All of the usual disclaimers and warnings apply. I don't own the characters - I let the characters have lots of sex (well, two of them at least). Don't sue. Don't read if you don't want to.

You may notice that the title "in here" is different than the title "out there" - I take ratings and FF's guidelines seriously. Dumbass, while funny, is not a K-rated word - hence the substitution of "dummy" on the synopsis.

Thanks to the ladies at Writers Anonymous for everything; the song was given to me by miss steph - beta and smutty song writer extraordinaire.

This was written for the WA Secret Santa "gifting."

For Doc Spleenmeister: Happy Christmas; Merry New Year; Sweet Spock Dreams, always.

~*~Gifts Are Important, Dumbass by outtabreath~*~

~Part One of Four: Trinkets in the Window~

"It's almost Christmas," she said, bouncing up and down immoderately.

"Uh huh," I murmured, trying to figure out a particularly vexing problem for Advanced Subspace Geometry.

I really, really hate geometry in all its many forms.

Bounce, bounce, creak, bounce.

How is it that her bed can withstand the constant bouncing?

It was a question for the ages.

And probably one that geometry could be used to figure out.

If someone were so inclined.

Which I was most definitely not.

"Christmas," she said, loudly.

"Celebrated on the 25th of December on Earth," I replied, refusing to take my eyes off the PADD; fifteen more seconds, and I have this figured out. I just knew it. "Derived from the Roman festival of Saturnalia and co-opted by Christians to celebrate the birth of Jesus. Still celebrated by both Christians and non-Christians alike; a traditional family holiday for many Humans."

"And a day to give presents," she prompted.

Got it! Subspace, you are no match for Nyota Uhura, Cadet!

I saved my answer and looked at my still-bouncing roommate. "A day for people who celebrate Christmas to give gifts to other people who celebrate Christmas," I clarified. "And this is your third December on Earth, why are you just getting to this now?"

"Because I read a book."

"Let me guess…." I started.

She stopped bouncing and adopted a very serious expression. "Kelly says in Gifts Are Important, Dumbass that gifts are the oil of relationships – they keep the mechanism moving forward."

"Okay," I said, because it was easier than giving her a real response.

"I'm happy you agree," she said chirpily. "You're finally learning that I know best." She took a deep breath and continued with the dance of delusion. "So, what are you getting The Commander?"

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, emit a humph, or otherwise show my disdain. Spock was a Vulcan and Vulcans were beyond things like presents or Christmas. Instead, I said, "Spock doesn't celebrate Christmas."

"His mom's Human. From Earth. I bet he does. I bet he knows all about it. I bet he and his mom decorated a tree and baked cookies and drank hot chocolate. I bet his mom knitted him a hideous sweater every year for Christmas, and that he wore it even though he hated it because it was his mom's gift to him."

"Stop saying 'I bet,'" I said even as I turned that over in my brain for a moment. I'd seen sweaters in his rooms and they were pretty hideous.

Maybe the insane Orion was right.

Oh God!

What the heck do you get for a Vulcan? Why'd his mom have to take the sweater idea? What if I give him the wrong thing? What if I got him something and he didn't get me something? What if I didn't get him something and he got me something? Why hadn't I read Gifts Are Important, Dumbass? Why did Gaila wait so long to tell me about this?

I felt panic wash over me. It'd been a while, but I remembered how it felt.

Panic feels like realizing you loved a Vulcan who didn't know you were a woman. Feels like kissing a professor. Like getting drunk and kissing a teacher. Like thinking your lover was going to drop you the minute you got home.

I sucked in a deep breath and pushed myself out of the panic spiral.

Dark, melting eyes, fixed attentively on me; the sharing of bodies, minds and souls.

Spock loves me and nothing's going to change that.

Especially not an Earth holiday.

This was not something I needed to worry about.

"Dr. Flenderson lived during a very different period of Earth's history," I pointed out. "Celebrating holidays and giving gifts were very important in her century. We've evolved."

"No one ever evolves that much," Gaila countered, plopping down on the end of my bed and waving something. I forced my eyes to focus and realized what she was holding: wrapping paper; actual, made-from-trees wrapping paper – complete with brightly colored pictures of candy canes.

"Why do you have that?"

"You'll see," she said as she folded herself down over the paper; with a pen – a pen with ink – she began to write something on the blank whiteness of the back.

It was like a Paleolithic Human had stridden into our room and began to manipulate a PADD.

"Dear Santa," she said.

Oh, man. Oh, big man dressed all in red.

"Gaila," I began.

"Shh," she said, "Me first. I have another piece of paper for you." She bit her lip, and continued, "I know that I have been here on Earth for almost four years, but I didn't fully understand the importance of Christmas gift giving until I read a book about it.

"In the spirit of the season, I have forgiven my Human roommate for not giving me gifts prior to this."

I rolled my eyes.

"But I figure you – and she – owe me big. So here is what I want:

"To see The Commander all sweaty."

"Gaila!" I yelped, my fingers tightening.

"Or video of the same; I'd even accept Nyota giving me a very detailed description," she continued.

"You're negotiating with Santa Claus?" I questioned.

She cast baleful eyes on me as she twiddled the pen. "I believe that is acceptable. I watched A Christmas Story when you abandoned me last week for a three day long sex romp with The Commander."

I sighed. "I explained this to you. We were translating Romulan transmissions. In the language lab. It was very important work."

"And you didn't have sex at all?"

Damn it!

"Finish writing your letter," I prompted.

"I thought so," she said triumphantly. "So, as I was saying, the movie was quite educational – I learned that negotiating with Santa Claus is not only acceptable but expected. I also learned that Earth dogs like turkey.

"Oh! And it was much, much, much better than They Live."

"I made you watch it once!"

"You should get coal in your shoe…."

"Stocking," I corrected.

"For making me watch it all," she continued.

I glared at her, and she dropped her eyes – but not because she was chastened. Oh no, Gaila was never chastened.

"Also, I would like new shoes, that special vibrating toy Cossette showed me yesterday, and a trip to where Scranton once stood so I can see where Dr. Kelly Flenderson lived." She signed her name in flowing Orion script.

"A restrained list," I said. "I believe requesting a doll or a pony is also traditional."

"Pwah! What's a pony? And I don't want a doll – ohhh, unless it's an anatomically correct male doll. That might be fun." She scribbled "male doll" on the list. "

"You do know that there is no such thing as Santa Claus?" I pointed out gently, worried that somehow she didn't know.

"Ny!" she said, her voice this side of whiny, "I know that. I just wanted to write a letter to him. It's a traditional Christmas activity."

"What other Christmas traditions do I have to look forward to? Singing Christmas carols?"

"Definitely."

"Cookies? Eggnog?"

"I like cookies, but eggnog sounds disgusting."

"It kind of is. How about a tree?"

She shuddered, just like I knew she would. "Needles falling on the floor," she murmured, almost in pain. "No. No tree." She shook her head, and grabbed up the second piece of wrapping paper. "Your turn."

"I'm not writing a letter to Santa."

"I'll write it for you; all you have to do is dictate."

I stared her down.

"Fine, I'll start for you. Dear Santa: I would like you to remove the stick that is currently up my butt."

"Don't write that!"

"Too late."

"Fine," I said. "I'd like A Complete History of the Romulan Language by Doctor S. Meister. I was actually hoping that Spock and I would be able to meet with her when we were in Oxford."

"Blah blah Romulan blah blah Oxford professor blah but Spock and I ended up having wild Vulcan Love Bunny sex instead blah blah boring. Ny, you know when you start talking about languages I wish I didn't have ears.

"Ohh!" She grabbed up her list and scribbled something on it with one hand; the other was stretched out – palm facing me. Finished adding, she snapped her head up and said, "The request for the book is denied."

"Spock says that it's an exceptional work – but it's definitely out of my credit range," I persevered. "That's just the kind of thing you put in a letter to Santa."

"Denied! You need to ask for fun stuff."

You can't edit my Christmas wish list!

I opened my mouth and readied to speak; she cut me off before I got out a syllable, "Oh no! I know what you're going to say. Denied. Denied. Denied. Ask for something else."

"Peace in the galaxy."

"Pwah! Then we'd be out of jobs; no, something else."

"This isn't how this works. I get to ask for what I want."

"But you're going to ask for stupid stuff," she said.

"Fine, I want another year with Spock."

That would be fun. It was fun.

It's everything I've ever wanted, needed and wished for.

"Okay. That's acceptable." She put down her list and retrieved mine, scribbled for a moment, then looked up at me expectantly.

"That's it," I said. "That's all I need."

"You just don't get it, do you?" she questioned. "You can ask for anything – that's the fun of this."

I smiled smugly. "But I have everything. That's the real fun."

She rolled her eyes. "But you're not supposed to let Santa know that."

I didn't respond, and the silence stretched on. Finally, she huffed, "That's all you're asking for? Really?"

"Really."

"Sometimes I despair of you," she said, carefully folding our letters. "The bagging of The Commander aside."

"Sorry," I said, not at all recalcitrant.

"You shouldn't lie," she said, moving from my bed to hers. "It makes Santa mad."

"Sometimes I think you really are crazy," I sighed, picking up my PADD. I had more homework to do.

"Only sometimes?" she demanded, as she flipped on her own PADD and started to do what I hoped was actual schoolwork.

"Only sometimes," I conceded.

"You don't care that you're going to be on the naughty list, do you?" she asked.

I shrugged. "I'd think you'd say the naughty list is the only place to be."

She was still working away, but she was able to spare some attention to respond to me. "No. Gifts are important."

"Dumbass," I added helpfully.

She narrowed her blue-gray eyes at me, and then held her PADD up. "Do you think he's cute?"

"Santa? Do I think Santa's cute?" I asked.

"I think so," she said, placing the PADD reverently back on her lap and – oh no! – tracing the lines of the picture with her fingertips. "He's the perfect man: He always brings presents with him and he looks good in red. The whole one-night-a-year thing isn't great – but I bet I could get him to visit more often."

I opened my mouth to speak, then gave up.

Dear Santa, please make my roommate less crazy.