Yuletide gift 09' for FrenchRoast. Light Marco/Rachel fluff, gen. Enjoy!

I know, I know, I know. Who has time to worry about Christmas when you're supposed to be saving the world? And normally, I wouldn't give a crap. Christmas with Dad had consisted of day-long vegging on the Playstation and eating potato chips until we exploded. (I don't even want to think of what Christmas with my math teacher would've been like.)

But hey, it was a special occasion. You don't rescue your mom from the dead every day, and there's nothing quite like walking in at the wrong moment and getting living proof of the fact that your folks still can't get enough of each other even after years apart. So maybe my retinas still burned with the mental shock, but I'd take that and more any day.

I was sentimental and didn't have my priorities straight, big deal. But I was still going to do it. Somehow. Even though, you know, I was supposed to be dead and everything. But what's the point of morphing powers if you're not going to use them?

"You do realize we're fighting a war, right?" Rachel said when I pitched the idea to her. Despite the fact she'd just crawled out of a roughshod, Hork-Bajir-made cabin and hadn't washed her hair in two days (something about morphing keeps hair from getting oily, though. One great thing about being an Animorph, you saved tons of money on shampoo), she still looked great. I would've been more appreciative of that greatness if it weren't for the fact that she was staring at me like I'd gone crazy.

"Yes, Xena," I said patiently, "I do realize that we are in fact on the run from a bunch of mind-controlling slugs with ray guns who outnumber us by about ten zillion to one, whose commander is an alien centaur who can morph into about sixty different things that can eat us for breakfast, and last but not least, has forced us to run away and live with spiky Teletubbies so we can save the world. I fully realize that."

"Then…?" she asked, arching a perfect eyebrow.

I looked away. What the hell. You know, under normal circumstances I would've asked Jake for help. But you know, Jake's parents had been taken and I didn't think it was the best idea to rub that in his face. Maybe I should've asked Cassie...nah. I'm sure that Cassie has her wild and crazy side, but she'd make nauseating coos about how sweet of me it was to do this. And you know, maybe there was a little sappiness involved but I sure didn't need her to analyze it. That left Tobias and Ax, both of whom were not ideal choices when it came to shopping and/or wild and crazy.

"So let me get this straight," Rachel said, crossing her arms. "You want to buy a Christmas present for your mom despite the fact that, a) you're supposed to be dead, b) we're hiding for our lives, c) there's a war going on, and most importantly, d) we have no money?"

I shrugged. "The money part's not really a problem. See, Rachel, when you can turn into an animal—"

"How sweet. You're going to pass on season's cheer with a stolen gift."

"I think the mall can afford to give up one lousy gift in exchange for not being destroyed by the Yeerks," I protested. "Besides, with all the crap we've done, you're going to quibble about the ethics of stealing?"

She studied me for a long moment. "Well, I know what Cassie would say," she said at last. "She'd be against it. And then Jake would go on and on about the responsibility of power and how we should use our powers for good—"

"Good thing I didn't ask them, then."

"And Ax and Tobias, well, Ax wouldn't see the point. Tobias…" she smiled. "Actually, I think Tobias might agree with you. Especially since Loren's back and everything."

"Great. Bird-boy approves. What about you?"

She tapped her chin with a finger. "What're you planning to get?"

I hesitated. Honestly, I hadn't thought about it. A blouse? A T-shirt? A Hallmark card saying, 'Merry Christmas, Mom, I'm so glad you're not an evil Yeerk visser anymore!' "Uh," I said. "I haven't actually worked that out yet."

She rolled her eyes, and I let out a long huff of exasperation. "Why do you think I asked you? You're the one who practically lives in the mall."

"Lived," she said pointedly. "The 'd' makes all the difference. But you're right, I do kick your ass when it comes to shopping."

I decided to let that one go because frankly, it was true. "Fine," I said. "You've thoroughly humiliated me when it comes to mall-crawling like a blondie airhead. What now?"

She gave me a look that clearly said, I could completely pulverize you with a thought but I'll hold off because mocking you is more fun. "It's your gift. So what does your mom like? Chocolate? Flowers? Candy?"

Hrrrm. What did Mom like? The last time I bought a present for her was when I was eleven—Jake and I had wandered the mall for hours like complete nitwits before finally getting $10 gift certificates to JC Penny. (Hey, ten dollars was two weeks' allowance back then. It was a big sacrifice.)

"I guess…" I said, leaving the words hanging in the air.

"You have no idea," she surmised correctly after a moment went by.

"Well, I don't know!" I protested. "It's been a long time!"

"You really think your mom wants a new blouse or skirt? I mean, I'm all for a bigger wardrobe, but I don't think your mom shares my sentiments."

"So what, then?" I said crossly. "Let's hear your brilliant idea."

She gave me a pitying look. "You never went to Sunday School as a kid, did you? Or watched any Christmas specials? Read A Christmas Carol?"

"Nope, I'm a regular Scrooge. No, wait. Hah. See what I did there?"

"Very funny." She sighed, throwing her hands up in the air. "Good god, I can't believe I'm saying this. But here goes: the meaning of Christmas is not—"

"—holy crap—"

"—shut up—about the giving, it's about the loving." She made a face. "I blame my thoroughly traumatic childhood for this. Oh, and you too."

I grinned, unable to resist. "I think we may have found your future profession. Kindergartners would love you—"

"Do you want to die?"

"—either that or you could become a Sunday School teacher, with a little blue bow in your hair and—owwwww!"

I had to morph and demorph to get rid of the black eye. And to stop the bleeding. And to heal my sprained ankle. But hey, five minutes was a fair price to pay for the great satisfaction of knowing that Rachel, in fact, was a great big gushy girl on the inside. Maybe I should send her a puppy for Christmas.

Then I went home to the little log cabin in the valley where Mom and Dad had started a fire in the makeshift fireplace and were making eyes at each other like they were sixteen. I didn't get anything from a mall, but I did give them a hug.

And yeah, I guess it wasn't much of a celebration. No carols, no Christmas trees, no big presents with frilly bows on them. But whatever; it was ours—me, Mom, Dad, and no Yeerks in sight.

What more could I ask for?