This is what I get for listening to Christmas music. And being in an angsty mood. Yep. There is nothing better than randomly being angsty and being a total Roy-addict. Mmm-hmmm. Title comes from the song Mistletoe by Colbie Caillat. I don't own the song, just an FYI.

The snow is laying in a thick blanket on the ground, and more is falling. It's the first snow of the season still; it started three days ago and is still going. It collects on the ground, piling into fluffy mounds. It collects on his shoulders, his hair. The heat escaping through the top of his head melts it, though, and it just streaks his hair dark with water and makes a decent attempt at taming the wild locks.

He looks up from his seat on the bench. Through the branches above him, the bare limbs covered in the white stuff, he can see the gray-white sky with snow barely visible against it. It should be beautiful. It is beautiful.

But then he looks down again, staring past the children having a snowball fight in the field, past anything that he can see with his eyes, to the pink-tinted snow that's haunted his nightmares for a week now. Everything in his current line of vision - which he wasn't paying attention to anyway - disappears as he walks the trail again.

It always starts the same - just a drop of red on the wood floor that leads him out the door and into the thick snow. It's even snowing in his dream, which mimics what's happening now. It's eerie, almost prophetic in a way.

His breathing quickens as his pace does, following the spatters of pink that get larger and more frequent than before. There are faint footprints in the snow, having been covered by the falling white flakes. He knows, in the dream, he needs to hurry. The conscious part of his brain, however, tells him that he can stop, he can wait, doesn't he have bad guys to fight?

The dream-him doesn't listen.

This prompts his mind to start wanting to get there, and to hurry. It knows it will be over as soon as he's there, save for the thoughts he knows will hurl themselves at him in the moment it takes between the end and him waking.

Why wasn't he faster?

Why did they get separated?

How had he gone from being inside to outside, and so far out at that?

Why couldn't he have been faster?

The dream-pace becomes quicker at exactly the right spot, exactly where it had every other time in his nightmares. The snow blurs, creating an almost candy cane-like striping as he goes past. Pink and white goes to just pink, a solid pink line being covered by snow as he runs.

He knows he's close, and not just from the fact he's had his dream every night for a week.

There's also the unexpected yet expected bonus of seeing the body curled in the snow.

He approaches quietly, and his body grips the bench even tighter than before. He knows what he's going to find, but he can't resist turning the body over.

It's faceless, costume-less, but he knows instinctively that it's-

Himself.

He draws a ragged breath, jerking himself from his waking nightmare. It can't be. It's always been something, someone, else at that point. He looks at his boots, the black almost covered by the innocent flakes, and he wonders how long he's been sitting there, lost in the half-memory.

He swallows, glad that at least he didn't have to see the body of his nightmare there in the snow. From the bench, he stands, glancing back at the imprint that he's left from sitting there so long. The shrieks of the children, laughter, reach his ears, and he shivers. He begins to walk down the path to his car.

A snowball hits between the collar of his jacket and his hair, and he turns, repressing another shudder. A girl stands there, her eyes wide.

"'m sorry, mister!" she says. "I didn't mean to hit you."

"It's OK," he tells her, because what else can he say? Her eyes are filled with tears, the blue obscured by them, and he's hit with a memory of another child with blue eyes as clear as the cloudless sky. Blue eyes that pleaded with him until he just couldn't do anything but give in.

The girl's lips tremble, and he bends down to her level. He's probably very scary to her, with the red beard on his face and what have been emotionless blue eyes for the past two weeks. "Hey, honey, it's OK, I promise. Where's your mom?"

"I-I don't have one," she says, voice trembling as well. "My daddy's here, though."

"Can you show me where?" he asks, standing and holding out his hand.

She nods, her glove slipping easily into his own calloused hand. The glove is warm and soft, and he can't help but wonder if the child in his memory would've liked them.

A man is standing there, frantically looking for someone. The little girl shouts to him, and he turns. The pink glove is tugged from his hand, and she runs to her father.

"Sir, thank you! Where did you find her?" the dark-haired dad asks, holding his daughter in his arms.

"She found me, courtesy of a snowball to the back of the neck."

The sound from the other's throat is a half-laugh, half-sob. "Mia, how many times have I told you to not hit someone that you're not playing with, and not to wander off?"

"But Daddy…"

"You should apologize to him."

"I'm sorry for hittin' you with a snowball, Mister. It was an accident, honest."

He smiles. It feels sad to him, though, because she just reminds him so much of his own little girl. The little girl now dead because of him. "It's OK, honey. I'm, uh, kinda used to it."

"Thank you so much for bringing her back, Sir. I don't really know how I could repay you for bringing Mia back; she's my pride and joy, I don't know what I'd do without her."

He smiles then, because he knows exactly how he could repay him. "Keep her safe. Happy holidays." He turns to leave, but can't help but hear the exchange behind him.

"Why would you hit him with a snowball, Princess?"

"But Daddy, I had to! He looked so sad, and angels shouldn't be sad at Christmas."

The smile is still on his face, but it's slowly fading as he walks away. He pulls his cell out.

"Hey, D, you busy? Call Wally and get out here. I need to get drunk…"

Well, I hope you were OK with this little shot. If you can't figure out who the 'he' is or the child he was referring to is, well…