Notes: Part of the LJ Mary_Marshall group's 12 Days of Christmas challenge. Title stolen shamelessly from Shakespeare because I thought I had the 12th day of the challenge. Turns out I had the 11th day. (Perhaps I can get Shakepseare to change the name of his play...). Mild spoilers for season 4's larger story arcs. Thanks to Ares' Warrior Babe for encouragement and blowing the all clear. Dedicated to my own Marshall, the man who lets me cry without fear, and understands how wafer-thin my own veneer is.

Part 1

He surveyed the room, content. The roast was keeping warm in the oven, the sparse decorations were in place, and Mitch Miller played softly in the background. He was finished just in time, he thought, hearing her car door slam shut from out in the driveway. He withdrew to the darkened kitchen, his eyes on the front door.

He knew this was all a risk, but sometimes risks, even with Mary, paid off.

Mary knew something was different…wrong…before she even opened the front door. She hadn't left her bathroom or living room light on when she left that morning for a day at the office doing backlogged paperwork. Quietly, she pulled her gun and slid the key into the lock in the same fluid motion, nudging the door open with her foot.

She entered, swinging slightly to scan the room, her gun leading the way, her gaze noting but not stopping on the inconsistencies: her CD player on, her mantle less cluttered and sporting a couple of red-and-green-striped stockings, wood for a fire laid but not lit in the fireplace below, and a pecan pie in the middle of the dining room table which was set for two.

"I think you can put the gun down, Mare," her partner called from the kitchen, watching her from the shadows. He stepped into the warm light of the dining room, despite Mary having aimed herself (and her gun) toward the voice in the dark. He put his hands up in mock defensiveness. "You wouldn't go so far as to shoot Santa, would you?" he asked her, grinning.

"If he breaks into my house, instead of staying at the mall to lure children in so their parents will buy more crap, I might consider it," she responded, holstering her gun. "What the hell have you done to my house?"

"What the hell are you doing going into a house where you think someone might be lying in wait for you without calling me for backup?" he retorted, raising an eyebrow at her. If this was going to work, he needed her off-balance.

"It's my house," she began lamely, knowing that she'd promised him six ways to Sunday to act smarter about her safety, especially in the last few months, and that her half-assed defense didn't hold a drop of water. "Besides…" she trailed off and took a deep breath.

She looked past him into the darkness of the kitchen. "Dear, sweet Jesus…" she said, looking back at him. "Is that the smell of pot roast?"

He took a step back and flipped on the light, illuminating a couple of saucepans on the stove top. With an elaborate flourish, he opened the oven, slipped a potholder on his right hand, and snagged the baking dish out of the oven. He deposited it on the counter, and informed her, "No…I offer you instead a proper roast beast."

Mary's weakness for food undid her, at least temporarily, and so he was able to get their small feast laid out on the table, the candles lit, the sparkling cider poured, and Mary into her seat without argument.

He gave her some time to load up her plate and start tucking away the meat, mashers, and asparagus. But it also gave her time to put the things he had done to and at her place together with the significance of the date. Momentarily sated, she sat back and looked at him.

"So not that I don't appreciate all this," she began, gesturing to the candlelit table, "But you know how I feel about this…" she ran an accusing fingertip over the plastic holly wrapped around the pillar candle closest to her. Her eyes narrowed a little as she looked up at him. "Besides, what are you doing here at all? Aren't you supposed to be under the mistletoe somewhere with the cheerleader?"

The truth was, aside from the fact that it had guaranteed an empty (and, thus, quiet office), Mary had forgotten that it was Christmas Day. Once at her desk, the paperwork had taken all of her attention, and she forgot everything else except the promise of peace and the tamales one of her witnesses had made for her, all waiting at home. As much as she'd looked forward to them, Marshall's roast had been unbelievably good, and she now had the tamales to enjoy tomorrow night. Still, he had gone too far with the decorations, and she wasn't going to let it pass entirely.

"Abby's celebrating with her family."

"Then why aren't you with her?" Mary couldn't help pressing, though she knew she shouldn't. Not only was it getting into dangerous territory for her emotionally, but she could see the shadow that had briefly passed over her partner's expression when she mentioned his girlfriend. And this time it was more than his frustration with her borderline cattiness about the woman he was currently apartment-shopping with.

"Because I wanted to be here," he responded in a tone that she had long ago learned meant he was not letting her go any further down this road for the moment. He stood up, and began clearing the table, moving into the kitchen. She grabbed the glasses and followed him into the other room. With only a couple of weeks to go in her pregnancy, she struggled to negotiate her way past the table and chairs, but finally managed to get through and placed the glasses on the counter.

"You shouldn't be here. You should be with your girlfriend." She stood next to him as he rinsed dishes, waiting, her arms crossed, just looking at him. But Marshall had played this game too many times with her, and knew she was waiting for him to give her an opening so she could escalate things to the point where he'd leave and she could retire back into her own little world.

Tonight, he was not having it.

"If you can just pass me that pot," he said, as though oblivious to her growing impatience, "I can get the dishwasher loaded and we can start the movie. Unless you'd like to see what's in your stocking first…" He turned toward the dishwasher, partly to put the wine glasses in, but more to hide his smirk. Hook...line…

"My stocking?" she said, her usual Scrooge-like attitude suddenly at war with her even more usual avarice.

Sinker…

He closed and started the dishwasher, then turned the grin on her now. "Santa might have left a treat or two in there for you," he informed her, moving around her on his way to the fireplace. Once there, he faced her again, absentmindedly flicking one of the stockings with his finger, setting it swinging gently. "Some say that Christmas stockings started out as a Norse tradition. Children would leave their boots by the chimney, filled with carrots and straw for Odin's horse, Sleipnir, and according to the legend, Odin would repay their kindness by leaving small gifts and candy in…"

Mary wasn't about to give in without a fight. "Seriously? You think the thought of shoes used as slop containers is going to entice me into joining in your little reindeer games?"

Marshall shrugged, as though conceding the point. "Fine, movie it is."

Mary had gone quiet, and Marshall, spread out on the right side of the sofa they shared, was watching her out of the corner of his eye. She had initially balked at watching a teen movie, and then, as Juno began to play out, had eyed him with suspicion. Luckily, the main character appealed to his partner (for obviously narcissistic reasons, since both women shared a wafer-thin toughness and acerbic charm) and she had let go of her immediate rejection of the subject matter and settled into her usual MST3K-like movie mode, commenting on any and everything. Marshall never saw a movie for the first time with his partner. It wasn't conducive to following a plotline, and he loved good narrative.

But once Juno's water broke, the commentary had slowed to a trickle and then died. When Juno's father sat stroking her hair, assuring her that she'd be back, giving birth on her own terms, he heard the catch in his partner's breathing and saw the tears starting to form in her eyes. His hand reached over to slip into hers and gently squeezed, silently reminding her that he was there.

At first, there was no response, but when Paulie joined Juno on her hospital bed, Mary's tears fell along with Juno's, and her hand tightened around his. He used her grip to pull her towards him just the tiniest bit. Without a word on either side, she understood his invitation, the one that was always there, but which he sometimes extended in more conscious but still subtle ways. She leaned towards him, resting her head on his shoulder. To him, her slight acquiescence might as well have been a klaxon, and he turned to wrap his arms around her, pulling her close and giving her the permission she was, in her own way, asking for.

The quiet tears quickly became a torrent of sobbing—eight months of bottled-up fear, frustration, and heartache, all let loose and currently soaking his sweater. He leaned over and wrapped his right arm around her legs and lifted them, turning her until they draped across his lap, pulling her closer, cradling her against him and rocking her gently.

If not for the fact that his own heart was breaking with every tear she shed, he might have called it a Christmas miracle.