Rachel was known throughout the neighborhood for her atrocious cooking habits. In fact, she was almost certain that the fire department knew her phone number by heart. She had set a total of eight fires, three of these ending in her kitchen needing remodeling. Every single time, the firefighters said the same thing: "Please, stop using the oven."

For some reason, she always felt convinced that she had changed – that this time would be different. It never was. This particular night – the night before Christmas, no less – Rachel felt it be necessary to make cookies. Perhaps it was the wine she had been sipping. What kind of Christmas would it be without sugar cookies? An awful one, that's what.

Everything had gone surprisingly well. Sure, she had gotten eggshell in the mixture. And maybe the cookies were missing a few key ingredients. Rachel was enjoying herself. She even turned on the radio past the normal classical station and onto Christmas music. Humming along to Jingle Bell Rock, she went to take the cookies out of the oven. She had diligently set a timer, intending on not repeating her past mistakes. Not this time, fire department, she chuckled to herself. Then, she opened the oven and grabbed the scalding pan with her bare hand.

Twenty minutes later, she was sitting in a crowded emergency room, hand swathed in gauze to protect the already forming blisters. She was scowling and now totally sober, cursing the fact that she had even considered using the damned oven. The emergency room was full of people who were screaming, crying, coughing, sneezing, and cursing. Rachel was squeezed in a two-person bench with a man who had ingested mistletoe. Apparently, mistletoe is poisonous.

The man was staring directly at her, eyes as round as saucers. Rachel kept her gaze on her swollen, painful hand, feeling extremely uncomfortable. This man was definitely breaking her personal space bubble.

"I'm sorry," he began, voice slurred. Rachel scrunched her nose in disgust; he smelled like vomit. "Is that a…squirrel on your head?"

Rachel raised an eyebrow. She knew for a fact that there was no squirrel on her head. "No?"

The man's brow crinkled. "But…it's right there." Rachel shifted, trying to get away. The room was too crowded for her to go anywhere else.

"Try to ignore him," said a new voice. Rachel looked up. It was the person sitting across from her. He was leaning back in a chair, pressed in between a man with a bandage over his eye and a woman with a screeching child in her arms. His wrist was held uncomfortably in front of him, but other than that he seemed fine. "He's hallucinating."

"I thought he ate mistletoe, not LSD," Rachel muttered, flashing a glance at her ignorant seatmate. The man was mumbling under his breath about the squirrel.

"Mistletoe contains phoratoxin," he said with a slight grin. "Too much will make you start seeing things."

"That's…odd," she said, leaning away as her seatmate reached for her hair. "Had I known that, I probably would have chosen a different seat."

He smiled, exposing crooked front teeth. It was cute. "What're you in for?" he asked, jokingly.

Rachel raised up her injured hand, which felt like it was on fire. "I baked cookies. What about you?"

The man pointed to his outstretched arm. "Broke my wrist falling on ice. Pretty lame."

"Mine's pretty lame, too," Rachel said, a small smile curling at her lips.

The man blinked. "You have a nice smile." She blushed, and the smile immediately fell away. "What's your name?"

"Rachel," she answered. "And yours?"

"Garfield." He smiled and outstretched his injured hand the same time she did hers. They both stopped abruptly, and Garfield let out a throaty laugh. "Can't do that right now!"

Rachel chuckled slightly, still blushing. "I guess not."

"Maybe some other time?" Garfield said, raising one dark eyebrow. Before Rachel could answer, her seatmate did.

"How did you get a matching squirrel on your sweater?" She looked down at the blank black fabric.

"I don't know what you're –" Before she could finish, the man coughed a mouthful of green vomit onto her chest. Rachel was utterly stunned and absolutely disgusted. She wasn't sure what to do.

"Sorry," the man belched, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Jesus dude," Garfield said, shocked. "No warning?"

Rachel was entirely done with the emergency room. Her burn was nothing that couldn't be fixed with more gauze and pain killers. She could pick up burn cream at the corner store. She stood, fuming, and stalked toward the entrance, struggling to take off her soiled jacket without it touching her skin.

"Hey, wait!" Garfield cried after her. Rachel didn't stop. She finally ripped the sweater off and tossed it into the garbage. She stepped outside the doors, and was immediately hit with a blast of winter winds. She threw up an arm to block her face from the swirling snow. The cold engulfed her, and she shivered without her sweater. For a moment, she wondered if she should go back inside.

The door opened behind her, and then closed again. A hand touched her shoulder. She turned to face Garfield, who looked worried. His short blonde hair whipped back and forth in the wind. "Why didn't you come without snow gear?"

Rachel shrugged. "I didn't think it would snow."

Garfield studied her face for a moment, brow crinkled. Then he started digging around in his pocket.

"What are you doing?" Rachel asked softly. Garfield pulled a pair of balled up green gloves out of his pocket and held them out to her. Rachel's eyes widened. "I can't take these, Garfield."

The man rolled his eyes, a playful smile stretching over his mouth. "Oh, c'mon, Rachel." He shoved them into her hand without another word. He then began to shrug out of his jacket, exposing his lean form and thin sweater underneath. He put it around her shoulders.

"You need this more than me," he said gently. A soft smile made his face light up a soft pink – but it may have just been the cold.

"I – um – thank you, Garfield," she stuttered. He flapped a hand dismissively.

"No problem, consider it a Christmas gift," he said, smiling. "I would like that back though. Eventually."

"Um, okay," she said, her cheeks burning. "Is there a way I can get them to you…?"

Garfield chuckled. "You can come to my holiday party tomorrow."

Rachel blinked a few times, surprised by how forward he was being. But this night was crazy enough, and she didn't really have a good excuse. Plus, a small part of her really wanted to see him again.

"Alright, Garfield," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

"Please," he laughed, "call me Gar."

…

A/N – A holiday gift for my loves (that's you)