A/N: Many thanks to the betas for their insights and generosity, and a special thank you to L.M. for the Plot Thickener.
God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen
by
Owlcroft
McCormick drove home from Midnight Mass in a warm, but exalted, frame of mind. A minor miracle had occurred in Southern California – the sky was clear and bright. Stars shone down like tiny chips of ice as Mark thought back to some of the things Father Atia had said in his sermon. Things like "Love is the gift we celebrate at this season, and all year-round. It is the greatest gift you can give, and we, all too often, don't bother to say the words. A funny card, a cute message on the cake at a birthday . . . we don't tell each other how we feel and show that God's gift of love lives in us. That does a disservice not only to our family and friends, but to ourselves."
I'll do it, Mark thought determinedly. It's not that hard, after all, right? Well, it might embarrass him. It might embarrass me. Hell. Whoops! Sorry! As a sort of apology, he hummed a complete verse of "Joy to the World".
As the Coyote purred into the driveway at Gull's Way, McCormick remembered the priest's final exhortation. "I ask you to consider this one of your Christmas duties. Share the Holy Spark of love within you. Tell someone tonight, as a symbol of the true spirit of Christmas."
Mark nodded his head firmly and resolved he would do it. Come . . . purgatory or high water. I'll say it. How hard can it be to say three little words?
He kept repeating that to himself as he entered the house and heard the sound of the television in the den. "Judge? I'm home," he called.
"Yeah, I'm in here," replied Judge Hardcastle unnecessarily. As McCormick descended the steps, the judge clicked off the television. "Nice service?" he asked.
Mark took up a place in front of the mantel. "Um, yeah. It was. Father Atia . . . it was a good homily." He sheered off for a moment to steel himself for the 'Christmas duty'. "What'd you watch, 'Miracle on 34th Street'?"
Hardcastle smiled at him semi-sheepishly. "It's kind of a tradition, ya know. Hey, it's time for bed. And remember," he wagged an admonitory finger, "no coming over before seven AM. Okay? None of this opening presents at five in the morning."
"Aw, please, Judge?" McCormick wheedled instinctively. "Just one? It's already Christmas, see?" He held up his arm to display his watch. "Just a little one."
"Nope. Come on, all good little boys should already be in bed." The judge rose from his armchair and stretched expansively. "Which, I guess lets you out anyway."
Instead of responding with an ironic laugh or a clever quip, McCormick bit his lip and held up a hand. "Hold up for just a minute, okay?" He adjusted his tie uncomfortably and stared at the brilliantly-lit Christmas tree. "See, Father Atia talked about the real meaning of Christmas and how we ought to share the . . . the feeling that . . . that is the basis for Christmas and he asked us to . . . to– "
"How about you just say whatever it is so we can get to bed before daybreak?" The judge regarded him, head cocked to one side quizzically.
"I got something I gotta tell ya." Mark took a deep breath, turned to finger the pine bough lying across the mantel and blurted out, "Judge, I . . . um, I–." He shook his head disgustedly, took another deep breath and blurted out "I l–. . . love . . . turkey on Christmas!" he finished in a rush.
Hardcastle gazed at him bemusedly. "Yeah?" he asked mildly. "Me, too." Then waited patiently.
"Dammit," muttered McCormick, then raised his eyes to the ceiling and added, "Sorry."
"Look, kiddo, if you're trying to tell me something here, let me take a guess at what it is. I'm good at guessing, okay?" The judge, tapping his nose thoughtfully, approached McCormick. "Let's assume you think it's necessary that you tell me something and let's also assume that I know what that something is. Then, we assume that you've already told me and I was right in my previous assumptions and we can both go to bed and dream of sugarplums. How's that for a plan?"
Mark groaned and grabbed his head with both hands. "I wish I could swear," he said in a heartfelt undertone. Turning to the judge, he sighed and shook his head. "Nice try, Judge, but it's probably important that I really say it. Would you mind it an awful lot?"
The judge considered that for a moment, then held up his hands, palms out. "Not necessary. You already did."
"What?" McCormick squinted at him distrustfully. "When? When I was unconscious some time? Or you were?"
"Nah." Hardcastle gazed at him calmly. "You're here, aren't ya?" He folded his arms and waited for the younger man's response.
After a few seconds, Mark quietly said "Oh." He thought for a little longer, then added, "You think that counts?"
"Counts with me, and that's what matters." Hardcastle turned and went to switch off the tree lights. "Now, breakfast at seven, presents right after."
"Seven-oh-five, huh?" McCormick smiled impishly.
The judge grinned back at him, then sobered slightly. "Ya know . . . I'm here, too." He cleared his throat abruptly and headed for the stairs. "G'night."
Mark stared at the retreating figure on the stairs for a moment, realizing exactly what the judge had meant. Then, feeling a wave of joy and warmth, McCormick smiled affectionately and called after him "'Night, Judge. Merry Christmas!"
Hardcastle's voice floated back downstairs. "Merry Christmas, kiddo!"
finis