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hayleysstark · 1 year

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the coldest time of winter

words: 3649 summary: one good Christmas doesn't erase the past, after all.

Read on AO3.

The Grinch begins to fall right along with the first snow, and he goes just as soft and slow and silent as the sparkling crystals drifting down to powder the streets and stick to all the rooftops until the whole town looks like it's been glazed over with a thick dusting of sugar—and it's just like last year, and the year before that, and the year before that, and pretty much every single year of his entire life.

Back when he was young (—younger, Bricklebaum likes to correct him on that wherever he can, tell him you're still young enough, Grinchie, you're only as old as you think you are, like that makes any kind of sense at all—) he would always try to tell himself it was only the cold that got to him, it was only the cold that he didn't like—it seeps in through the holes and tears in his jackets and gloves, it bites and gnaws at all the bare spots in his fur, it sinks down into his bones and it won't leave him alone, a constant frigid ache just under his skin, and the snow settles itself in thick white piles right outside his cave until he has to push and shove and kick and claw his way out every morning (—and at night, he has these crazy, surreal dreams where he freezes to death in his sleep, dying all alone in the pitch-dark and dead-quiet and bone-cracking cold at the top of the mountain where no one will ever find him, and no one even looks for him, anyway, because they don't notice he's gone—) and it muffles all the cheery talk and laughter from Whoville until he can't hear anything at all and he wonders if maybe Whoville is gone, maybe it went away while he wasn't looking and now he's the only one here, he's the only one left (—just like last time, when he woke up in the orphanage, and no one was there, and he rushed through the dark and winding hallways but everyone was gone and they all forgot about him and no one was there, and he stared out at the twinkling colorful Christmas lights on all the houses through the dirty, smudged panes of the cracked windows, and he fell asleep on the half-rotted floorboards with his cheek pressed flat to the ice-cold glass, and he—)

Back when he was young, he tried to tell himself it was only the cold he didn't like.

But it's been fifty-four years now, and that excuse wore thin a long time ago.

Because the cold always brings Christmas along with it—the big tree goes up in the center of the town with the golden star sparkling bright on its highest bough, and the falling snow clumps together in dense clusters on the branches, and the thin green needles shed everywhere, crunching and crackling under his feet with every step he takes, and he can't ever get the smoky-sweet smell of pine and fir and spruce out of his fur, out of his nose, so thick and heavy that he chokes on it, that he can't breathe around it, that it settles in his chest and lodges in his lungs like a stone, and that's where it stays until New Year's.

It was never the cold he hated.

It was Christmas.

Maybe it was all the carols ringing out through the streets like church bells—about red-nosed reindeer, and sleigh rides, and silent nights, and even the softest songs were too loud and too much, noise on noise on noise until he drowned under the rising black tide of it and sank all the way to the bottom, his hands over his ears and his whole body shaking, and he'd scream himself hoarse at that overzealous choir on the corner of Whistling Who Lane because if he didn't, he'd hear the music, and he'd drown under the rising black tide and sink all the way to the bottom and die. Maybe it was all the holiday lights, burning in the evergreen trees and blazing through the windows with their steady, constant glow—so bright it actually hurt to look at them, like staring into the sun until his eyes began to sting, and his hands would shake and he'd drown under the rising tide of the tiny colored stars flashing and flashing and flashing at him like neon signs or police cruisers and he wasn't outside in the freezing December air anymore, because he was back in the dark winding hallways, running and running and running so fast that he tripped and stumbled over his own feet, so frenzied and frantic, so desperate to prove to himself that he wasn't really alone—

(—panic attacks, Donna told him once, back in the summer, when she found him in the narrow alleyway between Who Foods and Papa Who's Pizza, on the ground with his back to the brick wall and his head in his hands and the rapid ragged breaths ripping themselves out of his half-open mouth—what you just experienced, it's called a panic attack, and it's completely normal, plenty of other people have them, too, and he didn't know how to tell her that there was nothing normal about the way he'd left a whole cart full of groceries in the middle of the aisle and scrambled out of the store all because he just couldn't do it anymore, the noise and the crowds, so he just said okay in a small and shaky and pathetic voice that made her look at him with big sad eyes, her mouth pulling down at the corners and her hands out, reaching for him like she wanted to help him up, or hug him, even, so he ducked away from her, brushed her off, said I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm okay, but he never went back for his groceries—)

Maybe it was the Christmas feast—the roast, and the pudding, and the sickly-sweet taste of peppermint in all the candies and cookies and after-dinner coffees, all the food so rich and heavy that he'd get sick just thinking about it, so much food, too much food (—never enough to eat back then, in the damp and moldy little kitchen where they'd all cluster together around the low table and choke down their meager scraps and crusts in the candlelight, never enough, never enough, always hungry, eating crumbs off the table and eating crumbs off the floor, crumbs out of the bottom of the kitchen sink disposal and crumbs out of the garbage can and drinking stale metallic water from the tap and sour months-old milk straight from the carton—)—or maybe it was the Christmas tree, the too-bright colors and garish ornaments, or maybe it was the presents, all this meaningless holiday junk that they didn't need (—never enough back then, never enough beds or blankets or pillows or clothes or medicine, never enough, never enough, always cold, always tired, always sick, always hurting—)

Really, it was the entire holiday, all in—the whole Christmas season was just a massive crapshoot, and he was the only one in the whole town who could ever see that.

But it turned out that Christmas wasn't half-bad when he wasn't alone through it, and it was supposed to be better this year—he was supposed to be better this year, he was supposed to be okay this year, it wasn't supposed to be like this, not this year, but it is.

And he falls.

Right along with the first snow.

He does what he can to minimize the potential collateral damage as much as he can—he gets angry and bitter and mean when he's sad, and he lashes out at people who don't deserve it, says horrible and heartless things to try and cover up the raw wound in his ribcage, and he hurts them, and he doesn't want to do that, so he shuts himself away in his cave on the mountain as much as he can get away with, and he makes up lots of flimsy halfhearted excuses that he doesn't actually work very hard on when the Whos ask him to come down the mountain and spend the holiday with them.

Except when it's Cindy-Lou who asks.

When she invites him to build a snowman with her, to skate on the frozen lake with her, to string lights and wrap presents with her, to bake sugar cookies shaped like holly berries and Santa hats and slather them all in unholy amounts of red icing and green fondant and sparkling white sprinkles with her, to have a snowball fight with her, to take a sled ride with her, he says yes every single time.

Because it's Cindy-Lou who asks.

It is not easy to go down and join in on all the holiday cheer, but he knows it won't be, and he steels himself for that before he ever actually leaves the cave—he tells himself, very calmly, you are going to see Christmas lights and you are going to see Christmas trees and you are going to see wreaths and you are going to hear the carols from the choir down on the corner of the street, you are going to smell the pine and you are going to smell the peppermint, and it will be awful and you will feel like you can't breathe and you will feel like you are going to die, but then you are going to come back here, and you can hold Max until your breath evens out again, you can hold him all night long if you need to, you know he won't complain, you know he'll love it, even, so you are going to go down there, and you are going to do things, and you are going to give Cindy-Lou a good Christmas, and you are going to make up for what you did to her last year, and you are not going to fall with the snow and you are not going to drown in the dark winding hallways.

It's easier when he can do that—steel himself, talk himself down, know what to expect, know what he's walking into, know it will be hard and painful. Not like unprovoked freak-outs in grocery stores in the middle of the summer when he's supposed to be safe (—it's the safest season, summer, even if it's hot and bright and loud with all the little kids out of school, running wild, because there is spring behind him and there is autumn ahead of him, walls and blocks and barriers and buffers between him and the holidays—) so he doesn't have to sit in narrow alleyways under the blistering sun with his head in his hands and rapid ragged breaths ripping themselves out of his half-open mouth, because he knows what to expect, he knows what he is walking into.

When Cindy-Lou invites him to come over for dinner at her house almost a whole week before Christmas, he says yes.

Because it's Cindy-Lou who asks.

He goes to the dinner at Cindy-Lou's house down on the corner of Whistling Who Lane (—and he does not scream himself hoarse at the choir because he has already steeled himself for them, but he does not look at them, either—he ducks his head down and pretends he doesn't see them, pretends he doesn't hear them—) and he sits at the tiny kitchen table in the tiny (—but warm and bright—) kitchen, where there is plenty of food for everyone and no one except Max eats the crumbs off the floor.

It is just the tiniest bit easier to breathe when he thinks about that.

At the end of the night, when everyone has pushed back their chairs and left the table, he rinses the dishes and loads them in the washer so Donna doesn't have to, and he thanks her for the meal, and he says good night to Cindy-Lou, and he leaves—but he is in such a rush to get out the door that he forgets his scarf, and he is in such a rush to get back to his cave that he doesn't even notice he forgot his scarf until he is two blocks away, and he freezes in the middle of the street, and he stares blankly up into the swirling snow and the star-studded sky, and he wonders if it's worth it to go back for his scarf now, or if he should just let them keep it until the holidays are over, and he is not drowning in dark winding hallways.

He thinks he should probably go back and get it, because he will just get that tight twist in the pit of his stomach if he doesn't (—never enough back then, never enough clothes, always cold—) except that he sees the Whoville tree off in the distance right at that moment—it rises high above all the rooftops, standing so tall and proud in the center of the town with its golden star sparkling bright, the smoky-sweet scent of pine and fir and cedar rolling off of it in waves so thick he can smell them all the way over here.

He has been very careful to stay far away from the Whoville tree this year.

He does not stay away from it this time.

He goes over to it.

And then he is standing in front of it.

The tree itself is much too big, impractically so, and it towers above the rest of the tiny little town like a giant. The lights are too bright, and the colors are too gaudy, and the ornaments are too garish, and the star at the top isn't even visible past the blinding, yellow-white glow it gives off. Thin green needles are scattered all around the base like a carpet, and they crunch and crackle under his feet, and if he gets too close to the branches, he'll never get the smell of pine and peppermint out of his fur.

He is back in the dark, winding hallway.

He's not sure he will ever leave it.

The Grinch starts to cry.

It's not a conscious decision. He doesn't mean to do it. He doesn't want to do it, even—he wants to go back to Cindy-Lou's house and get his scarf and retreat to his cave where he will hold Max tight to his chest all night long. He wants to go back to Cindy-Lou's house and stay there so he doesn't have to be alone tonight. He wants to rip his own head open and cut out whatever is inside his brain that won't let him be happy.

Instead, he stands in front of the Whoville tree, in the same dark and winding hallway that he has been stuck in ever since he was six years old, and he cries and he cries and he cries so hard he can't even breathe. He cries so hard that his chest aches with it. He cries so hard that his head pounds with it. He cries so hard that he doesn't even hear the voice that calls out to him, or the thump and thud of the tiny pink winter boots that run along the snowy ground behind him, closer and closer.

He cries so hard that he doesn't even notice Cindy-Lou until she is right beside him.

"Mr. Grinch! Hey! Mr. Grinch! You left your scarf by the door, and we didn't want you to—" she breaks off, sharp and sudden, when she sees his face—streaked and stained with tears, his fur all wet and matted and clumped with them, his eyes probably red and puffy and swollen with them—and she takes a very small step back.

She looks up at him like she's not totally sure what she's supposed to do with him.

He knows what he's supposed to do—he's supposed to take his scarf, and he's supposed to thank her for it, and he's supposed to tell her good night and merry Christmas, and he's supposed to go back to his cave.

But he's frozen in front of the tree, with his eyes full of tears and Max's soft, thick fur pressing lightly against his legs.

"M-Mr. Grinch?" Cindy-Lou edges closer to him again, and she reaches out for him, but she pulls back at the last second like she doesn't actually want to touch him after all. He can't blame her for that. "Are you okay?"

He's supposed to take his scarf, and he's supposed to thank her for it. He's supposed to tell her good night and merry Christmas. He's supposed to go back to his cave. He's supposed to tell her to go home and get out of the cold. He's supposed to take her back home, make sure she gets there safely, because it's already dark out and she is only a little girl.

But he is frozen and pathetic, and he just stays right where he is, in front of the Whoville tree with its bright lights and gaudy colors and garish ornaments and blinding star, and he cries and he cries and he cries.

"I-I'm sorry," he tells her, finally, soft and shaky and so honest that it almost hurts to say it out loud. He's not sure what he is saying sorry for. Maybe because he stole Christmas from her last year. Maybe because he is always making himself her problem, and her mom's problem, and God knows the two of them have got more than enough on their plates as it is, and they don't need him to add anything else to the pile. Maybe because he doesn't really know how to be a person, and she has been trying her best to teach him all year, but there is such a steep learning curve, and he is not sure he'll ever get it right.

Maybe because he is so hard to love that they left him all alone in a dark winding hallway on Christmas Eve.

"I'm s-sorry," he says, again, quieter now as he tries to get the ugly, wracking, full-body sobs under control. "I don't—I don't know what's wrong with me."

He is sure that she'll leave him then, and he is ready for it—he squeezes his swollen eyes shut against the bright lights and the blinding star, and he waits for her to walk away from him as fast as she can, give him back his scarf and say her good nights and trip over her own boots in her desperation to get away from the crazy green man crying hysterically in front of the Whoville tree in the middle of the night—but she doesn't leave him.

She doesn't move at all for a long minute—she stays exactly where she is, her breath loud in the thick silence of the freezing night, her boots crunching and crackling on the carpet of thin green needles scattered in the snow.

And then, all of a sudden, there is a small, warm hand in his.

It's unexpected, and abrupt, too abrupt, startles him—he flinches, rips his eyes open, almost rips himself away, almost tells her to stop, to leave him alone, to go away, go back to your mother. It's funny, he thought he'd love it after the way he used to want it—an ice-cold pin-sharp longing right in the dead center of his chest that wailed and howled like a wolf under the full moon, louder and louder whenever he saw the happy Who families in the streets, laughing together, hugging each other, and he wrapped his arms around his own body in a pathetic imitation, even if it could never really quiet the wolf—but instead, it's too much, and too little, both at once, all at once, he hates it like a drowning man hates the ocean but he craves it like a starving man craves a full meal, it congeals into a sticky syrupy viscous mixture of disgust revulsion loathing no more no more no more and hunger aching greed more more more.

"That's okay, Mr. Grinch," Cindy-Lou tells him, in that blunt and straightforward and matter-of-fact way that only little kids can. "You don't have to. We like you anyway."

Oh.

The Grinch goes very, very still—except for his hands, where he's shaking, bad, and he can't stop. He tries to breathe, but it's all weak jittery rasps, little puffs of silvery smoke in the glow of the bright lights and blinding star. The freezing air stings wherever it hits him. I don't know what's wrong with me, he thinks, again, just like he does every Christmas when the tree goes up and the snow comes down.

But Cindy-Lou is beside him, with her hand in his, and she is not walking away, she is not giving him back his scarf or saying her good nights or tripping over her own boots in her desperation to get away from the crazy green man crying hysterically in front of the Whoville tree in the middle of the night, she is not leaving him, and she is not saying the kinds of things that her mother or Bricklebaum would say, she is not saying you don't have anything to be sorry for, and she is not saying there is nothing wrong with you.

She is not lying to him like her mother or Bricklebaum would.

She is saying we like you anyway.

It's faint, and flickering, and very, very far in the distance, but he thinks he finally sees a light, brighter than the star on top of the Whoville tree, waiting for him at the end of the dark and winding hallway.

#didn't post this at first because i didn't want to admit that i actually wrote a whole-ass fic for the fucking benedict cumberbatch grinch #but you know what??? this fic slaps #the grinch #the grinch 2018 #grinch 2018 #emrys' spellbook

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