A/N. A look into Lyle's head and his past, my way of figuring out how he got to where he was, not 100% true to canon but that's because canon kept changing and adding things while I was writing, so some parts have been edited to fit the new canon and some parts haven't. Ten interlinked oneshots that can be read as stand alones or in sequence. I have written all of them, someof them have been sitting on my hardrive for the best part of a year now, I'm probably just going to take my time uploading them.

Disclaimer: Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

Snow

He'd always loved the snow; it always meant the holidays, hot chocolate if they'd been good and, if they were lucky, their father would light the fire and they could toast marshmallows in the living room if they promised to be very careful. Snow meant shrieks of glee at some ungodly hour of the morning when they woke up, looked out the window and saw the sea of pure white covering everything in sight, like the icing on one of their grandmother's cakes. Snow meant the single, all knowing look they would share.

"Race you," Neil would say.

"You're on," Lyle would reply.

And they would scramble round the room they shared, throwing on clothes; mismatched socks but who cared, digging out gloves and scarves which hadn't been used since last winter and were consequently stuffed down behind that old hand knitted sweater neither of them would wear, and where were those shoes anyway? The entire room would be full of loud laughter.

The door would creak open and their mother would look at them with that look they knew so well, the one which said 'you're being too noisy, it's too early, I haven't had enough sleep, but I'll forgive you anyway. I always do.' Then she would proceed to find those missing shoes, remind them to wear their coats and straighten their clothes and hair and fuss and laugh at their impatient expressions and tell them that they had half an hour before breakfast would be on the table since they had woken everyone up with all their crashing and banging around.

They would grin identical grins and agree in unison to be back inside on time before running past their mother, yelling a haphazard good morning to their father and Amy who would stare, bleary eyed at them as they raced past in a flurry of colour and noise. They were always bright, and always too loud. And they would run down the stairs, sounding like a herd of elephants as their father would always so affectionately put it, snatching up coats and tumbling out into the snow covered garden. Their own world of white to paint however they wanted.

And paint it they would throughout the day with three snow angels laid out in a circle and forts forsaken in favour of other games and the snowman with buttons for eyes and sticks for arms and their grandfather's hat he'd left behind last time he had visited perched on top. With so many images of grandeur running round their minds, that was how they would paint the garden this year, like every year, so many plans and too little time.

They would talk hurriedly, excitedly through shovelled mouthfuls of cereal in that fashion that they did when they both knew what they wanted, finishing each other's sentences, if they even bothered to finish them at all, all the while grinning those identical – scheming – grins. Their mother would frown at their bad manners and their father would hide his amusement behind the previous morning's paper he wasn't reading and they would be asked – told – to let Amy play as well.

So they would wait, impatiently hopping from foot to foot, anxious to get back outside to their world of white freedom, while their mother made sure their younger sister was dressed warmly enough and that they hadn't lost their gloves again like that one year it had taken them half an hour to find Lyle's missing gloves after breakfast, buried, soggy and useless under the falling snow at the back of the house.

Finally they were all deemed fit to face the cold winter weather, told once again to behave, and let loose on the garden, the twins half-carrying, half being dragged, by their equally enthusiastic sister, all three laughing. Their mother standing in the doorway laughing as well, following her children with a watchful eye as they brought colour to the barren, white landscape around them, before retreating back into the warmth of the house, chores to be done which wouldn't do themselves and a tin of hot chocolate to remove from its hiding place at the back of the cupboard.

Snowball fight games would stretch on and on, growing ever more complex and bizarre; rules made up, forgotten or changed as suited them, and, much to Lyle's eternal chagrin, it always wound up with him on his own against the combined efforts of Neil and Amy. These were the games that he always lost. He just couldn't win against both of them. All three finally collapsing in the snow, Lyle and Neil still half-heartedly trying to stuff snow down each other's backs, all red-cheeks and laughter, all three of them.

And Amy, bright eyes shining with just as much mischief as her two older brothers, would say that it was time to make a snowman. Just enough time indeed before lunch was called, sandwiches and juice, a couple of chocolates from the tin that sat on the kitchen sideboard stealthily hidden in coat pockets to eat when they were back outside. This snowman, she would continue, wisely, knowingly, would be bigger and better than the year before, as always. As always, the twins would rise to her challenge, finding new ways to outdo their previous efforts, which inevitably involved new ways to get in trouble later on; traipsing wet, snowy footprints across the kitchen floor and hallway carpet in search of things to use in their new snowman design.

They would chase Amy round and round the garden as they rolled the snow into large balls, together lifting and precariously balancing one on top of the other, Amy with full control over the artistic license, and no that doesn't go there, it goes over there! Until finally it was deemed satisfactory with a short nod of the head and a wide, beaming smile as Lyle would hand her their grandfather's hat and Neil would lift her up so she could put the finishing touch to their joint masterpiece.

It would always fall apart before it melted; knocked over when one of the twins would run into it during a game of chase or dismantled for more snowballs. But while it stood it was always their favourite piece of work.

And every year, without fail, Amy would insist on creating snow angels, lying on the cold ground, all laughing, her with joy and they with good humoured embarrassment. It was always hard to deny her anything, their little sister who drove them insane but they still loved to pieces. The other kids as school had learnt fast not pick on the young girl with the bright smile and carefree mischief in her eyes, because her brothers were faster and both punched hard. They got in too much trouble later for starting fights, trouble with both the teachers and their parents, but Amy's quiet thanks had made it worth it all the same. So they would lay in the snow, laughing at how silly they knew they looked, Amy laughing loudest of them all.

Eventually it would begin to get dark, and while the twins would insist that it was still light, look, the streetlamps hadn't even come on yet, there was still plenty of time to play, and they still hadn't declared a definitive winner in the last snowball fight, the one just between Lyle and Neil, they had to finish it before going back inside, after all the snow might not still be there in the morning and then they'd never know who would have won, and they weren't tired, really, please Ma, just five more minutes, please Da, we promise we won't hit the car again, please…?

And their mother would sigh and shake her head, smiling, and their father would laugh, and both would grudgingly agree to let the twins stay out just a little while longer, but Amy would be coming back inside now before she fell asleep standing up, tired out by the long day of adventure, keeping up so well with her two older brothers. She would try to complain as well, but willingly stepped back into the warmth of the house and her mother's waiting arms as the twins shared a single, all knowing look.

"Race you," Neil would say.

"You're on," Lyle would reply.

And then they would be gone, a flurry of laughter and snow and children's games as they raced around their world of white one last time. Dancing through the ruined forts, past the headless snowman whose hat was long since lost and forgotten, and over the snow angels that stood head to head to head in a circle on the ground, arms spread wide, hands just touching. And no winner was ever announced in their snowball fight game, when it was just one on one there never was, as the streetlamps would begin to flicker on, long shadows littering the white snow as they were called inside for the last time. Their mother standing in the open doorway, all smiles and love for her terrible, noisy, troublesome twins with their too-early mornings, inexhaustible energy and infectious laughter.

She would take their coats and scarves and gloves and hang them up to dry, shoes left in an untidy heap by the door that she would then straighten up after sending them both to get cleaned up – dinner was in ten minutes, it would be their own fault if it they had to eat it cold. She would spend the meal listening to their tales of the day's escapades, her twins interrupting each other and correcting the little, inconsequential details, Amy laughing, nodding, smiling tiredly but happily, and agreeing with them both.

Then, after the meal was done and the washing up and drying up and putting away of the dishes was done she would make hot chocolate and sit by the fire, Amy curled up, asleep already, by her side, watching the twins toast marshmallows under the attentive gaze of their father. And they would turn and smile and ask if she'd like some too because they're getting really quite good at this now; they've only set fire to three marshmallows between them this time. She would laugh and decline the offer, content with her coffee, and watching them see how far they could melt the sugary sweets before they fell off the fork and into the fire with a sparkle of colour and crackle and fade while they shrugged and tried again and again until their technique was just perfect.

And Lyle would always be the first one to fall asleep, his head resting on his brother's shoulder as they watched TV, and Neil would smile, not the mischievous smile that all three children shared, but one of a much quieter, more stubborn kindness. It was a rarer smile, one that said it wasn't only Amy he'd always looked out for and would defend without question, but Lyle as well, his younger twin brother. No matter what trouble it may land him in. And it was always with that smile – kind and determined – that Neil would fall asleep as well. Memories and laughter dancing through their dreams, wrapped in warmth and love, knowing that the next day might not hold snow, but that the snow would come again another day, bright and white. A world for them to paint and change forever and however they wanted; it would be theirs to own, if only for a day.

Lyle had always loved the snow; it was his to keep and change: a world to call his own.