Home for Christmas

by Setcheti

 

Disclaimer:  Santa won’t give them to me, I asked.  No disrespect intended to Toledo, you can blame John Denver for the less-than-complimentary characterization.  And the ATF playground is Mog’s.

 

ShipsCat’s December Challenge:  Home for the Holidays?  I don't think so.  Judge Travis has set our fellows a task that takes them a long, long, long, way from home. Like Moscow, Timbuktu, East L.A., or any other unexotic location of your choice. You can send anyone you want or any number. The only thing is that they have to do is write postcards home telling why they aren't making it home for the holidays.

 

 

Chris stood in the doorway of his office and looked at the empty room.  He decided the presence of artificial holly on the cubicle dividers was as good a reason as any to get mad, so he proceeded to do just that.  He found a box in the break room, one of Vin’s empty ‘supply’ boxes – the sharpshooter was the only person Chris had ever met who bought Moon Pies by the case – and took it around to each cubicle so he could rip the offending decorations down.

 

Nathan’s was first, his desk was closest to the break room, and the chemist had taped up a donation box underneath his holly that bore the name of a local shelter and the saying ‘It’s not a Merry Christmas for everyone’.  Josiah had somehow imbedded a rock in the center of his, but Chris couldn’t make out whether the symbol crudely etched into the stone was supposed to be hieroglyphics or a representation of a hemp plant and he decided he didn’t really want to know.  Buck’s had been enhanced with mini tree lights, tinsel, and tiny ornaments and was topped with a gilded – was that a parrot?  Chris rolled his eyes, his old friend was nothing if not original.  Getting JD’s off took some doing, it was trailing half a dozen colored wires out the back and its plastic leaves and berries concealed a miniature camera and what looked like a modified wire mike.  Vin had surrounded his with a wreath made out of used candy wrappers, and Ezra, not to be outdone, had crafted a similar wreath out of…memos his boss had sent him.  Said boss swore and dumped it in the box on top of the others, reminding himself to kill his undercover agent at his earliest convenience.

 

His scowl deepened; thanks to a nasty combination of Travis, the weather and just plain bad luck, his earliest convenience wouldn’t happen until well after Christmas.  Back in his office, he dumped a small stack of mail into the box and punched the button on his phone that would transfer his calls someplace else – right now Chris didn’t much care where that was.  And then he shrugged into his duster, stuck the box under his arm and stamped out of the office.

 

Chris knew he was acting childish about the whole thing, but…dammit, he didn’t want to spend Christmas alone!  He’d gotten used to having the other six members of his team celebrate with him, it had become a family tradition to the man who’d sworn he’d never have another family and he wasn’t ready to do without it.  But this year it looked like he was going to have to whether he liked it or not.

 

The road going out to his place was snowpacked and slick, and it took Chris about twice as long as usual to get home – not that he was in any hurry to go home to an empty house.  He even caught himself glancing in the rearview mirror a few times, looking for the following cars that weren’t there this time around.  Finally arriving, he put his truck in the barn where Ezra’s Jag would usually go, checked on the horses because Vin wasn’t there to do it for him, and then let himself into the house with his key because Buck hadn’t already unlocked the door to let everyone in.  This time, there was no everyone.

 

The house was too quiet, and Chris found himself alternately trying not to make noise and trying to make as much as he could.  He brought in extra wood for the fireplace and built up a nice blaze, then heated himself up some dinner and brought it in to eat in front of the fire where it was warm – as an afterthought, he turned on the lights on his tree when he got up to find the television remote and get himself a beer.  He didn’t turn his attention to the box until he’d finished a second beer and determined that television on Christmas Eve night was a wasteland put together specifically to point out that you should really have something better to do with your evening.

 

The mail he’d put in came out first, and he shuffled the postcards in his hands like an overlarge deck of Ezra’s cards before laying them out all in a row on the coffee table.  Then he started pulling the ornamented holly sprigs out of the box and matching them with the postcard sent by their particular decorator.  Ezra’s wreath was first and Chris grinned, shaking his head; cocky little bastard had even folded the memos so that enough of Chris’ handwriting showed to be identifiable, and the bow bore his signature.  Ezra’s postcard was from Toledo and had an array of little photographs on the front; the city at night, the state bird, the front of a old scale factory cum museum, and a city limits sign that stated the population in numbers too blurry to read.  On the back Ezra’s neat handwriting said:

 

“Greetings from Hell.  If you have looked at the front of this card you can now say you have seen all there is to be seen here and now you will never have cause to visit this damnable backwater city in the flesh – consider it my Christmas present to you.  I regret to say that our suspicions regarding the situation here were correct and it would take a legitimate miracle to see this case resolved in time to permit me to return home for Christmas as I had hoped to do.  Please tender my regrets to the others and use the key I gave you to access the condo and retrieve everyone’s gifts.  Until I return, Ezra.” 

 

Chris snorted softly as he put the card back down; Ezra had been called out to oversee an undercover operation that needed an expert touch, so he was out of the line of fire but frustrated beyond belief by the people he was supposed to be helping.  He was safe and he’d called Denver ‘home’, though, and that was Christmas present enough for Chris – that, and the knowledge that Ezra had apparently read all of his memos.

 

Vin’s was next.  The sharpshooter was in Dallas sitting out a trial as an expert witness for the defense.  He’d expected to be back at the beginning of the week, but the jury had hung itself up on something and they kept calling him back in to clarify details for them.  His postcard had a picture of a squinting, bowlegged cowboy getting ready to go for his guns on it, and Vin had drawn a badge on the cowboy’s vest that said ‘AFT’.  Chris knew what had happened there; Vin had likely been in a hurry and the F and T had turned themselves around somewhere between his mind and his hand without him noticing.  The badge had to have been a last-minute addition, because the caption written in under the cowboy’s feet was error-free: “You want to ask me for that day off again, Agent?”  Chris knew the cowboy was meant to be him, and he mentally marked Vin down on his convenience-kill list right behind Ezra.  The message on the back of the card was just as carefully written as the caption had been and read: 

 

“Cowboy, Damn jury can’t make up their minds if a spade is a spade or not and the assistant D.A. keeps hitting on me ‘cause she ain’t got nothing else better to do.  Judge won’t recess until Christmas Eve, the bastard, and the defense attorney couldn’t convince him to let me go without risking a mistrial if the twelve idiots he’s got in there want to ask me any more stupid questions.  Really wanted to make it home for Christmas, but I’ll call you from the hotel and say hi to everyone.  A.D.A wanted me to come home with her, said she’d seen something she wanted to unwrap, but I got news for her, that ain’t a present and she ain’t getting anywhere near it.  Think when the trial is all done I might give her some long-life batteries and see if she takes the hint.  Talk to you on Christmas Day, Vin.”

 

Chris was still chuckling when he set out the next two holly decorations, their wires and string lights so tangled together by tinsel that they were as inseparable as their decorators.  Buck and JD were in Japan, of all places, exploring a convention showcasing cutting-edge miniaturized technology with an eye toward finding new field equipment.  The timing had been unfortunate, but it hadn’t been something they could miss if they wanted to have their budgetary wish list ready by the first of the year and so the two of them had resigned themselves to spending Christmas in a foreign country.  Buck had sent a postcard with a scantily clad cartoon woman on it sitting on the lap of a Santa hat-wearing robot, and his message had been disgruntled to say the least: 

 

“Next time the kid can come by himself.  Those damn language tapes Ez gave him taught him just enough to make people understand him, and between that and something about the way he looks the women just fall all over themselves to be with him – and I do mean with, he ain’t got back to our hotel room at a decent hour since the second night we were here.  He says it’s because he looks like some character from a TV show they have here, but he’s lapping it up just the same.  Wish we could be home for Christmas, pard.  They’re having a party here, but with the time being different we’ll still call you all on Christmas morning to wish everyone a merry one.  Lonely in Japan, Buck.”

 

Chris had laughed his ass off when he’d read that, especially since he’d gotten JD’s postcard with the photograph of Tokyo Tower on it the day before: 

 

“Chris, This convention is so great!  Tell Ezra I said thanks for the tapes, they really helped a lot.  We’ve seen so much incredible stuff here, things you just wouldn’t believe, and I’ll be bringing back specs and release dates for the things I think we could use – their equipment is quite a bit cheaper than what we’ve been getting in the States, too, so some of this is going to look really good for our budget review.  A funny thing, I look kind of like this character from a really popular anime series here and I’m getting so much attention from the women at the convention that I don’t know what to do with it all.  It’s driving Buck nuts, I know what he thinks is going on but the girls and I mostly just sit around and eat junk food – Japanese junk food, I’ll be bringing some back for Vin – and watch anime. Mostly that’s what we do, anyway.  ;)   Still wish we’d be back home for Christmas, I’m sure going to miss all you guys, but we’ll call that morning so at least we’ll all be together for a little bit.  Next time this happens I’m setting up video conferencing for us.  Until Christmas, JD Dunne.”

 

Chris knew all about Japanese junk food; Ezra was addicted to a variety called Pocky, but he kept it hidden from the others so he wouldn’t have to share his hard to find treat.  Chris’ personal favorite was the chocolate almond crunch variety, he’d have to remember to tell JD tomorrow and see if maybe they could get it shipped over by the case so he and his undercover agent wouldn’t have to eat it in his office with the door locked anymore – no one else on the team had figured out yet that the shouted order, ‘Ezra, get your ass in here!’ was actually a summons to come have a little Pocky party in Larabee’s office.

 

Well, Josiah might know; there wasn’t much that slipped by the big profiler, although he mostly just sat back and let the antics of his younger teammates amuse him without saying anything.  Chris really couldn’t avoid looking at the rock stuck in the center of the green leaves and red berries now, and he grimaced when he saw that it was indeed a distinctive five-pointed leaf with some sort of squiggly writing around it.  He was really going to have to have a talk with Josiah about the difference between exercising freedom of expression at the office and inviting IA to freely express the suspicions they earned their paychecks by pursuing – and Sanchez didn’t exactly have a pristine reputation where they were concerned anyway.  At least the postcard he’d sent from California was innocuous enough, a decorated palm tree on an open beach offsetting a colorful ocean sunset and the caption ‘Christmas in Paradise’.  The reference to one of Buck’s favorite songs wasn’t lost on Chris, and the tone of the scrawled message was as warm as Josiah’s deep, rumbling voice: 

 

“Hope this finds you well, brother, wish you could be here with me to enjoy the warm coastal version of the holiday season.  I had hoped to be able to slip away from this conference on racial profiling by now, but the meetings keep degenerating into shouting matches and I’m being cast again and again in the role of referee since the organizers and speakers aren’t capable of handling the emotional outbursts of the attendees.  Fear and helplessness breed anger, I’d expected it but apparently they had not.  So it looks like in the interest of any of us getting anything out of these meetings I will have to forgo being home for Christmas and keep on playing the part fate has given me – most of the speakers have sacrificed their vacations to be here, so I feel it is the least I can do.  Tell our younger brothers that I will miss them, and I will call the ranch to wish everyone a Merry Christmas on the 25th.  Josiah.”

 

Chris had just shaken his head over that one; he’d told Travis this was what would happen, that Sanchez would end up being part of the conference and wouldn’t learn anything he didn’t already know, but the judge had brushed his arguments aside and insisted that the profiler attend in the interest of ‘keeping up to date on the latest thinking in the field’.  Chris pointing out sarcastically that Sanchez was responsible for doing some of the latest thinking in the field since 9/11 had been met with irritation and he’d left the office soon after – although he’d sent Travis the man’s various papers on the subject and the profiling guidelines he’d been requested to draw up for both agency and police use via interoffice mail just to prove his point.

 

To give him credit, the judge had called that morning to apologize; he hadn’t realized until his wife had pointed it out that he’d been partially responsible for condemning Larabee to spend Christmas alone.  Chris had absorbed the apology without much comment but had managed to thank his boss for his concern and assure him that he had indeed made plans for the next day.  He hadn’t told Travis what the plans were, but then he didn’t think the man needed to know just because he’d asked, either.  He was nursing a grudge, he admitted it and Judge Travis knew it too.

 

He wasn’t the only one, though.  Picking up the last postcard and taking in the picture of the big-eyed baby harp seal with the red ribbon tied around its neck in a festive bow and the PETA logo next to the inscription, “My life is the best present you can give me,” he remembered how much Nathan hadn’t wanted to go to South Dakota with Rain and how they’d all thought for a while that the fight might end the relationship altogether.  Nathan had given in before things got to that point, but Chris didn’t think it had been gracefully and the other side of the postcard proved it: 

 

“Chris, just had to get out of the house for a while and thought I’d drop you all a line.  Sure wish I was going to be home for Christmas.  Rain’s people all like to fight, really get into it, and they don’t see nothing wrong with all the wrangling but I don’t think it’s any way I want to spend a holiday.  I’m holding my peace, ain’t my place to say how they run their family, but I’m gonna have to give some serious though to whether I want to stay with this when I get back.  Like Ez and Buck both say, life is too short to waste if you’ve got other options.  I know everyone won’t be there, but I’ll call on Christmas and talk to whoever makes it back.  And hide me some of Miss Nettie’s fudge, I know Vin will eat it all if he gets half a chance.  Wish I was there, Nathan.”

 

Chris took out the little charity box – he’d taken the contents down to the shelter days ago – and carried it into the kitchen to fill it with pieces of the rich fudge the judge’s secretary made for them every year and then hid it in the depths of his refrigerator.  His men would all be home before New Years’, and he thought the nondescript box should fool their sweet-toothed sharpshooter until Nathan could get there to claim it.  After a moment’s further thought, he divided out four more portions and wrapped them in foil before putting them with Nathan’s, leaving only his and Vin’s out in the original tin.  Problem solved.

 

He made some coffee and then took a steaming mug, some Christmas cookies and two pieces of his own share of fudge back into the living room and settled in again in front of the lit tree.  An old rerun of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer was on, and where he once wouldn’t have been able to watch it because of the memories of Adam it stirred up, tonight it reminded him of last Christmas when all six of his men had plopped down in this very living room to cheer on the rejected reindeer, boo the magician that stole Frosty’s hat and plot out elaborate explanations for how the bitter Burgomeisters fell out of power in Sombertown.  They’d even gotten him into the spirit of things, it had been a very good night all around – not to mention being the first Christmas Eve since Sara and Adam that Chris had gotten through without the numbing assistance of hard liquor.

 

He looked down at his whiskey-free mug of coffee and then at the pile of waiting presents under the bright tree and the coffee table with it’s arrangement of fake holly and diverse individuality, and he smiled.  Maybe they couldn’t be here in the flesh, but the men who’d become his second family had still all managed to show up in spirit.  And it warmed that cold, mourning spot inside of him more than Chris would ever admit that all six postcard messages had referred to celebrating the holiday at his ranch as being ‘home for Christmas.’