Author's Note: A Christmas story in November, you ask? The way I figure, Christmas can't be so far away, can it? (Yeah right.) This is me fulfilling a desire to do something with the Bart/Rose situation, if it can be called such. Hopefully it works. Enjoy.

Christmas in San Francisco.

Well, Christmas at Titans Tower, anyway. And it's not even like we all show up and gorge ourselves on turkey. But we have…a small gift exchange, of a kind. Not-so-secret Santa.

Luck of the draw that I get Tim this year.

Around 8:30 I run into Oakland and buy a magnifying glass for Tim. It's not much, but I figure…World's Great Detective, or getting there. I'll give him some vindication. Maybe I can run it into Gotham and be back before Raven knows I'm gone.

My head is horizontal on the table, resting firmly on my forearms, and I'm just ready to drift into dreamland when a small tinny beep reaches my ears from the computer screen. I grimace and take a deep breathe. I lift my head and press a button on the control panel in front of me. The screen flickers to life. As it does, I think about Wally.

He would tell me, doing his best to imitate Grandpa Barry, that 'crime doesn't sleep.'

Yeah, well, little Bart Allen does. And quite well, I might add.

Cyborg appears on the screen and starts telling me about an armed robbery in 'Frisco—about how some nondescript, looking for a quick thrill, shot his way past the door and got three blocks with a diamond ring or twelve before turning the wrong corner and running into a beat cop.

"A jewelry store?" I ask. "Don't these people have lives?"

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" he replies.

I shrug. "Guess you're right. Anything else?"

"Nah," Cyborg waves a hand. "Gar signed off for the night at 11:00, Mia and Tim have the weekend off, Cassie's on Themyscira. And Conner…well, he follows his own schedule."

"What about you?" I ask through a yawn. I slip my fingers under my mask, at the cheekbones, and peel back the yellow material. I pull off my gloves and run my fingers through my hair, stopping at the crown to satisfy an itch.

"Signing off for the night. You sure you can handle everything?"

"Oh yeah," I say. I cock my head to another computer terminal next to me, type in Stone, Victor and the time—11:15 pm—and go back to the big screen with a feigned smile. "Have a pleasant evening, Vic. Leave the good fight to me."

"Likewise," he says. The image cuts to black and I switch the monitor to sleep mode. If there's an incident, the system will—or should—wake me.

Meantime, I lean back in my seat and stretch my arms wide. I feel my heart rise in my chest, my shoulder blades rake across the chairback, and my knuckles crack. I manage something not quite a yawn and not quite a groan and go back to the computer.

Christmas in San Francisco.

If they're not out ripping off jewelry stores, most people are hunkered down for the night. Firmly entrenched in their homes watching Jimmy Stewart or Rudolph and his Technicolor schnozz.

Me, I'm stuck in San Francisco on duty with Raven. Her not being the Christmas type, she's been in her quarters the whole night reading the Necronomicon or God knows what else. Everyone's at home—where I should be. With Jay and Joan, or Wally and Linda and the kids.

Crime never sleeps.

Apparently it does, for those of us with families.

It's a remarkably uninteresting night—this coming from me, the guy who'd rather skip duty than get stuck in a chair for mind-numbing hours. A few minutes after Vic signs off for the night, I find myself playing internet chess and channeling vintage Van Halen through headphones.

Around the time Sammy Hagar starts talking about what dreams are made of, I get a bright idea.

Palo Alto, California.

"Daddy?"

I look up from my work to see Rose standing in the doorway. Arms folded timidly across her chest, she's giving me the sad puppy look. The one she always gives when she wants something.

"What is it, Rose?"

"Do you…need any help?"

An eyebrow arches and I glance at the gun-cleaning kit in front of me, then back at Rose. "No, honey, I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

I pretend not to hear it, and go back cleaning the gun, running a cotton patch over the barrel and front-loading magazine.

"Do you know anything about the C-96 Broomhandle Mauser?" I ask.

She shakes her head and approaches me. "Pull up one of those bar stools," I say, motioning toward the open bar next to the door. "You know how to fence. I can teach you about firearms."

"You learned about guns before anything else, didn't you?" she asks. I look at here, and I swear I catch a small glint in her eye—a little hopeful sparkle. Like she's glued to every word. Like Grant and Joey were.

I nod. "Yes. The very first thing they teach you in the Army, Rose: hit or be hit."

"You learned how to shoot with that thing?" she asks, pointing to the disassembled handgun on the table in front of me.

"No, hell no. I learned to fire the M14 at Fort Benning. This," I say, waving a hand over the handgun. "This is history. German C-96 Broomhandle Mauser. I was lucky to even find one; all the records at Mauser plants in Germany were destroyed after the war. Broomhandles haven't been legitimately used in combat for, oh, 50 years. A crude knock-off was used by the Chinese in Korea. But nothing beats the original model."

I glance at Rose for a millisecond before wiping the sight clean with a gloved finger. I start reassembling the gun, speaking as I do.

And I figure out that Rose hasn't been paying attention to a word I've said.

"Rose," I say after a pause, putting that overrated paternal instinct to use. "You didn't come down here for a history lesson."

"No," she says after a pause, and looks away.

"So what do you need?"

"Nothing," she says, standing. She turns away from me and walks out of the den.

San Francisco.

"Okay, fax machine, I don't like you and you don't like me. But send this through and we'll all be okay. Okay?"

Stupidly, I wait for the machine to respond. When it doesn't, my shoulders slump, and I feed the letter through the tray. A green light on top of the machine tells me it's going through all right. I give a small and quick thumbs-up as the letter goes through, and the display screen says Transfer Complete.

Now we wait.

Palo Alto.

Rose Wilson finds her way upstairs from her father's den. She takes the spiral staircase, the one that leads from the den up into her father's office—which isn't really so much an office as it is an old wooden desk stacked to the brim with papers. Once she clears the stairs, she moves quickly for the door.

Before she pushes the door open, though, a small mechanical whirr reaches her ears from somewhere across the room.

There, she notes. The desk. No…the fax machine. Who the hell sends a fax at—

Rose checks her watch abruptly.

Who the hell sends a fax at 11:24 at night?

Perplexed, Rose approaches the fax machine, and the sheets of paper on top of the machine. With a raised eyebrow and a half-scowl, she turns the papers over and reads silently:

Rose,

I'll keep it short.

Titans Tower. Mid-night. If you're not there I'll understand.

Bart.

Titans Tower.

Oh God, this was a bad idea. Colder than sin on this freaking roof-that-doubles-as-a-landing-pad. And I decided to keep the suit on. The problems with the Kid Flash suit, especially in cold weather, are numerous.

First of all, it doesn't keep me warm much past the elbows or knees. Even through the gloves, my hands ache and move slowly from the cold winds rolling in off the bay. Secondly, the suit leaves very little to the imagination—a fact present even at room temperature. I make a mental note to start visiting the gym more often. And third—which sort of goes in tandem with the second thing—it makes me look scrawny. 14 years old be damned, I should at least look as strong as Conner or even Tim. Fastest Boy Alive indeed. I roll my eyes and turn windward to look at the Bay.

It looks oddly peaceful at night. Traffic on the Golden Gate is slow, even by Golden Gate standards. What little light there is on the bridge comes from car headlights, shining from one end to the other. From my vantage point atop the Tower, they're little more than Christmas lights to me—just as small—winking in the distance.

It's been snowing all week, so the shores on Oakland and 'Frisco are both snow-laden. Perfect sledding conditions, and I'd be out there if I wasn't so sure I'd slide down the hill, ramp up the embankment and end up in the middle of the ice-cold water. To say nothing of the health hazards. Lousy Bay.

Further out in the water, the only distraction from a beautiful night is Alcatraz—sitting there like some dark geometric rock, rotting from the inside out. The rest of the Bay gives off light—and Alcatraz sits there absorbing it, seems like.

I pull off one of my gloves and glance at my watch—11:59.

Damn.

Palo Alto.

"Rose? Are you up here?"

I work my way up the spiral staircase and into the living room upstairs. On my way to the kitchen, I pass by the fax machine, and something catches my eye. I stop, give the machine a quizzical look, and lift the single sheet of paper from the tray. I only bother reading the last line.

Titans Tower. Mid-night. If you're not there I'll understand.

Bart.

"Allen…"

Titans Tower.

Yep. Definitely getting colder. The cold has in fact spread to my happy place.

So I start tapping my foot against the metal floor-plating beneath me. Nothing happens at a normal rate of tapping; I decide to put the super-speed to good use. A little extra push and my foot becomes a blur—the blood starts circulating again, warming my legs and feet. Yeah buddy, friction. One of my many talents.

"Bart?"

The voice stops the foot tap, and I turn around slowly. And then I see her.

Rose. Rose Wilson. Dressed to kill—dressed for the weather, at any rate.

"What did you want?" she asks. Silver hair drapes in front of her face and I can only barely make out two blue eyes staring at me thoughtfully, and twin ruby-color lips. Her hands are tucked casually in her jacket pockets. She tries to hide it, but she looks bored. Annoyed.

"Um…hi," I say, scratching my head. Stupid.

"What is it, Bart?" she asks again. Impatient.

"Um…" I find myself blank for a moment. When Rose raises her eyebrows, silently questioning me, and then turns to walk away, the information comes back to my mind.

"Wait," I blurt as she turns. "I, uh…I wanted to give you something. For Christmas."

"Is that so?" she asks and turns back to me. She's suddenly gone from boredom to curiosity. Keep this up, Bart, and you may just have a date for the prom—somewhat-unbalanced, yeah. But a date just the same.

"Yeah." It's at this point that I pull one arm out from behind my back. And extend it to Rose. "It's not much, but…"

She runs a hand across her face and pulls her silver hair behind one ear. Her eyes are fixed on the snow globe in the palm of my hand. Beneath the glass orb sits a miniaturized version of the Flash Museum.

"I uh...I dunno. I thought you might like it." This, girls and boys, is where the self-esteem goes right out the window. This where she'll tell me it's terrible, throw it on the ground, and storm off.

But she doesn't.

She regards the snow globe for a moment, turns it upside down and rights it a second later, and watches the fake snow inside drift across the tiny building beneath the glass. She watches the snow drift…and she smiles.

Rose slides the globe carefully into one of her jacket pockets, and looks back at me. And then it happens. She leans in close, wraps her arms around me, and kisses me.

Time stops for a moment, and I'm struck not by the fact that I'm getting kissed—but that it's oddly awkward. I'm just standing there, seeing this all happen in slow motion, it seems like. Her lips, warm on my freezing cheek, and her arms wrapped around me tightly.

For a moment, I feel…important. Like I'm all that matters to Rose. And she's all that matters to me.

Her lips pull away from me, and she lowers her head to my shoulder. Shielding herself from the cold—or simply enjoying the pleasure of my company. It doesn't matter.

She doesn't move for what seems an eternity, not so much as to move a hand or turn her head. She's silent. Just letting herself breath, just letting the steam of her breath curl in the air and dissipate. Just letting me feel the beating of her heart against my chest.

She can stand here forever, as far as I'm concerned. For a moment, time does seem to stop. And I'm happy just to stand here and keep this crazy thing going. Just to stay in the moment.

I take a deep breath, and she steps away from me. The cold bites at my neck and at my arms. My eyes are locked on Rose and hers on me.

"Thank you," she says abruptly. "I needed this."

"You're…welcome," I manage awkwardly. Rose slides her hands in her pockets again and turns to walk away.

For a long while after she leaves, I just stand there. Thinking, remembering. She took the snow globe, she kissed me...hell I should've known it was a good omen that she even showed up. A kiss. That's all it was.

It's a start.

Palo Alto.

At 2 a.m. I'm still awake. I find my way to Rose's room and enter quietly as I can—which, given years of Army training and enhanced abilities thanks to Uncle Sam and company, is pretty damn quiet. I leave the door cracked a bit.

It's been Christmas Day for about two hours now. I approach Rose's bedside and see her, curled up underneath a coverlet, deep in sleep. A snow globe on the nightstand reflects the light from the hallway. Curious, I pick it up and hold it to the light.

The Flash Museum. Grains of porcelain—masquerading as snowflakes—rest on top of the building, and bunch around the small statue of Barry Allen in the center.

Hm. I set the globe back on the nightstand and lean over Rose, kissing her on the forehead.

"Merry Christmas, Rose."

The End...