Sometimes Mac wondered how Jack, who had seen and done more in the last half decade than most people managed in whole lifetimes, could have gotten through fifty plus years on the planet and be so damned superstitious.

And it wasn't just stuff like believing in the Bermuda Triangle's curse or his conviction that there were aliens at Area 51. He wouldn't step on a crack in the sidewalk, always tossed salt over his shoulder if he spilled some, and did ridiculous crap like counting down the floors out loud on an elevator to keep it from stopping.

And it should have been obvious to a college educated, highly trained, vastly experienced adult that that sort of stuff was nonsense. Of course, after all their time working together Jack still believed in luck. Mac had started to think that maybe he was right, maybe luck did exist. And all theirs was bad.

Since they made it home for Christmas, Mac was doing his best to get that particular cheerful thought out of his head. Although the shoulder he'd taken all of their captive mob boss's weight on in that elevator was still sore.

And despite the festive atmosphere he and Boze had managed to create in their house, Jack-I-Do-Believe-In-Spooks Dalton had the gall to argue with him about the possibility of Santa Claus existing. And the argument had been going on for quite a while.

"Jack, I'm not saying I have proof, per say. I'm just saying that you can't use the scientific method to prove a negative, therefore, as a man of science, I have to accept the possibility that he's real."

Jack was giving him the look, the one that said he thought maybe Mac was screwing with him. "You gotta drop this, man. This is what happens to kids who grow up without siblings. Nobody's around to ruin things for 'em and they turn in to delusional adults."

"I'm just saying …"

"Why do you do this every year, dude?"

"Prove he's not real," Mac challenged.

Jack looked like his head was going to explode. This was like giving him one of those logic puzzles Mac liked to drag up on stakeouts. It was already giving him a headache. "Santa not real, okay?"

Mac just grinned, ready with the math. And this time he'd taken the coefficient of friction, altitude, and atmospheric conditions into account. Not that any of the math changed the underlying argument that it was an unprovable, and thus unknowable question, but he thought it would piss Jack off enough to make him stop arguing.

When Cage joined the conversation, how she phrased her question irked him just a little bit. Am I a grown man who still believes in Santa? Grown man? He took a deep breath and knew he couldn't quite help the slightly superior look that had just frozen on his face. Then again, he thought, maybe Cage was someone he could win over to his side. It was based on the objective application of a proven method of inquiry. "I'm a grown man who can't rule out the existence of Santa."

He knew from her smiling reaction that he'd just gotten an ally in getting under Jack's skin about this. Both of their faces when he started explaining the math were priceless. He could feel himself flush just a little when Jack started telling the story of the time he tried to Santa up Jack's apartment.

As far as pranks went, it paled in comparison to some of the crap he'd pulled when they were in Afghanistan, but it was much more good-willed than the mean-spirited stuff soldiers had a tendency to get up to when they were bored.

Of course, it had been a good lesson in don't sneak up on Jack Dalton, especially on his home turf. When Cage said she liked to keep an open mind about the jolly old elf, Mac had half an idea that she'd probably get a kick out of someone pulling the Santa bit on her, and he knew she could read the thought in his face.

And the fact that Cage was finally able to say she felt like family, the fact that she was finally not acting like the weird neighbor kid, but really fitting in with them all, made their little gathering feel that much nicer, that much homier. Mac was starting to shake the feeling that bad luck might just be real, and that he'd caught a bad case of it.

He'd just started to really enjoy himself, just had enough of Grandma Bozer's special recipe about-a-million-proof eggnog that he'd nearly forgotten about his sore shoulder, when Matty walked in with news that took the fair wind that had been blowing across the sea of his mind right out of his sails.

A fatality in that building, someone caught in the blast from a bomb he had built. The idea made him sick to his stomach. He'd barely even processed that Matty said the LAPD was coming for him. He was too busy diving in to the downward spiral of rapidly darkening thoughts to even process the team's reassurances that they'd get him out of the situation.

It wasn't about the situation with the police. It was about a man dying. Sitting right next to the fire, on a mild Los Angeles evening, he felt cold. Everyone was looking at him. They were waiting for him to say something. But he couldn't, didn't have any words. Plenty of guilt, but no words.

Then the doorbell rang, quickly followed by aggressive knocking. Everyone was still looking at him. He swallowed, just glanced around, his face almost an apology, and got up, heading for the front of the house. He could feel them, hear them all following him, but he just made his way purposefully to the door.

The man standing in front of him when he opened it had the look of a career cop who had seen it all, and liked none of it. "Angus Macgyver?"

His guilt could be dealt with later. Keeping his cover, that was the important thing at the moment. And finding a way clear from the law. He reminded himself firmly that whatever had happened, he'd been doing his job. He gazed levelly back, feeling his game face suddenly slide into place.

He found he was finally able to speak. "Yes." He would acknowledge his identity, nothing more.

"You're under arrest for the murder of George Ramsey."

As they cuffed him and read him his rights, he hazarded a look at the team, the team that tonight finally acknowledged it felt like a family, all of them. He tried to keep his expression neutral, but when he locked eyes with Jack, the look he saw flash across Jack's face told him the fear he was feeling that he might not get out of this situation, the guilt that was trying to crush him that he might have ended an innocent life, were in his eyes.

But, he reminded himself, he could do this. He'd been captured by hostiles multiple times and interrogated with much less polite means than the LAPD were likely to use. And this time, he didn't just have Jack trying to cobble together a solution to get him out. He had the whole team, and their faces said they would do anything and everything to help him.

All he had to do was keep it together.

All he had to do was try and change his luck.