A/N: I'm just letting ya'll know right now, I had so much fun writing this, but I also am so fucking proud of the fact that I managed to write 15,000 words in the span of three days. Yes, you heard that right; I wrote this entire thing in THREE. DAYS. 

With that in mind, go ahead and read the story. I'm rather proud of it (;

Ranboo turned over in his bed, stifling a muffled groan. 

The clock sitting next to his head threatened to wake him up, the chimes of the hour-- one AM-- ringing in his ears already. A thick, scratchy woollen blanket held him to the wrinkled satin bedsheet, his head propped up on a stiff pillow.

The loud, heavy ringing finally tore him from his sleep, pulling him upright to rub at bleary, sleep-clogged eyes. He yawned widely, scratching behind his neck, and glanced at the clock on his mantle.

Wait.

But . . . he didn't have a mantle.

He was staying in some crap hotel with his friends, introducing them to the wonders of America. There weren't many, but perhaps that was why they were more focused on ghost hunting than sightseeing. Tommy and Tubbo were many things, but tourists? Ranboo pictured Phil in one of those gaudy, button-up floral shirts and shuddered.

Dear God, no.

But back to the matter at hand: what was he doing here? Where even was here? It wasn't some terrible hotel, that was for sure, but it definitely wasn't a 5-star suite either.

He turned over in the bed, noticing for the first time how uncomfortably the woollen blanket scratched at his legs. He kicked at the covers, shoving them off his lower half, and sat up in bed. The entire scene around him was dark, strangely so: night never got that dark, at least not with all the light pollution going on in Wisconsin.

Ranboo reached out with both hands, and the fingers of his left hand brushed against some sort of thick, soft fabric wall. There was something surrounding the bed-- his bed? No, it wasn't his bed. He looked down at himself just to make sure there wasn't any body-swap nonsense going on, flexing his fingers and all ten of his toes, and breathed a sigh of relief when all he found was familiarity.

Now to figure out just where the hell he was.

He reached out again with trembling fingers, this time grabbing a fistful of the strangely heavy curtain. At first, he tried to pull it down, but that didn't work, and he quickly gave up on that idea (he didn't want to pull the entire ceiling down as well as the curtain-wall). Then, he tried to tug it to the side, yanking it away from his face.

To his great surprise, it worked, exposing a thin sliver of the room beyond. Ranboo couldn't see much of it; the entire place was dark at best and the fact that it was completely unfamiliar didn't help at all. Still, summoning all of his courage, he tentatively reached one hand outside.

Nothing happened. Armed with newfound courage (and a great curiosity, too), Ranboo dipped his leg out of the curtain-surrounded bedspace, and found that while it wasn't dangerous, it was very, very cold. He shivered, and reached over the bedsheets to grab the scratchy blanket he had thrown away just a minute ago.

Clutching the wool blanket-turned-cloak tightly around his shoulders, Ranboo slipped fully outside of the protective shell of a bed and into his new surroundings.

From what he could see, he was standing in a large, brick-walled room. A crudely-constructed table was next to him, a dirtied vase and some cheap flowers stuffed inside were propped up clumsily on a doily sitting on the tabletop. A rug stretched the length of the room, so scratchy on Ranboo's bare feet he could have sworn it came from the same unhappy sheep that the blanket did. A brick fireplace was shoved into one corner of the room, inside of which there was a small slope cut out of the wall to accommodate a small nest of blackened wood behind an iron grate.

The small clock that had woken him up was propped on top of the fireplace mantle, still ticking the seconds away. If it was correct, the time was just 1:04, which was an insane time for him to be woken up. How had it even woken him up in the first place? Clocks were not that loud.

"What is this place?" Ranboo murmured to himself, the words feeling thick in his sleepy throat. Yawning again, he looked around for a light switch on the wall, but found none.

Only by looking up and scanning the ceiling did he see that there was no ceiling light, or even a fan. How odd. Deciding to ignore it, Ranboo shuffled over to the window and felt around in the dark for a window pull. He found a small tassel and yanked it, sliding the curtain up and exposing the scene below.

His mouth dropped open and he stumbled away from the window. "Oh, my God," he whispered, lifting his hand to cover his mouth. "What's going on?"

Beyond the frost-kissed windowpane there was a scene that looked rather out of a movie. Rickety, five-story-high buildings were crammed next to each other with no space to breathe, stone multi-apartment buildings stretched from one end of the block to the other, doorways carved crudely from the concrete apartment buildings.

Or, wait, they would probably call them flats.

That was the British word for them. Ranboo knew that.

And Ranboo . . . well, there was no denying what he was seeing out of the glazed window. Simplistic, yet fanciful, shabby, yet beautifully vintage, it was a street out of one of the most beloved Christmas stories:

Yes, the street, the bedroom, the whole city-- it was straight out of A Christmas Carol. Literally.

Ranboo took a few steps backwards from the window, then sat down heavily on the bed, his wide eyes staring at nothing in particular. "No," he decided suddenly, jumping back up again. "No, this can't be real. It's a hallucination, or some sort of illusion, maybe Lena trapped me in her TV, maybe-- maybe I fell asleep and left the hotel television on!"

He shook his head, brushing strands of hair out of his eyes. It certainly didn't feel like a dream. He could still get bangs in his eyes. He could still feel uncomfortable, as the itchy blanket and the rug proved. But if it wasn't a dream, then what in the heck was going on?

"Hello?" Ranboo called, cupping his hands over his mouth. He looked around the room, hoping that something would happen. Maybe Tommy would appear out of nowhere and drag him out of this weird Purgatory he had been trapped in. "Hello, out there?"

A light, tinkling giggle answered his call. Ranboo swung around, half expecting to actually see Lena, but what he was met with was much, much weirder.

It was Tommy. Somehow.

Well. Not Tommy, not real-Tommy, Ranboo knew that. This dream-Tommy (it was definitely a dream, yes, he was deciding now, it was too weird to be anything else) was surrounded by airy white fog, dressed in a draping, frost-white cloak that hid his body from view as well as if he were wearing a dress.  His face was wrapped with some kind of half-transparent bandages that twined over one eye and gently squeezed the curve of his throat.

Tommy floated closer to Ranboo, his mouth unfurling into a slight frown. He looked Ranboo up and down, almost scrutinising him, and hummed thoughtfully to himself. Ranboo immediately took a dislike to dream-Tommy (no offence to real-Tommy, though).

"Who are you?" Ranboo asked, scanning dream-Tommy up and down in return.

The bandage-wrapped Tommy smiled a delicate smile in Ranboo's direction. His skin looked even paler than it was in real life; no colour touched his cheeks or nose, and his fully visible eye was glazed with white, as though Ranboo was seeing him through a frosty window. "I am the Ghost of Christmas Past," dream-Tommy said in a voice as cold and fragile as thin ice. "Here to tell you of your sins and show you that you can do better-- for you have done better, in the past."

Ranboo raised an eyebrow in Tommy's direction. So . . . was this to be his Christmas Carol? That was weird.

"I'm . . . not Scrooge," he replied, motioning at his robe-covered self (he had woken up draped in some kind of heavy, maroon robe, and he hated it almost as much as the blanket) in the hopes that dream-Tommy would recognize the severe difference between a greying, middle-aged man and Ranboo.

Tommy blinked his one eye slowly at Ranboo. "No, you are not," he agreed, and Ranboo felt a leap of hope in his chest. "You are Ebenezer. Already, how knowledgeable you are. Your family is not all that defines you."

Ranboo felt that small breath of hope curl up and die. He stared up at Tommy, trying not to laugh, hoping that the amount of hilarity he saw in the situation would be passed on to past-ghost-dream-Tommy. Whoo, too many titles already.

"So, what's this gonna be?" Ranboo asked, taking a few paces forward and looping around Tommy's half-corporeal body. "My friends are going to be the ghosts? Oh, jeez, who's Phil going to be?"

Squinting in confusion at Ranboo, Tommy tilted his head to the side. Curls of flax-gold hair fell over his white-glazed eye, and he lowered himself closer to the floor to get on Ranboo's level. "Who is Phil?"

For some reason, Ranboo found himself enjoying the situation a little more than he should have. It was really, really funny, if he was being completely honest, to see Tommy decorated in gauzy bandages and spouting religious nonsense like an angel. "Oh, nobody," he lied innocently, batting his eyelashes at ghost-Tommy. "Just thinking out loud."

"Mm . . . "

Except for a small, confused hum, Tommy seemed to disregard the incident as nothing more than late-night dream lag. "Now then, shall we be off?" he offered in the same silver-bells, tinkling voice, stretching out a hand to Ranboo, who accepted it in a genteel manner.

(In A Christmas Carol, Scrooge had been written to be concerned about the fact that they were going to be flying. "I am a mortal, and much liable to fall!" he had protested, but Ranboo knew that it was all perfectly fine. A dream couldn't hurt him, after all.)

Tommy gazed down at Ranboo's hand clasped in his, looking somewhat confused. He seemed nonplussed at Ranboo's . . . well, his un-Scrooge-like behaviour. Ranboo didn't blame him; he had probably been told he was getting sent to Earth to look after some grouch and now Ranboo was over there being, at least, relatively nice to him.

Ranboo grinned, the idea of messing with dream-Tommy's head too enjoyable to resist. "Let's go!"

Tommy nodded somewhat stiffly, his hand still tightly wound over Ranboo's.

It wasn't at all like the experiences Ranboo had had with ghosts in the past-- for one, he could actually touch Tommy. The ghost's hand was soft to the touch, like flower petals, and didn't have a temperature to it at all. It was as though someone had shaped a solid out of the air around him. For another, Tommy wasn't laser-focused on beating the living shit out of him.

"Excellent choice, Ebenezer," Tommy said, tugging Ranboo closer to him. He stumbled a few paces forward, and Tommy grabbed the back of his head, forcing him closer, and then Tommy was dipping Ranboo's entire head face-first into the mess of ribbons and fog surrounding him, and a wind was picking up-- wind? in a bedroom?-- and he couldn't move, couldn't breathe, could only sit and gasp for air as he was swirled around in a forest of pale bandages.

Finally, ghost-Tommy spat him out.

Ranboo tumbled to the ground with a yelp, landing in a particularly muddy puddle at the base of a tree. He rolled a couple paces, of course, he had to dirty his robe, the only clothes he was wearing, and landed with a small thud at the base of a pine tree.

Sitting up, he adjusted the collar of his robe, looking around. Well, that had hurt. Which he was somewhat certain dreams did not usually include. He certainly would have woken up at that. So, not a dream. Fine, he could still figure this out. 

"Where is this?" he asked, pretending to be confused, and looked around the forest with wide eyes.

"We're in your memories. Welcome to your past, Ebenezer," Tommy explained softly, extending a hand to encompass the wide, snowy forest. "Come, and I shall guide you towards your past self."

"Not my past self," Ranboo mumbled.

Tommy turned, regarding him cooly, his visible eye pale and sticky with white glaze. Ranboo nearly shivered at the resemblance he suddenly saw that it had with Lena's eyes-- gooey, smeared over with some sort of slick ooze. " . . . what was that?"

There was a touch of danger to Tommy's voice then, something that told Ranboo he needed to play along or this reality would eat him alive. He was in too deep. He couldn't get out just yet.

"Nope, nothing." Trying to hide the terrified goosebumps on his arms, Ranboo folded his hands behind his back, feeling the rough bark of the tree press against his spine. "Everything's fine. Just peachy!"

Tommy shook butter-blonde hair back from his transparent face, frowning. "I did not expect you to be so . . . well-mannered, Ebenezer," he murmured. "You continue to surprise."

Ranboo bit at his lower lip and tasted salty copper on his tongue. He needed to come up with some sort of lie-- fast. "Maybe the paperwork the underworld manager or whoever handed you wasn't . . . quite . . . right," he bluffed, smiling nervously up at Tommy. "Devil's in the details, am I right?"

Tommy nodded slowly. "Yes, quite." He stretched out his ghostly arms, bandages rippling over and around his pale skin. "Let us continue."

"Of course!" Ranboo nearly tripped over his own two feet hauling himself up, the mud soaking the fringes of the robe making the fabric even heavier than it had already been. He grinned at Tommy, then remembered he had bit his lip and there was blood on his teeth, so he closed his mouth and gave the ghost a tight-lipped smile instead. Hey, at least he was still trying to be pleasant.

Tommy took Ranboo's hand in his own, leading him through the tangle of trees. As they walked, they talked, and Ranboo kept gently trying to push through ideas-- memories?-- of Tommy's in an attempt to get Tommy to remember who he was, if he even could.

Of course, sometimes this was met with more white-eyed stares, and Ranboo had to desperately try to patch up his accidental misstep.

"And that's why the whole thing was so funny," Ranboo finished his story, smothering a laugh. Ghost-Tommy stared up at him blankly, and Ranboo sighed. "You really don't get humour, do you?"

"From what I know of your person," the spirit said sharply, "neither do you."

Ranboo swallowed hard, stiffening at the cold expression crossing ghost-Tommy's face. "Um . . . sure. Sorry."

"It's fine." Then, Tommy straightened, his expression glazing over with ghostly indifference yet again. "Oh, look, we're here."

'Here' was a ragtag, run-down schoolhouse. The chipped wooden planks were painted over with a light blue colour, and cracked, dirtied windows were fitted into the wall with little care and even less finesse. Blinds were pulled tightly over the windows, giving it a stuffy, cramped air that reminded Ranboo painfully of the American school system.

"This is, of course, the same schoolhouse you went to as a young boy," Tommy provided, turning to face Ranboo. "Do you not recognize it?"

Ranboo had never seen it once before in his life, but he nodded eagerly, walking over to the building and laying hands almost reverently along the cracked planks. "I haven't seen this place in forever," he murmured. "I almost didn't remember what it looked like."

Tommy nodded self-importantly. "Let us step inside and witness you as a child, Ebenezer," he said, stepping towards the door, an ugly, white-painted thing that barely fit in the tiny doorway. Lumpy steps led up to it, which Tommy had to lean down to push open.

The door swung open with a gentle creak, and Tommy gave Ranboo a small nod, inviting him to walk inside.

Tentatively, Ranboo stepped into the building, ducking his head under the short doorframe. The inside of the schoolhouse was much like the outside-- mostly dust, but, like, old dust. Cracks spiralled over a set of antique china housed in an ancient cabinet, and the floorboards were covered in some kind of greenish, mossy rot.

"This place sure is old," Ranboo commented, swiping his hand over the wall. A section of the board fell away, revealing a series of termite holes, and Ranboo yanked his hand away at the ugly sight. He bit his lip, moving on.

From the school room, he could hear voices. One of them was gruff and slightly creaky, and the other was high-pitched and curious. Ranboo took a few steps towards the room, peeking around it to spy on the scene unfolding in front of him.

"Go ahead, witness your childhood," ghost-Tommy invited him, sounding completely serious. "They cannot see nor hear you."

My childhood? Ranboo nearly had to bite his tongue off to keep from laughing out loud. What was going on in the school room had not been his childhood, in any way, shape, or form.

Inside the schoolroom, a stout teacher was standing in front of a chalkboard, tapping the hard black surface with a piece of white, crumbling chalk. Arithmetic equations were scribbled on the chalkboard in some kind of thick, harsh handwriting, which the teacher kept smacking with the piece of chalk as though the loud noise would somehow stimulate his student's skills.

Well, student. Singular. In one of the front-row seats was a tiny boy, the only child Ranboo had seen so far in the schoolhouse. Blonde, slicked-back hair sat neatly on his round head, slate-grey eyes blinking up in interest at the maths on the board.

It was Ebenezer Scrooge.

Still, whatever it was, Scrooge or the Grinch or Charles Dickens himself, it wasn't Ranboo. Ranboo knew what he had looked like as a child, and out of all things, it wasn't blonde. Jeez. He hadn't been blonde, well, ever.

"What do you think?" Tommy asked him, blinking slowly. "There . . . hm. There seems to be some difference . . . between what you look like now . . . and the boy in there."

Ranboo choked on a laugh, coughing hard to disguise his giggles. There was no way ghost-Tommy, whatever he really was, wherever Ranboo had really been teleported to, actually believed any of this fluff. It was pure nonsense.

Tommy gave him a curious look, looking baffled, and Ranboo was reminded that, wherever they were, this fluff was probably reality. And Tommy, or the ghost of Christmas past, or whatever, was also part of this reality.

So . . . it wasn't nonsense, then? So weird.

Well, at least now he knew that he had not completely replaced Ebenezer Scrooge as the main character in this story. That was good to know. He cleared his throat, straightening back up, and put on his best serious expression. "Well, everyone says a facelift does wonders," he joked.

"What in the stars is a facelift?" Tommy asked, completely lost. "You keep saying these strange words, Ebenezer. It seems you are even madder than I first thought."

Ranboo shook his head in a panic, speaking very fast. "Nope, not crazy! I'm not mad. I promise. I can promise you that, definitely."

Tommy examined him with a suspicious stare. "If you say so. Now, you spent many, many Christmases in this schoolhouse. You were oftentimes the only child that didn't go home for the holidays, weren't you?"

"Well, yeah." Ranboo cast his eyes downward, pretending to be prickly. "The holidays . . . more time for studying. It wasn't like there was anything for me to go home to, anyways."

"Life isn't just success," Tommy reminded him in a soft voice, reaching out to graze Ranboo's chin with his fingers. He slowly tilted Ranboo's head back towards the schoolroom, directing his focus at the young boy who was now studying alone. "Life can have colour, Ebenezer."

He withdrew his hand, a sad look on his face. "Don't forget that."

Ranboo nodded, settling down into a sitting position in the doorframe. He watched as young Ebenezer sat at his desk, scrawling down words and numbers in a flurry of black ink, eyes trained on his paper. That was why everyone else was gone, Ranboo realised. They were all home for winter holidays.

That was kind of sad. It looked lonely, at the very least.

After a couple of minutes, maybe ten, maybe more-- Ranboo couldn't tell how long it had been-- Tommy motioned for him to stand up, reaching out his hand.

"Time to go?" Ranboo sighed, standing up and dusting old-building dust off his legs. "Already?"

"I'm afraid so," Tommy answered, smiling a thin smile. "Does it really feel that odd? Shifting from time to time?"

Ranboo made a face. "Eugh, you could tell?"

"The fact that you botched the landing so terribly is a slight clue." Dream-Tommy grinned, looking so playful and similar to real-Tommy that it nearly caught Ranboo breathless. The reality of the situation he was in seemed to sink in a little more, his heart thrumming a steady rhythm of I miss them, I miss them in his chest.

How did I get here? What will I do? Will I get to leave?

The flutter of a cool bandage danced against Ranboo's arm as he reached out to accept Tommy's hand, pulling him back to reality. Well-- what passed for reality, anyway. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself for the dizzying flood of wind that always surrounded him on the fast-travel that ghost-Tommy employed.

He felt his body being picked up and tossed around like a rag doll, caught up in a swirling hurricane. He couldn't move again. His lungs seemed to squeeze in his chest, his ears filled with the painful rush of being underwater too deep; his mouth opened to gasp for air but there was none to be found--

Ranboo was thrown out of the wind and landed on the ground with all the grace of a run-over raccoon.

This time, he landed on a wooden floor, which was certainly better for his already mud-soaked robe, but definitely not better for his sore backside. He grimaced, staggering to his feet with the help of a nearby table, and found ghost-Tommy . . . stifling a laugh?

A couple paces away, Tommy was pressing his hand to his mouth, presumably to hide the amused smile creeping up over his chin. He hid it quickly when he caught Ranboo looking, and cleared his throat, glancing guiltily away.

"Do you remember that one Christmas where your sister came to fetch you?" Tommy asked, all business again. "She ran up to you, took you by the hand and drew you towards her carriage. Said that your father had changed his mind, and wanted you back."

Ranboo had to scan his mind quickly for whatever Tommy meant. Finally, he landed on it and gasped in familiarity, nodding. "Yes! I mean, yes," he corrected himself, changing his voice to a kind of gravelly, sad tone. "It was quite the . . . um, quite the . . . tragic . . . sombre night . . . " What did Scrooge say about it? What was his sister even named?

He blinked the blurriness away from his eyes and saw that he was in a well-lit room. The floorboards he had landed on were hard and unpolished, lit only by a smattering of flickering firelight. For the first time since he had arrived in the past, Ranboo noticed he cast no shadow.

Tommy pointed behind Ranboo. "Back there. Your father, a liar and a scoundrel. This Christmas, you wrapped up your heart and dropped it in the trash."

Ranboo looked over his shoulder, and his mouth dropped open.

Behind him, a slightly older Ebenezer was arguing with his father, another flaxen-haired man, pale skin droopy and spotted with purple and red blotches. "I called you back so you could work!" the man, Ebenezer's father, roared, spittle flying everywhere. "Not so you could lay around like some sort of lazy bum!"

Ebenezer smeared his father's spit foam off his chin, staring him defiantly in the eye. "I'm not laying around, father, I'm studying! Not that you would know anything about that, now would you?"

"Oh, you stupid, arrogant, selfish--" Even Ranboo took a few steps back as Ebenezer's father advanced on his son, still screaming his head off, his hands shaking with rage. He was clearly a few drinks into the barrel, his eyes red-rimmed and his hair greasy-slick with foul-smelling oil. Ranboo decided it was definitely for the best that the people in this dreamlike world couldn't see him.

Ghost-Tommy gritted his teeth, watching the scene with narrowed eyes. "You learned your business skills from school, yes," he spat in a bitter voice, "but you learned your indifference and cruelty from your father. You were young, and innocent, and he was . . . not."

"Certainly not," Ranboo agreed in a low voice, watching as the elder Scrooge swung a broken bottle of booze at his son. Ebenezer lifted his hands to protect his face, falling back against a pile of stacked crates. The telltale snap of broken wood followed closely behind, and the young man tumbled to the floor, now surrounded by shards of broken glass.

"Come, Ebenezer," Tommy said. "There is much to see. There is not just bitterness in the world."

Ranboo nodded lamely, taking a few steps back from the scene. He turned around, facing the spirit again, and stretched out his hand. Tommy clasped it in his own, cool palm, closing his visible eye, and off they were.

They visited Ebenezer's Christmases, year after year. People came and went: Fezzywig, Ebenezer's first employer, with a head full of a mop of dark brown curls and a smile almost as bright as a warm fire. Many Christmases Ebenezer spent with Fezziwig; they tended to be warm and full of light and joy. Ebenezer was usually found at a party on those Christmases, dancing or enjoying a snack.

Fast-forward a few Christmas Eves, and Ebenezer was found with a charming young lady who somehow managed to break past Ebenezer's prickly exterior. Her hair, brushed into thick coils and tied up into a bun at the back of her lovely head, was a gleaming chestnut-brown. Her smile was brilliant, and it was no secret Ebenezer wanted to spend his life with her.

And then, of course, there were the Christmases without anyone in sight. Ebenezer, sitting in a cold chair, in a freezing room with no fire, dipping his quill into the same old inkpot and writing the same bills to the same customers, time and time again. Sometimes, Ranboo couldn't tell if it was the same Christmas, over and over again, or if they really were moving forward in time.

Also, there was a problem: ghost-Tommy was getting suspicious.

"All of these years going by," Tommy mused, pushing a bandage away from his chin. They were standing in Ebenezer Scrooge's shop, watching him shelve and sort paperwork again. "You are changing. But also . . . how dissimilar you look from your past selves. I assumed time would fix the differences, but it has done nothing of the sort."

Ranboo grimaced, shrugging. "Yeah, m-maybe. Look, let's just go. You'll see soon enough-- I swear," he fibbed, smiling weakly up at the spirit hovering above him.

He didn't know how much longer he could keep up the act, but he knew he needed to keep it up for as long as possible. There was a distinct possibility that, immediately after discovering Ranboo's lies, ghost-Tommy would tear Ranboo to pieces.

"Ebenezer," Tommy asked patiently. "Is there something you have forgotten to tell me?"

Ranboo froze, then shook his head vigorously. "No. No! Of course not, what do you mean by that?" A nervous blush was climbing its way onto his cheeks, and he struggled to keep his composure as panic threatened to overwhelm his good sense.

Ghost-Tommy raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything, only sighed. Curling his ribbons around his body, he stretched out his hand, and Ranboo took it. His breath was ripped away from his lungs, wind sweeping him off his feet and soft bandages grazing his cheeks and shoulders.

Soon, Ranboo touched down gingerly on cold, frozen dirt, his bare feet crying out at the rocks that jabbed into his skin. He drew his robe closer around his body and shivered, looking around for Ebenezer.

To his surprise, the man was nowhere to be found.

In a flash of confusion, he whirled around to face Tommy, his heart thudding in his chest. "Where's--"

Before he could say any more, Ranboo was thrown against a tree.

The bark ripped against his back, tearing deep into his skin as he slid down the frozen oak. He tried to stumble to his feet, gasping for air, but tendrils closed around his wrists and neck, tightening their grip until the feel of paper against his skin burned.

He struggled to get free, opening his mouth to try and speak, but ghost-Tommy stepped close, his one visible eye glaring at Ranboo.

"I think you may have misheard me," the spirit hissed. "Tell me: did you or did you not forget to tell me something?"

---

"I-- you--" Ranboo tried to breathe, but it wasn't working. The bandage around his throat tightened and he wheezed, feeling saliva dribble from his lips.

"Don't deign to speak unless you are spoken to, fool," the ghost of Christmas past growled. "You thought you could trick me? You're no Scrooge." He reached forward, tearing the bandage off Ranboo's throat. "We're back in the present, and I, for one, have all the time in the world. So explain."

Ranboo gulped air in, coughing violently from the sheer force it took his lungs to start working again. "I-- I told you I wasn't," he gasped, his head flopping to the side. "I said it-- first thing I said."

Ghost-Tommy's mouth curled into a scowl. "Where is Scrooge?" he spat, his hands curling into claws. "You've hidden him somewhere, hoping to spare him. This is his redemption, not a punishment! So tell me. Where. Did. You. Hide him?!"

"Nowhere!" Ranboo screamed, his eyes burning with tears. A memory flashed in his mind, of Tommy yelling at him in a completely different scenario, and he started to sob. "I don't know where Sc-Scrooge is, I don't even know why you're so obsessed with getting him to enjoy Christmas-- a whole lot of people don't even c-celebrate it!"

"You lie!" Tommy bristled, staring Ranboo down. His visible eye was almost glowing in the dim forest, white ooze so thick on his pupil it almost dribbled over. "Tell me where he is!"

"You can't even look at yourself!"

"What are you, a coward?!"

Ranboo cried out as he was pressed further back into the oak tree, his already shredded back grating painfully against the rough bark. "I don't know, I don't know, I swear! Tommy," he blurted out desperately. "Tommy, you remember me, don't you?"

The ghost looked down at him, frowning with contempt. "What did you just call me?"

"Tommy," Ranboo repeated frantically, pulling against the bandages squeezing his wrists. Sweat trickled down his dirt-streaked neck, mixing with the blood that now stained his back. "I know you. I know that you know me. I know there is no way, no universe where we don't know each other. You're--" Ranboo stopped, swallowing hard, and forced the words out. "--you're my friend."

There. Was that a flicker of recognition?

"What are you--" the ghost stopped, lurching forward. His white-glazed eye turned blue for a second, his cheeks were painted with the healthy flush of someone alive.

Tommy, standing proudly in the doorway, a muddy dog clasped in his arms--

--rushing over to help Ranboo stand after Lena's attack--

--bloody and coated in dirt, standing outside a haunted soap factory--

--telling Ranboo it was alright, they were friends, and it was all okay--

Then Ranboo blinked, and the spirit was back to normal, cold and pale, and it was bearing down on him in rage. "What spell are you casting? What are you doing to me?!"

Ranboo sobbed as a bandage flew out to trap his throat again, slamming his head against the tree trunk. Tears streamed down his face, staining his robe. "Tommy, please," he pleaded, voice broken, barely able to see through the mess of bangs and tears covering his eyes.

If this didn't work, he was in deep shit. He pressed on, continuing to speak even as the bandage around his neck pressed deeper into his vocal cords. "Tommy, you're in there. I know you're there. Come on, you won't kill me, I know you wouldn't. I trust you. So please, please--" Ranboo's voice caught and he sucked in a deep breath, coughing harshly. "--you have got to trust me back."

The spirit took a few faltering steps away from Ranboo, clasping a pale hand over its eye. The ribbons around Ranboo's throat loosened, just for a second, and he collapsed, falling to his knees on the gnarled roots of the oak tree.

"What have you done?" the ghost wailed, flickering in and out of transparency. "I can't see-- I can't see!"

Ranboo crawled weakly away from the ghost, his breath heaving his shoulders and chest up and down in a shallow rhythm. His stomach lurched forward and he retched onto the ground, then lifted a hand to his mouth, smearing bile away.

He looked backward, only to see the ribbons dropping away from the spirit. It let its hand drop to its side, revealing its one eye, which seemed to be . . . melting? No, only the white goo on it was dripping away, down the ghost's cheek, and underneath was a glint of blue . . .

"Tommy?" Ranboo whispered, though the word hurt to say. "Is . . . " he coughed, more stomach acid dribbling out from his stomach. "Is that you?"

Suddenly, the spirit gasped, clawing at its throat. "No-- no, no, no--!"

The last bit of white finally cleared from its eye, and the ghost fell onto the hard ground, the light surrounding it flickering and dying away. The bandages, no longer supported by ghostly magic, fell limp onto Tommy's form.

For it was Tommy again.

But he was breathing shallowly, and looked much paler than what could be healthy. Tommy, but still covered in bruises and cuts from his demonic encounter, and struggling to breathe. A large, white trench coat was draped over his trembling body in lieu of a cloak, making him look so small all of a sudden.

Ranboo clambered to his feet. Now that he wasn't being choked or dizzied by repeated time travel, he found he could think clearer. Circulation returned to his hands and his head, and he took deep breaths, calming both his lungs and his heart.

Then, as soon as he could stand easily, he rushed over to Tommy, gripping him by the shoulders and pulling him upright. The trench coat fell off, revealing a lacy white tunic, under which wrappings of more gauzy bandages were twined over his shoulders, neck, and face.

"Tommy! Are you-- is that you?" He reached a trembling hand closer to Tommy's face, ripping the remaining bandages away from Tommy's head and neck, revealing a patchwork of dark purple. "Are you okay?"

He lifted Tommy's face up, examining him with worried eyes. "Wake up!"

Slowly, Tommy's breath turned more regular, colour flooding into his cheeks. He groaned slightly, reaching a hand gingerly up and pushing Ranboo's face away, before cracking a single eye open.

"'Ello," Tommy murmured, his voice scratchy, but not full of air and fluff like the spirit's had been. He opened his other eye, blinking weakly at the cold air around them. "What's going on? Why're you waking me up-- where even are we?"

Ranboo choked back a sob, dragging Tommy into a tight hug. What was this, the second time Tommy had nearly died doing this? Well, he didn't know if they could even die in whatever this world was, but still. He had been worried.

"I really thought you were gone," Ranboo said, his voice muffled as he buried his head in Tommy's shoulder. "I-I thought I had killed you."

Tommy drew back from the sudden hug, looking confused. "Well, don't do that. 'Sides, it's pretty hard to kill me." He grinned, tired, but still playful. "Ow, but I really do hurt all over-- mind getting off me? Also, where are we?"

"In a forest outside London, I think," Ranboo answered absently, stepping back. He shrugged. "Um . . . yeah, don't ask."

Tommy raised his eyebrows at Ranboo. " . . . right."

Ranboo took a deep breath. "We'd better get back to the apartment. We can regroup there." Then, he bit his lip, remembering that he had no clue where Scrooge lived, or if he even lived in London at all. "Hey, how well do you know A Christmas Carol?"

---

"You're saying we're in A Christmas Carol?" Tommy asked, disbelieving.

They were sitting in Scrooge's living room, which was just as cold and dark as the rest of the house. After stumbling around for a few minutes, they had eventually given up and asked some people where Scrooge lived (Ranboo was convinced they had only given the information up because they thought the two of them were going to kill the old grouch). Tommy was fussing over Ranboo, scrubbing gently at the cuts striping along his back. Apparently, they were filled with globs of dried blood and bark, which was probably not a good combination, and Tommy was utterly convinced that Ranboo would perish if he didn't get some kind of medical attention.

Ranboo nodded in reply to Tommy's question. "Yup, pretty much. And everyone is completely convinced that I'm Scrooge. You were . . . you were the Ghost of Christmas Past. Who was, by the way, a real jerk," he added, almost angrily. "He tried to kill me after figuring out that I wasn't Scrooge."

Tommy snorted. "Wow, you're not Scrooge? I never would have guessed that. You sure look middle-aged." He rolled his eyes, looking around as he squeezed warm water out of the sponge over Ranboo's injuries. "So, got any clothes that'll fit us?"

Ranboo tried not to wince at the feeling of sponge rubbing against his wounds. "Not sure. I mean, this robe I woke up in is my size, but . . . " He glanced over at where it was folded on the nearby table. "I kinda bled on it. And got it all muddy. Sorry."

"No need to be sorry," Tommy replied easily. "From what I hear, it was mostly me that tried to kill you, yeah?" He leaned over Ranboo's shoulder, grinning at him.

Guilt immediately swallowed Ranboo whole. "But . . . I'm also sorry about . . . you got hurt, too. I didn't mean to do that." He looked over at Tommy, his leg bouncing nervously up and down.

The Brit shook his head. "Ranboo, I hurt you too, like I said. There wasn't exactly much of a choice involved, now, was there?"

"Well, no, but--"

Pressing a finger to Ranboo's lips, Tommy gave Ranboo a look. "Exactly. So be quiet, and let me clean you up. Neither of us meant to hurt each other, we . . . " he stopped, the words trailing off. Ranboo listened, and Tommy started again, his voice trembling slightly. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I never did. It was . . . an accident."

Ranboo felt a drop of something warm land on his back and drip down his spine. He glanced over his shoulder to see Tommy twisting the sponge tightly in his hands, his blue eyes glazing over with tears. His shoulders shook heavily, tears dripping down his cheeks as he stood stiffly, blinking hard.

"--I'm sorry," Tommy cried, pressing the back of his hand to his eyes to try and stifle his tears. His face was blotchy red and already streaked with tear stains. "Last-- in Minneapolis-- I didn't mean to say any of that. I promise. I-I still feel awful about it, and I know I hurt-- hurt you, and I just d-don't know how to say it was an accident-- I don't know how that could have been an accident at all--"

Ranboo got up from the chair, tears filling his own eyes. He pulled Tommy into a tight hug, his breath catching and muffling his words. "I know," he said quietly, trying to force his voice to not shake. It didn't work. "I-- I'm sorry too."

Tommy sobbed, his entire body trembling with the force of his heaving breaths. "I was all caught up in the moment-- you were just being such a big fucking prick, and I didn't want to say any of that, but I was so angry--"

Without warning (but possibly with the worst timing), the clock started to ring two.

Ranboo's eyes flew open. "Shit," he cursed, startling Tommy so much that he let out a small curse of his own.

Ding, sang the clock.

"What's wrong?" Tommy asked, tearing away from the hug and staring around the room. His eyes, red-rimmed and still freshly sticky from his tears, blinked rapidly to clear themselves. "Did you see something?" 

Ding, it sang, finishing the chime.

"No, I-- the clock, Tommy, the clock. Don't you remember? You were the first ghost, at one, now it's two o' clock." Ranboo shook his head, his heart speeding up yet again. "So there's another ghost--"

A loud, booming laugh suddenly echoed out of the kitchen, scaring both Ranboo and Tommy. "Go, go," Ranboo ordered Tommy, pushing him behind the nearest couch to hide. "You're not supposed to be here, and they-- they get mad when something doesn't happen like it's supposed to."

"Right," Tommy agreed, kneeling behind the couch. "I'll just hide here. You better come out of that kitchen, though, or I'll--"

The hearty laugh came again, accompanied by the clinking of two glasses being knocked together. Ranboo's face went completely pale at the thought of meeting yet another ghost.

"Good luck," Tommy whispered, looking up at Ranboo with wide, fearful eyes.

He swallowed. "Thanks."

Grabbing a poker from the fireplace for good measure, Ranboo tiptoed into the kitchen.

The very first thing he noticed was that Scrooge's kitchen was the only room in his house so far that wasn't swallowed by cold, empty darkness. Instead, a warm, throbbing fiery glow filled the marble-floored room, and the delicious scent of pastry dough and warm meat made Ranboo's stomach growl.

Everywhere he looked, he saw food. Great bowls filled with bread and pudding, fresh, sweet corn wrapped in napkins, still-warm meat pies steaming on the table. Huge gourds leaned against the cabinet doors, some carved with dopey grins and others wholly unblemished.

"What . . . is this place?" Ranboo murmured, almost lured into setting down his poker. His stomach rumbled again, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since . . . since sometime before the start of this whole adventure. "Am I hallucinating?"

"Aha ha! That's what you think?" A warm laugh came from behind him, and Ranboo turned slowly to see a spirit version of Tubbo sitting-- more like lounging, really-- on top of a nearby cabinet.

The ghost glowed brightly, but also soothingly, like a gentle fire. Tubbo's chestnut-brown hair flopped in his eyes, dimples pressed like thumbprints into his cheeks as he grinned down at Ranboo from his vantage point. Unlike Tommy, who had been surrounded by a whirl of bandages, Ranboo could actually see Tubbo's clothing: a cloak orange as a pumpkin, the fire-coloured cloth draped over a spring-green tunic and weathered trousers.

"Come in and know me better, man!" Spirit-Tubbo echoed the well-known lines of the second ghost, his voice amplified to a joyful pitch. His smile was so sweet, so familiar, that Ranboo almost forgot about the fact that this was not Tubbo.

"What is this? Who are you?" Ranboo asked, now facing ghost-Tubbo, spreading a quizzical look across his face. In reality, he knew what was going on-- the second ghost, the Ghost of Christmas Present, would whirl Ranboo around the city and show him all of the great wonders of Christmas enjoyed by others.

Well, Ranboo already knew all of the wonders. As it was apparently considered 'culture', he had been forced to watch the movies and read the books a dozen times over. Plus, he was not looking to get lost again, when he had just managed to make it back to Scrooge's apartment with Tommy.

Maybe if he could just get close enough, he could . . .

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Present," declared ghost-Tubbo. One of his legs was thrown casually over the other, crossing them at the ankles, and he was leaning back on the counter, head tilted to a jaunty angle. "And you, my newest friend, are Ebenezer Scrooge."

I am getting so sick of this. Ranboo took a deep breath, taking a step closer to Tubbo. "Yes, I am," he replied, looking around as though slightly dazed. He even put on a British accent, or tried to. It was a bad British accent.  "Tell me, spirit, are you here to tell me of my sins yet again? I am so tired. Tell me that I may rest."

Ghost-Tubbo laughed yet again, the same booming laugh that had first startled Ranboo. "Rest? On Christmas? Goodness, how quaint. Not so, I'm afraid, not so. I'm under strict orders to show you around this fine city of yours."

"But-- but I already know this city," Ranboo fibbed, stepping yet closer to his friend-- not his friend. "And I am so . . . tired . . . "

"I'm sure you are," said spirit-Tubbo jauntily. He leaned over the counter, picking up a frosted wine glass so filled with dark juice it was nearly slopping over the side, and took a long sip. Wiping the excess away from his chin, the ghost grinned at Ranboo, offering the glass. "Want a sip? It's mighty fine. In fact, you're welcome to try any of this."

It was awfully tempting, but somewhere in the back of his mind, Ranboo remembered all the tales of fairy fruit. "One sip and you're staying in their circle," Phil had warned him as they were packing their suitcase. Ranboo had wanted to know more about lore, so Phil was filling him in on common warnings about fairies. "Quite literally, you can't leave."

" . . . I'm good," Ranboo said quickly. "Thanks, though."

Spirit-Tubbo licked his lips. "Well, if you're sure. Now, shall we be off?" He stretched out his hand, tanned to the colour of freshly baked pastry dough, and pecked with unfamiliar freckles.

Ranboo hesitated, then took one final step forward, nodding determinedly. "We shall."

Then, he moved faster than he ever had in his life. Dropping the poker, he lunged forward, seizing spirit-Tubbo by the hand and pulling him down to the ground. With a shriek, spirit-Tubbo tumbled down, landing hard on the marble surface and crying out in terror. "What are you-- Scrooge!"

Ranboo grabbed Tubbo's wrists and dropped to a kneeling position over the ghost's torso, one knee on his chest, pinning him to the ground. "No," he panted, "not Scrooge. As the blood all on my back might imply-- don't even deny it, you saw it-- yes, I had another run-in with a ghost tonight. Not a very nice one," he mused, "but everything turned out fine."

As spirit-Tubbo writhed underneath him, screaming loudly (in Tubbo's voice, too, which just made Ranboo feel even more terrible about doing all this), Ranboo glanced quickly up towards the living room. "Tommy!" he shouted, trying to stop Tubbo from getting away. "I need your help!"

Tommy was there in an instant, helping Ranboo pull Tubbo up to a standing position. The ghost had stopped screaming, and was now merely watching them, looking terrified. The blonde made a face, looking Tubbo over. "Was that how I looked? Seriously?"

"No, more . . . ghostly, I guess. All pale."

"I'm already pretty pale, but alright. Bloody hell." Tommy tsked, then set a hand on Tubbo's shoulder. Spirit-Tubbo flinched, but Tommy met his eyes with a long, steely stare. "Hey. Hey, Tobs, I'm talking to you. Can you hear me? Hey!"

Ranboo shrugged. "I mean, you could definitely hear me, but I dunno if--"

"If I can do it, so can Tubbo." He shouldered Ranboo aside, muttering something about if anyone was going to help his best friend, it was going to be him, and grabbed ghost-Tubbo by the front of his shirt. The ghost tried to shy away, breath coming in short, quick bursts, but Tommy forced his focus. "Tubbo? I know you can hear me."

Spirit-Tubbo stared up at Tommy, looking utterly confused. "What-- what are you--?"

"Getting my best friend back out from your sorry ass, that's what," Tommy snapped. He never had been one to honeycoat the truth, Ranboo thought admirably. "I miss him. Plus, we need another set of hands figuring this out."

"Figuring out wh-what?" The ghost backed away from them, his back hitting the wall behind him. All around Ranboo and Tommy, the fruits and pastries started to flicker like dying holograms. "I'm . . . my stomach-- hurts--!"

He then started to cough violently, lurching forward as though he was about to puke. His knees hit the floor, his face going pasty white, draining of all the ruddy colour the Ghost of Christmas Present was famous for. "What in the name of-- what are you d-doing to me?!"

Tommy looked over at Ranboo. "Is this normal?" he asked in a whisper. "I don't know if this is supposed to happen. Is he going to puke?"

"I doubt it," Ranboo answered, just as quietly. "You looked pretty much the same way."

"Cool, cool."

Spirit-Tubbo struggled to get back to his feet, grabbing the counter with one pasty-white hand. The food vanished for a final time, the wonderful scents draining out of the kitchen to be replaced with the faintly sour scent of used coal.

"I'm not-- what-- no!" spirit-Tubbo cried, desperate. "This wasn't supposed to-- it's not in the--" He shook, coughing some sort of violently green liquid into his hand. His lips soon stained with the acid colour, bright green droplets streaking down his chin to drip into his palm.

Soon enough, the ghost was on the floor, moaning wretchedly. He banged weakly at the linoleum floor with his fist, crying in a pitiful way that tugged at Ranboo's heartstrings. His eyes moved up to stare at Ranboo, pleadingly, then fluttered closed.

Tubbo slumped to the floor in a puddle of green liquid, unconscious.

Ranboo bent down as quickly as he could, lifting Tubbo's head to a stable position and pressing two fingers to the side of his pale throat. Slowly, the colour started returning flush to his cheeks and neck, faint red bleeding back into his face. His heartbeat, which had just a few moments before been pumping weakly, even sluggishly, soon picked up.

Tommy knelt down, pushing Ranboo aside and gathering Tubbo in his arms. Tubbo's head flopped against Tommy's shoulder limply, his hair sticking to his sweaty forehead. Streaks of green ooze still covered his chin, rubbing off onto the arm of Tommy's trench coat.

"How long till he wakes up?" Tommy asked anxiously, laying Tubbo down on one of Scrooge's uglier couches, decorated only with some brown paisley and pastel floral (for whatever reason).

Stepping forward, Ranboo laid a hand gently across Tubbo's forehead and winced at the warm, sticky sweat collecting in beads across his skin. "I'm not sure," he hedged. "You only took a couple of seconds to come to, but it could be a while longer. I'm guessing his body needs to purge the liquid-- whatever this is-- completely, which might take a while."

Tommy frowned, stepping back and sitting heavily down on a recliner. "And I didn't need to do all this purging?"

"The weird stuff in you was in your eyes, which aren't as connected to your bloodstream as the stomach is," Ranboo pointed out. "Of course, it does make sense, the different places where the liquid was found. Tubbo had it in his stomach because he was the Ghost of Christmas Past, usually found with lots of food in tow."

"Yeah, I already figured that one out," Tommy grumbled. "That's not what I wanted to know, though. Sleep the night away, bee boy, we've got all the time in the world." He rolled his eyes, leaning forward to poke Tubbo in the cheek. Tubbo grunted, swatting sleepily at Tommy's hand and turning over.

Ranboo glanced at the clock. "Actually, no, we only have about half an hour--"

Tommy groaned, leaning back in his chair. "I was being sarcastic, dude. We've gone over this before."

"Ugh . . . are you two arguing already?" Tubbo sat up on the couch slowly, rubbing at his eyes. He blinked around at them, his eyes droopy. "It's too early for this . . . --huh? Hey!" He reared back, yelping as Tommy pounced on him, wrapping him in a tight hug.

"You're awake! Already!" Tommy grinned over at Ranboo, tears pricking his eyes. "It really didn't take that long, wow."

Tubbo yawned widely, then scrunched up his nose, looking pale. "Did I eat something that went bad? My stomach feels . . . oh, God--" he shoved Tommy away with one hand, something that the blonde was no doubt very grateful for as Tubbo leaned over the side of the couch and vomited onto the ground.

Ranboo winced, watching the green liquid splash onto the ground and soak into the threadbare carpet. "Eugh, gross."

"What was that?" Tubbo complained, leaning back onto the couch, wrapping his hands around his nauseous tummy. "Where are we? What's going on?"

"I'm sure you have lots of questions," Tommy said, "but we don't actually have a lot of time. Best way I can describe it: um, you remember A Christmas Carol?"

Tubbo stared at Tommy, scanning him up and down. Finally, he looked up, utterly lost. "Why . . . are you wearing those clothes?"

Tommy looked down at himself, no doubt taking in the white trench coat draped over his shoulders, the pale tunic, and the button-up trousers. He shook his head, shrugged, then sighed. "Look, it's a long story."

"I'm sure it is," Tubbo commented, "judging by the way Ranboo is shirtless. Nice shoulders." He winked playfully at Ranboo, who rolled his eyes.

"We're in A Christmas Carol," Ranboo explained. "I know it's a lot to take in, and you probably don't believe it, but everyone took a place in the book. I'm Scrooge, I guess, and I'm being haunted by . . . well, by you guys."

Tubbo sat up, looking more alert, a worried crease outlining his eyes. "I don't suppose you know how?"

Ranboo shook his head. "My best guess is some sort of ghost. The real question I can't figure out is why. Why trap us here?"

"I guess they wanted to kill you, and torture us," Tommy pondered. "What kind of ghost would have that much of a grudge against us? Well, the demon might, but I know I killed the fucker."

"Lena wouldn't," Ranboo added. "She was all too happy to go with her sister, why would she come back to haunt us?"

Tubbo hummed, drumming his fingers thoughtfully on the arm of his chair. "So many questions. My mouth really does taste awful, though. Got any water?"

"I wouldn't eat or drink anything here," warned Ranboo. "Remember when Phil was drilling us on the fairy realm rules? Don't eat any of their food, or you're trapped together."

"Isn't that just some old superstition, though?" Tommy asked, tapping his foot on the ground.

"We all thought ghosts were superstitions, too," Tubbo reminded Tommy, raising his eyebrows with a smile. "And yet, here we are. Stuck. In a book, which is rather odd, if I'm taking your word for it."

"You should. It's not a joke, I swear," Ranboo said. He glanced up at the clock; a gesture that was quickly becoming automatic, as he found the steady tick-tick-ticking of the clock only served to worry him further about the future danger. "And we've still got one ghost left to deal with."

Tommy clicked his tongue, looking faintly worried. "Right, right. The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. That guy always creeped me out." He shivered, pulling anxiously at the sleeves of his trench coat.

Ranboo nodded slowly, trying to form a plan in his head. "Yeah, but if I'm right, we'll have to deal with him, well, with Phil, at around three. These ghosts are deadly," he warned Tubbo, who was looking around at them, mildly confused. "The Ghost of Christmas Past shredded my back-- which is the actual reason why my shirt is off, thank-you-very-much Tubbo."

"Sure it is. Whatever you say," Tubbo replied smoothly, smirking. "So how do we even, um, save-- is that the word?-- Phil. What, do we just kind of grab him and shake him a lot? 'Cause I'm all up for that any day of the week." 

Ranboo shook his head, thinking hard. "No, I'm pretty sure that'd just lead to us being dead. Mostly, you just have to remind them of who they really are. That's what I did with Tommy, and we kind of . . . well, we kind of shouted at you until you remembered." He scratched the back of his neck, offering Tubbo a slightly regretful half-grin in recompense for the rude awakening. "Sorry. That might've been one of the reasons leading you to get sick." 

"Hey, I feel better!" Tubbo stood up from his perch on the couch, trying to prove it in a dramatic leap, then froze in place and swayed uncontrollably for a few seconds, like a diseased daisy swaying to and fro in a storm. Tommy immediately jumped up to straighten him, grabbing his shoulders and making sure he did not fall. "You okay?"

"Ugh . . . yeah," Tubbo muttered weakly, rubbing his forehead, which was still damp with sweat. "Except for the centipede running around my intestines, I'm peachy. I was gonna say we need a plan, or we'll die, but I'm pretty sure I'm just gonna die." He flopped back down onto the couch, heaving in deep, shaking breaths.

Ranboo shared a worried glance with Tommy. Tommy had managed to shake off the aftereffects of (what was this anyways? Possession? Forced lunacy? Maybe drugs?) off much quicker than Tubbo seemed to be doing.

"We do need a plan," Ranboo admitted, "and a good one. Fast."

Above the three of them, the clock continued to tick.

Time was running out.

Five minutes before the clock hit three, they had come up with something that vaguely resembled a plan.

"So who's going to . . . " Tubbo waved his hand, apparently trying to find the right words. "Take the ghost out?"

"You mean, who's going to, like, hold him down?" Sure, Ranboo had been trying to imagine attempting to pin Phil down, yelling at him all the while like he was some sort of grade-schooler ("I mean, just imagine. 'Your name is Phil! Phil! Do you hear me?!'" Unfortunately, Tommy and Tubbo had not found this imaginary scenario as funny as Ranboo had), but it didn't seem very probable. "I'm not sure if we even need to, y'know? We can probably just talk him back."

Tommy crossed his arms over his chest. "Can we at least take some sort of iron weapon as a precaution? If he doesn't back off?" He glanced towards the fireplace, where the light of the oil lamp Tommy had lit bounced off the shining iron tools.

Ranboo walked over there, pulling an ash shovel from the fireplace. "If you'd like to. I don't think it's really necessary, though." He tossed the iron shovel to Tommy, who grabbed it by the handle, then turned it over, examining it with faint interest.

He struggled to pull the pair of tongs from their resting place above the ash-strewn fireplace, but eventually managed to pull them off. He turned around and offered them to Tubbo.

"Hmmm." Tubbo held the pair of tongs at arms length at first, considering them, then raised them up, lifting his knee at the same time.

"What are you--" Ranboo started, confused, before Tubbo brought the iron tools down heavily on his knee. "Tubbo!" he shouted, horrified, but the brunette merely hopped back a few steps, shaking his soon-to-be-bruised leg, and holding the two-- now cleanly separate-- halves of the tongs.

Tubbo looked up at Ranboo and shrugged. "Didn't seem right to hold them like a blinking pair of salad grabbers."

Ranboo nodded slowly, turning away. Walking towards the kitchen, he stooped low and gathered the poker in his hand, tossing it from hand to hand. "Right. Well," he continued, with a nervous glance towards the clock (2:58 AM), "it's pretty much time. Are we all . . . ready?"

Tommy sat down on the couch arm, nodding. "As ready as I can be, anyway." He lifted the shovel, inspecting its grimy surface with a frown. He lifted his hand from the iron instrument, flexing his now black-stained fingers, and sighed.

"Nothing to do now but wait," murmured Tubbo. He fell backward onto the couch from where he had sat on its arm, landing on his back with a quiet omph. The tong (singular, now that Tubbo had snapped the pair in half) was left to rest on his stomach, which was apparently feeling better if he could break solid iron that easily.

Ranboo felt his own stomach twisting uneasily in his gut. Something felt off about the whole thing. Who had stuck them in A Christmas Carol, anyway? And how were they supposed to get out?

Why did it feel as though they were preparing to make some sort of last stand?

He shook the feeling off and watched as the seconds ticked away.

2:59:47.

Ranboo straightened up, trying to swallow the lump buried deep in his throat. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, uncomfortably hot and almost painful as it pooled in his set of wounds.

2:59:55.

His fingers drummed away on the cold iron surface of the poker, so fast they nearly sounded like a drill. His mouth went dry, goosebumps tickling his arms and neck.

3:00:00.

Ring, chimed the clock.

A cold wind blew suddenly into the living room, chilling Ranboo down to his bones. He shivered, his injuries prickling all over, and turned to face the nearest window to close it.

He froze in his tracks.

Ring.

A skeletal hand was gripping the window pane, surrounded by the thinnest stretch of skin he had ever seen. It barely managed to cover the yellowed bone, and was nearly transparent in its own right, but was covered with the patchwork of purple and red signature of someone ancient in age.

Ring . . .

The nails were long and cracked, and dried, crusted blood filled the underside. Soon, an arm emerged, too, covered by a flimsy, almost threadbare black sleeve. The end was in tatters, ripped to shreds and sewn together with blood-red string.

"Guys," Tommy whispered, sounding terrified. "I don't think that's Phil."

---

Standing before them in the living room was some kind of grim reaper.

That was all it could be. Ranboo's mind blanked on anything else, anything else that could be living but appear so grotesquely dead.

A hood of the purest black was draped over the thing's skull, but he could see the cracked, blackening spine bones that stretched into the dark void above. Its robes didn't bother to cover the rest of its ancient body, exposing thin, translucent skin that served as glass windows to the crumbling skeleton that perched in the windowsill.

A deep, rattling breath echoed through the room, and all of a sudden, Ranboo was pulled back into reality. The reality was, he was standing in front of a ghost, completely exposed, with nothing to protect himself with except for a rusting, iron poker.

He stumbled back, terror sweeping through his mind. The black-robed figure stepped closer to him, mirroring his movements exactly. Its bones cracked as it moved, bits of dried skin falling off as it walked.

"Ebenezer Scrooge," the ghost hissed. "You are to come with me."

Although Ranboo's mind was barely functioning, he somehow managed to remember something very important. He pointed a trembling finger towards the ghost, and threw caution to the wind.

"Another fraud!" he shouted, voice shaking, and the ghost cocked its head at him. "The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come never talks! It never happens in the story!"

The ghost hesitated, then took a step forward, much too close for Ranboo's comfort. He couldn't bring himself to move, though; the ghost was lifting a hand to his chin and he was frozen stiff, his entire body trembling.

A hand riddled with the scent of decay tilted his head upwards. The ghost was taller than Ranboo, so tall its head grazed the top of the ceiling, and it seemed to envelop the whole room. "Clever," the ghost whispered in a frail, creaking voice, similar to the sound of a coffin lid being opened after years of underground solitude. "But I am not."

Ranboo's teeth were chattering. The cold the ghost carried around made his hands feel stiff, his vocal cords so cold he thought they might snap like icicles if he tried to speak. "N-n-not what?" he breathed, terrified.

Behind him, he heard Tommy and Tubbo both take steps toward him, but he lifted a hand behind him to ward them away. The ghost was much closer to him than either of them were closer to it, and it was very much likely it could snap his neck any time it wanted.

"You will not see The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come," the ghost told him, black robe fluttering in its cold wind. "You have already ruined this story. This story . . . that I so dearly loved."

"I . . . I'm sorry?" Ranboo didn't know what else to say. Quite frankly, he didn't know what else he could say. His mouth was frozen stiff, and he was terrified out of his mind. He didn't want to risk his head being torn off!

The ghost shook its hidden head, lowering its hand from his chin. "It is this ghost's habit to know the future," it said. "And in the future lies your death."

Okay, so much for the stand-there-and-wait-for-the-perfect-moment plan, now was for plan B: get the hell out of the room.

"Run!" Ranboo shouted, feeling a jolt of adrenaline shoot through him. Using the sudden rush of strength, he lifted the poker with both hands like a baseball bat and slammed it forcefully into the side of the ghost's rib cage. With a howl of pain, the ghost was thrown back a couple feet, falling into the wall and crumbling to the floor, black robe pooling around its skeletal body.

"The-- the door won't open!" Tommy cried, frantic. Ranboo chanced a swift glance over his shoulder and saw with a jolt of horror that Tommy was, indeed, failing to pull the living room door open.

Ranboo's head swivelled back around to stare at the ghost, now climbing slowly to its feet, paper-thin skin crackling over sinewy bones. Right. Don't panic. Plan C: hit hard.

He took a deep breath, lifting the poker over his head and preparing for the cracking sound of iron against old bones.

But Tubbo got there first.

He hit the ghost across the face with the wide, flat side of his weapon, sending it falling to its knees once again. He slammed the iron against its white flesh, over and over and over again, until thick, ugly iron burns had spread all over the spirit's exposed skin, and it lay unconscious and unmoving at his feet.

Finally, Tubbo stepped back, breathing hard. He motioned vaguely at the ghost, though he was obviously too winded to say anything. His hair hung limply in his face, his face flushed bright red from the exertion so soon after his fainting spell.

"I didn't . . . know a ghost . . . could be knocked out," he finally coughed out, breathless. He lifted the instrument of choice up and peered at it, chest still rising and falling dizzily. "That . . . was definitely . . . a new experience."

"I'll bet," Tommy marvelled, stepping closer nervously. He narrowed his eyes at the silent, still ghost, tiptoeing even closer on light feet. "How'd you even do that?"

Tubbo pointed at his singular, and now bent awkwardly along the middle, tong. He looked somewhat proud at his work, and gave his prize-- the unconscious, skeletal ghoul-- a haughty smirk. "Repetition."

"So . . . " Ranboo flipped his poker over to a vertical position, leaning on the handle to stare down at the figure laid out across the living room floor. "The only question is, what do we do with him now?"

It was 4:30 when the ghost finally awoke.

The three of them had decided it was best to tie it up next to the fireplace, which had been surprisingly easy. The ghosts in this story world, it seemed, were corporeal, and as such, were just as able to be trussed up in silk ropes and old bed clothes as any other, living, human being.

Tommy, Tubbo, and Ranboo were all much more prepared when it woke up. Ranboo had somehow managed to secure clothes for himself-- apparently, all the clothing in the story had been tailored specifically for him-- and they had surrounded the ghost with all the salt they could find.

It was well and truly trapped.

"So, Mr. Ghost," Ranboo yawned, giving the ghost a careless, cocky grin. "Care to tell us how to get out of here?"

He was sitting on the couch, one leg crossed flippantly over the other. Tubbo, on his right side, held onto his tong menacingly, and Tommy was readied with his shovel, smirking. Ranboo, for his part, had his iron poker laid out over his lap in a jaunty sort of way, and was immensely pleased to know that, to the ghost, they probably looked as threatening as some sort of mafia.

"Never," hissed the ghost, struggling against the bonds. The glowing oil lamp on the table illuminated its newly exposed features-- Ranboo had taken the pleasure of removing his cloak off its head.

The ghost had a face that, to be honest, slightly underwhelmed Ranboo. It was much as he'd imagined it: exactly like the other parts of its body, a slick, thin layer of bruise-laden, peeling skin stretched over a cracked skull. The only unexpected part of it all were the oily, dried-out patches of black hair slicked over the otherwise smooth head.

When the ghost opened its mouth to scream, though, Ranboo saw the entirety of its gums and teeth were black, as though smeared repeatedly with tar until they had turned the colour of his silk robe. "Let me free!" it howled at them. "You have no clue who you are containing!"

Again, the spirit strained to free itself, spitting out vile curses at the three of them, but they sat unfazed.

"Let me repeat that for you," purred Tommy. "Are you sure you don't want to tell us something?"

The ghost looked at the three of them. Of course, its eyes were black hollows gouged into its yellow-stained bony head-- no eyeballs to be found anywhere-- but Ranboo knew for certain that it could see. The how of it all remained unanswered, though.

"I-- I won't let you out," the ghost shrieked. "I am the one who wields such power as to summon people unto my bond-- I will never smear my reputation with such foul acts as these that you ask me to do--!"

Ranboo caught the word bond and held tightly onto it, his mind already shuffling pieces into place. Bond? Isn't that what Lena called the rosary? A bond . . . so is that ghost lingo for what keeps them tied to this place? But then what could this ghost's bond be? What could he mean, he can summon people unto his bond? Wait . . .

"Are you attached to a copy of A Christmas Carol?" Ranboo asked, forgetting his menacing act completely, his mouth dropping open. "Is that what you mean by all that?"

The ghost growled at him, bones cracking and patches of dying, dry flesh falling off its wrists as it tried to pull itself free. "Never you mind."

"I'll take that as a yes," Tommy said triumphantly. "You died and came back as a ghost haunting a book copy of A Christmas Carol, yeah? Decided to learn how to trap people in your story? How's that going for you?"

"You're flies in my web," it howled, furious. "You're stuck in my trap! You'll never get out! I'll never tell you!"

Tubbo scoffed. "We're the ones who are trapped? Seems to me we have all the power. We've got iron tools, you're trapped in salt . . . boy, this really isn't your day, is it? If I were you, I'd just give us what we wanted to know."

The ghost glared around at them, shaking with anger. "Go hang yourselves," it snarled, though it looked at Tubbo's casually wielded weapon with apprehension. "The gaol will be happy to see you."

Ranboo stood up, pacing closer to it, iron poker held closely in his hand. They had had the good sense to start a fire in the fireplace to combat the spirit's cold winds, and, as such, a jolly set of flames leaped merrily among the thick lumps of coal dumped in the fireplace. Crackling embers illuminated the side of Ranboo's face, spilling golden firelight along his (newly stolen from Scrooge's drawer) shirt and his face, which was red and flushed with the excitement of the night.

"We're not letting you go until you tell us," Ranboo explained, watching light flicker along the sides of his wrists most facing the fire. He settled down into a cross-legged position on the carpet, leaning back and shaking his hair out of his face. "And trust me-- we'll take all the time we need."

He watched as the spirit considered the eternity they were threatening it with. It was true-- ghosts couldn't brush away the salt containing them, or protecting someone else, especially if they were trussed up like a pig about to be slaughtered. That meant that, even if it did end up refusing their offer, and Ranboo and Tubbo and Tommy carried out the rest of their days in the solitary, lonely book that was A Christmas Carol, it would probably be trapped there forever. That couldn't be a very pleasant option.

The clock on the fireplace mantle ticked slowly. Ranboo waited, drumming his fingers on the poker laid across his lap, leaning forward ever so slightly to get a better view at the disgusted, yet contemplative expression on the ghost's face.

After just a matter of a few minutes, the ghost muttered something that Ranboo couldn't catch. He scooted a bit closer, cupping his hand around his ear. "I'm sorry, I didn't hear that."

"You'll . . . don't trap me here," the ghost mumbled, spitting the words out as though they tasted vile. "Break the clock on the mantlepiece. You'll all be freed."

Ranboo grinned brightly, standing up and dusting off his legs with one hand. "Excellent! I knew you'd agree to it. Thanks for all the help." He reached into the salt circle to clap the ghost on the shoulder.

Tommy was already walking forward to grab the clock, then presented it to Tubbo. "You can do the honours," he said cheerily. "I can't do much of anything right now, my shoulder's all messed up, and I did see what you did to that ghost's face."

Tubbo cast an auspicious glance in the ghost's direction, looking pleased at the praise. "I'd be glad to," he returned, then looked over at Ranboo. "But Ranboo here hasn't had a chance yet to smash something like this, has he?"

Ranboo's entire face brightened, lighting up at the chance to smash the hated object. It had been the one thing keeping them there-- how weird, but it also made sense, in some awful, twisted kind of way. Time was an important factor in what made A Christmas Carol, and it was this one clock that kept the entire book moving. It was even the exact same one that had alerted Scrooge to the presence of the illustriously written ghosts in his room.

He lifted the poker above his head, readying himself for the blow, but the ghost cried out behind him: "Wait! Are you not going to let me go free? You promised to let me go once I told you how to escape!"

Ranboo turned around, rolling his eyes. "You expect me to believe that you won't immediately try to kill us again? I'd have to be stupid to think that. Plus, I don't know if you really remember, but you kind of already tried to kill us. That doesn't say much for my sentimentality towards you."

"But-- I can be of use!" the spirit begged, pulling at the ropes with a desperate fervour. "I am not so useless you need to get rid of me immediately!"

Tubbo shook his head, shrugging with one shoulder. "Sorry, dude. You don't exactly have a stellar reputation for keeping promises right now."

"I'm not sorry," Tommy chimed in. "Like Tubbo said, you've really just been a bloody pain in the ass this whole time. Personally, I'm all in favour of the 'let-you-live-out-eternity' plan here."

Ranboo lifted up the heavy poker again, taking a deep, long breath, and brought it down on the clock.

The last thing he registered was a loud crunch, such as broken glass, and then it all went dark.

As Ranboo slowly opened his eyes, he was met with a stream of brilliant light.

He sat up, noting the way something heavy and soft fell off his shoulders to pool around his lap. Rubbing his sleepy eyes, he looked around, blinking in the newfound light that seemed to be cascading in . . . through a hotel room window.

He immediately sat up straighter, looking around hurriedly for his friends. They were found in their own respective beds, each sitting up and looking around with the same general confusion that he was.

It was a bright, sunny morning, and Ranboo rummaged through his memories and managed to recall that they were somewhere along the border of Wisconsin and Minnesota. Sunlight hit the floor and sparkled off into a million colours, shining through the gauzy red curtain that fluttered in an early morning breeze. The smell of fresh, crappy hotel coffee wafted up through the floor from the Hotel Inn's eating space, and Ranboo's stomach growled loudly again at the tempting scent.

He turned to look at Tubbo and Tommy, blinking his sleep-sticky eyes. "Boy," he murmured, "you'll never believe what I just dreamed about just now. It was . . . " (here he punctuated his sentence with another yawn) " . . . so crazy."

"I'll bet mine is crazier," Tubbo offered, already trying to smooth his sleep-tousled hair back into place. "It actually involved A Christmas Carol. Like, I know it's Christmas Day and all, but that's just weird."

Ranboo stared at him, frozen in place. "Wait. And I was Ebenezer Scrooge, or at least everyone thought I was, and--"

"And I was the Ghost of Christmas Past, and you--" Tommy pointed at Tubbo, slowly catching on. Next to him, Toast stirred, awakened by the noise. "--you were the Ghost of Christmas Present, weren't you? There was an evil ghost . . . "

"And then we broke the clock--"

"--and got out of the story--"

"--and now we're all here?" Ranboo finished. His head spun from all the realisations now piling onto his-- sleep-deprived, to make matters even worse-- brain. He slid off the bed, shaking his head. "So wait, was that a dream?"

Tubbo shrugged, but he bit his lip, obviously thinking the matter over very carefully. When he looked up again, he seemed rather lost. "I mean, well, it's probably not. As far as I can tell, anyway." He stood up from the bed and bent over his pillow, lifting it up to see if there was anything suspicious, like drugs, that might be stored under their bed pillows.

"What are the chances, man?" Tommy exclaimed, looking almost starstruck. In stark contrast to his usual grumpy early-morning self, he was positively glowing, his eyes sparkling as he thought about the possibilities. "Are we a ghost magnet now? Are we going to attract all sorts of phantoms? Aw, that's so cool!"

"Yeah, and also potentially deadly," Ranboo reminded him, but his attention was soon captured by the sound of someone stirring in the bed next to his. He glanced around and saw Phil sleeping soundly on the bed, chest rising and falling as he snoozed.

"Wait." Ranboo paused. "Phil. D'you think . . . was he part of the whole thing, too?"

"But we didn't see him!" Tubbo protested. "How could he have been? What part would he have been? He obviously wasn't the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come." For a second, he hesitated, then sighed heavily, falling back onto the bed with his head in his hands. "Good God, this whole thing is so weird."

Ranboo frowned. "We still have one more thing to figure out," he mused. "The ghost was bonded to a copy of A Christmas Carol, right?"

Tommy nodded, now having to keep his arms securely around Toast to stop the little dog from barking and waking Phil. "Right, and?"

"So we still need to destroy it, don't we?" Ranboo looked around the room for help, then his gaze settled back on Phil, then to the little collection of messily wrapped presents under their mini plastic tree, and a little idea burrowed itself into his mind.

He glanced back and forth between Tubbo and Tommy. "Did either of you buy any copies of the book recently?" Tommy thought about it for a second, then shook his head apologetically.

"Nope." Tubbo crossed his arms, tilting his head at Ranboo. "Why would I have?"

Ranboo pointed at the mound of presents under the tree, a grin growing slowly on his face. "Because you might have wanted to give it to someone else."

No other words were needed. The three of them instantly descended upon Phil like a pack of vultures, shaking him awake until he was very much confused and liable to answer their questions without thinking. Even Toast joined in, barking in excitement and running laps around Tommy's bed, which was too high for him to jump off of.

"Did you buy any of us a copy of A Christmas Carol?" Tommy demanded, seizing Phil by the shoulders.

The other man jolted awake, staring woozily back and forth at them in, all things considered, understandable shock. "Did I do wha . . . t?" he murmured sleepily, blinking at them.

"As a Christmas gift!" Ranboo explained urgently. "Did you? It's important!"

Phil stared at them a few seconds longer before sighing, rubbing at his sleepy, red-rimmed eyes with his palm. "Um . . . yeah, over there in that little yellow-wrapped present. It's a first edition, actually. Thought it'd be a cool present. Why?"

Tubbo marched over to the box, tearing the wrapping away and exposing an old, crumpling book, the pages yellow and stained, the red cover just about falling off. "Because we're going to burn it now," he declared.

Phil sat straight up at that, eyes wide. "You're going to what?!"

"Nope, just stay there, no need to fret," Tommy soothed him, pushing him gently back into the mattress. "We'll explain it all in a second, don't worry."

Ranboo was already digging through Phil's backpack and pulling out the same little lighter he had used on their first case. "Here!" he called, tossing the plastic instrument to Tubbo, who caught it deftly.

Setting the old book down, Tubbo glanced over at Ranboo. "Can you toss me that chip bag on the table?"

"Sure, why?" Ranboo snatched it from its resting place and handed it to Tubbo, who tore it sidelong into a strip of long foil. Toast, who was still perched on Tommy's bed, was now watching this all unfold with an air of faint interest.

Tubbo set it down on the carpet, and the old book on top of it. "Aluminium foil doesn't burn," he explained. "I don't want to set the hotel on fire."

"Then don't set the book on fire!" Phil exclaimed, still trying to get up. Tommy was having a rough time pinning him down, grimacing as Phil tried to shove him off. "That was expensive!"

"What do you value your life at, Phil?" Tommy asked between gritted teeth. "More or less than an old book?" (A/N: this is not a manual on how to treat your first-edition books. I myself have several and am very proud of them. They require care and a nice place to keep them. Do not, I repeat, do not set them on fire)

Tubbo flicked open the lighter, watching as a tiny flame trembled on the tip of the metal lighter. With bated breath, he set it down onto the book.

It caught almost instantly. Fire bloomed along the fabric cover and spread easily to the pages, and the crisp, thick smell of burning paper filled the room, hot smoke billowing from the burning book.

True to Tubbo's word, the aluminium foil did its job: the carpet didn't catch, even as the fire enveloping the book slowly tapered off, leaving a burnt, blackened husk behind. The pages, or what were left of them, were charred into a smear of black ash, and the covers were nothing more than a few burnt threads covering a blackened slice of paper board. Toast barked at the smoke, hackles raised, looking as though he'd never seen smoke before and considered it some sort of enemy.

Ranboo slowly breathed a sigh of relief as the fire dwindled to a few flickers of glowing orange, and immediately regretted it as the hot smell of ash and smoke filled his lungs. He doubled over, coughing into his palm, then straightened back up, teary-eyed.

"Worth it," he coughed, offering the room a smoke-stung, cocky grin.

Phil finally managed to push Tommy off of him. "Worth it for what?" he cried, looking around at the scene. "Arson?"

It was true. The book did look frightful. Layer after layer of crumbling, dirt-black charcoal (what used to be the pages) were still sandwiched between the gently smoking covers. The aluminium was stained black where it had come into contact with the ash, and even a few drops of black stains had affected the carpet.

Tommy stepped back from Phil, looking sheepish. "Uh . . . yeah, so about that . . . "

Everything was quickly established and explained to Phil, who listened throughout the tale with an admirable amount of patience. When everything had finally been told, and the three were all winded from trying to talk over each other, he shook his head, his mouth tightening into a line.

"That makes a lot of sense, actually," he admitted. "I do remember hearing something about a bloody murder involving the history of this book. Apparently, some young boy was eager to get his hands on a first-edition, and knew how to work a revolver."

Ranboo shuddered at the thought. "I'm glad it's over now," he said. "And the smoke alarms didn't even go off, which was a miracle."

"Yes, but other hotel patrons will surely complain of the smell," Phil sighed. "We'll have to clean this up. And by we, I mean you three."

Tommy groaned, rolling his eyes. He was holding Toast in his arms, fiddling and combing at his fur, trying to soothe the little dog's apprehension of the smoke still circling around the ceiling of the room. "Awe, but I wasn't even the one who burned it! You want a criminal, look at Tubbo!"

"Hey, don't implicate me!" Tubbo cried, sounding offended.

Ignoring Tubbo's outcry, Phil raised his eyebrows at Tommy instead. "You're under penalty of law as an accomplice," he replied. "You didn't seem in a hurry to stop them from burning the book, now did you?"

"What law?" Tommy and Ranboo asked in unison, baffled.

"My law," Phil clarified, smirking at them. "Now then, you'd better finish this up quickly. We're eating breakfast, opening presents, and then we'll be on our way to Wisconsin."