be too hard on him. Merry Christmas!" He pulled away with a wave.

Annie twinkled brightly. "Yes, sir!" she called after the receding patrol car. Once the car cruised out of sight she grabbed Mitchell's arm and squealed, "He could see me!"

Mitchell smiled. "Yeah."

Annie's face shifted sternly and she stopped skipping. "Now what did you do to bring the police to our door?"

Sheepishly, Mitchell winced. "Might have cut that tree down from Victoria Park," he admitted.

Annie considered. "That's not so bad."

"Relatively speaking, no."

"I forgive you."

Mitchell snorted. "That's good. It's your fault."

"Just how much did this tree end up costing us?"

"A damned sight more than the perfectly nice fake one."

Annie grinned. "Then it's a good thing I put them both to good use. This tree represents our public face. The face we show the world. Normal, and, you know, living." She grabbed Mitchell's cold hand. "But inside is where the magic happens."

She waved her hand and on cue the living room window filled with blinking, twinkling light. George waved to them cheerfully from inside.

"Come on!" Annie said excitedly, tugging Mitchell forward.

Gladly, Mitchell followed her back into the warm house. The living room, which had been kept dark during his talk with George, had been transformed while he slept. Holly decked ninety percent of the room; it lined the mantle, the windows, the doorway, the television... Annie had even threaded it between the tines of the coatrack. Mitchell was touched by Annie's sweetly over-the-top nod to his heritage.

Then there was the tree.

"It's a little unorthodox," Annie said, watching Mitchell's face , "but that's us, isn't it?"

The artificial spruce stood before a backdrop of holly in front of the fireplace. It was a vision of white; spun glass balls, white ribbon tied in wide bows, popcorn strung in great swooping swags, and dozens of lacy cut-paper snowflakes covered every inch. It was beautiful, of course, but it was Annie's special touches that made the greatest impact. Among the more traditional Christmas decorations flitted glowing tissue paper ghosts, each haloed by the twinkling white lights. Tetley teabags hung like ornaments from the branches, filling the room with a sweet, spicy smell. To represent George, Annie had strung Milk Bone dog biscuits on strings, and for Mitchell there were tiny plastic bats dangling beside the ghosts.

Mitchell had remained silent too long for Annie's comfort. She was almost squirming, she was so anxious to hear his opinion. "Do you like it?" she asked finally.

Mitchell slid his arm through hers and around her back. "I love it, Annie. It's absolutely perfect. Except..."

"Yes?"

"Where did you get the biscuits? And the bats? And all the holly?"

Annie blushed. "Well I am a ghost," she said, somewhat defensively. "I might have popped up in the Pritchard's apartment next door. They've got that monstrous dog that barks day and night. The bats were in with the halloween decorations."

"And the holly?"

"I might have done some light pruning."

"Where?"

"Ironically, at Victoria Park."

Mitchell was shaking against Annie's side. Her first thought was to rush him back to the heater. Then she realized that he was laughing. "Annie. Our house is decorated with contraband."

"Yeah. It's sort of perfect, isn't it?"

Mitchell looked down at her, his eyes warm with a strange glow. "Almost," he said. He closed his eyes and leaned in, meaning to kiss Annie's cheek.

She turned her head purposely and tilted her chin up.

Their lips met as snow continued to swirl lightly outside. For a second, Mitchell froze in surprise, but he did not pull away. Then he was kissing her back, in a way Annie hadn't been kissed since she was living, and perhaps not even then. It came to her that she and Mitchell weren't imitating life; they were surmounting it.

After a time, feeling dazed and pleased, she pulled slowly away. Mitchell smiled down at her with the same look of wonder she felt blooming on her own face.

"Now it's perfect," he said.

FINISH

* Mitchell was shouting "Happy Christmas" in Gaelic.

Please review? For my Christmas present?