Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of this work of fiction (Kurt Sutter, et al do), and no profit, monetary or otherwise is being made through the writing of this.

A/N: Written for the cotton candy square - wonder. Thanks, K. Holtzman, for reading bits and pieces of this as I wrote. Foster care AU. Kid!fic. I apologize for any inconsistencies and ridiculousness, etc. What I know about foster care comes from personal experience, and growing up with a social worker for a mom, rather than research. I believe that each person's experience in the system is different, and I hope that this does not offend anyone.

Juan sat down on the floor, his eyes reverently glued to the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree that sat in the corner. There were presents beneath the tree. Tons and tons of them. More presents than Juan had ever seen in the entirety of his four years of life. He was so excited that he could hardly breathe.

Hands clasped tightly together in his lap, Juan continued to stare with wide-eyed wonder at the decorated tree as Filip walked into the room and plopped down beside him. The older boy yawned loudly and ruffled Juan's hair.

"What ya gawping at?" Filip asked around another jaw-splitting yawn.

Juan blinked and turned briefly to give the other boy an incredulous look. His eyes were drawn back to the tree almost as immediately as they'd left it.

"Kissmas tree," Juan said, pointing, "presens." He nudged the older boy with his elbow and Filip scowled and rubbed at the sore spot in his side.

"Still don't see what the big fuss's about," Filip said, and he stretched his long legs out in front of him, the pajama bottoms tugging up to reveal thin, bony ankles. "Not like any of those presents is for us."

Juan frowned, his brows furrowing together, but then he smiled widely, revealing dimples and missing teeth. He shrugged and sighed.

"Pretty tree," he said, content just to stare up at the silver and white angel standing up at the top of the tree. Juan had never gotten presents for Christmas before, so the thought that there's not a single present, in the huge pile surrounding the Christmas tree, with his name on it, doesn't bother him at all.

"Y're daft," Filip said, but his eyes too were drawn to the angel at the top of the tree.

She was a pretty thing with brown hair and dressed all in white. There was a halo attached to the back of her head, and silver wings that sparkled in the lights of the tree. It was almost magical. Filip caught himself gaping, almost as blatantly as Juan, and snapped his mouth shut.

He was almost nine years old now, would be in just six months' time, it was time for him to put such childish fancies from his mind. Least that's what he knew his father would say if he'd have caught him gawking at the Christmas tree like a little baby. It's a good thing that his father is not going to be there for Christmas.

None of their fathers, or in Juan's case, mother, would be there. Or, at least that's what Miss Gemma and Mr. John had told them when they'd asked about it – they'd said something about how their parents couldn't take care of them anymore. Filip knew that was a load of rubbish, their parents just didn't want to take care of them anymore and had left them with the system.

He'd been with the Tellers for going on four months now, and was constantly looking over his shoulder, expecting his parents to come and take him away, or one of the social worker ladies to put him in another home. He'd been bouncing in and out of foster homes for over a year now, and was tired of it. He didn't know why no one seemed to like him, and had vowed that this time he wouldn't screw things up, because, even though he still wasn't sure about the Tellers, they weren't as bad as some of the other homes in which Filip had been placed.

Juan had seemed terrified at the prospect of not having his mom come for him. He'd arrived just a couple of weeks ago. Hadn't slept once through the night, yet. Filip knew that he wouldn't last long in the Teller home – kids who couldn't stop crying, and woke their foster parents up every single night didn't last long.

Filip had been relieved that his parents wouldn't be around. Alex, a quiet six year old, who'd been taken in by the Tellers shortly after Juan, and Clarence, a boisterous ten year old, who had been with the Tellers for longer than Filip, had also seemed to take the fact that their parents weren't going to come for them as a matter of course.

"You t'ink Miss Gemma an' Mis'r John's gonna let us eat Kissmiss dinner?" Juan asked without taking his eyes off of the tree.

He didn't dare look at any of the presents though, because he knew that they weren't his. They were off-limits. He knew what off-limits meant. It meant that he couldn't touch, or think about, or even look at the brightly wrapped gifts. If he looked at them, he might want one, and he might accidentally touch one too.

Miss Gemma had spent all of Christmas Eve cooking – making a turkey and ham and getting the fixings together for different types of salads. Mr. John had been at work.

Mr. Bobby, Miss Gemma's brother, had baked all kind of cookies and pies and other things that Juan couldn't remember the name of – he got to be an official taste-tester, though, and Alex got to be an honorary stirrer and taste tester. Clarence and Filip had been tasked with fetching this and that as it was needed. Miss Gemma had called them her mules.

Juan giggled at the memory, and Filip moved a little further away from him. "What're you laughing about?"

"You an' Cla'ynce, mules," Juan said, and now that he'd started to giggle, he couldn't seem to stop.

Filip shook his head at the little boy. Juan was the youngest of the four of them, and by far the strangest. He laughed at just about everything, and at just shy of six in the morning, Filip thought it was far too early for laughter, especially laughter about something so ridiculous.

Filip was more than happy to relinquish his spot beside the still giggling boy when a sleepy-looking Alex situated himself between the two of them. He was clutching a blanket in a fist and his blue eyes were glued to the tree, much as Juan's had been when Filip had happened upon the little boy earlier.

"Wow," Alex gasped, and he leaned closer to the tree. "It's so big."

"An' pretty," Juan added.

Alex nodded and shared a wonder-filled smile with Juan. Filip was glad that the two got along so well, because it took some of the pressure off of him. He was used to caring for little kids. He'd been taking care of his younger sister and brother since he could remember. He did a better job of it than his folks did, but it didn't mean that he liked it. Little kids could be so annoying at times.

"What are you three doing up so early?" Mr. Bobby looked at the clock on the wall and blinked his eyes.

He was wearing a bathrobe unlike any Filip had ever seen before. It was bright red and covered in reindeer and elves. It was an eyesore, but it somehow suited the jovial man, who secretly reminded Filip of Santa Claus. Not that he believed in Santa Claus. Santa Claus was fine to believe in if you were a little kid like Alex or Juan, but almost nine year olds weren't allowed to believe in that kind of magic.

"I's Kissmiss Mis-r Bobby," Juan said it like it should be obvious, and Filip supposed that it should, but he rolled his eyes at the seriousness in the little boy's voice.

"Is that so?" Mr. Bobby rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "And what's so special about Christmas?"

"Santa," Alex said, and he leaned against Filip, and yawned. "'Cept he doesn't come for bad boys an' girls."

"Santa, you don't say." Mr. Bobby sat down on the couch, directly behind where all three of them were sitting on the floor. "Who do you reckons been bad?"

Alex shrugged and scooted a little so that he was almost on Filip's lap. Filip inched away, but didn't move too far, so that Alex could still lean against him.

"I'm always a bad boy," Alex said quietly. "'S why Santa never comes to my house, 'cause I break things or get yelled at by my poppa or make my momma mad. That's why I'm here, on a count'a my badness. "

Not liking the sadness he heard in the little boy's voice, Filip edged closer to Alex. Juan did the same on the other side of the six-year-old. He wrapped an arm around the other boy and Filip felt a flash of jealousy and anger toward him, because he was the older boy, and it was his responsibility to care for the younger children. Juan was younger than Alex, he shouldn't be hugging the other boy. That was Filip's job – offering comfort. He wrapped an arm around Alex as well, and the boy squirmed until he was free of the both of them.

"You ain't bad," Clarence said from his position at the foot of the stairs.

All four of them turned to look at the other boy as he walked into the room. He was already dressed, and had a wide grin on his face.

"Cla'y'nce," Juan shouted, and practically bounced in his seat on the floor.

Filip shook his head at the littlest boy's antics. He didn't understand why Juan is was always so enthusiastic about everyone and everything, and he certainly didn't understand why Juan seemed to like to hug all of them as he was doing right now to Clay – wrapping his arms tightly around the older boy and squeezing for all he was worth. Filip squirmed just thinking about how claustrophobic being crushed like that would make him feel, even as he wondered why Juan hadn't greeted him like that when he first walked into the living room.

"I see that everyone's already here," Mr. John said as he walked into the room.

He was rubbing his hands together and had a big smile on his face. He caught Juan mid-flight as the boy launched himself at him in a tackling hug.

"Miss Gemma's not here," Alex said.

He watched Mr. John warily, and kept an eye on Juan, to make sure that the big man didn't do anything to hurt the little boy. Adults couldn't be trusted.

"She's in the kitchen, getting Christmas breakfast ready," John said, and he hoisted Juan on his hip and lightly tickled the little boy.

Juan laughed, and buried himself into John's side as the man took a seat on the couch, next to Bobby.

It had been a long time since such laughter had been heard in the Teller home, and John cherished it, as he knew his wife did. Jackson and his best friend, Opie, were due in from college later in the day, and he hoped that his son would approve of what he and his wife were planning to gift the four little boys, currently sitting in their living room, with for Christmas.

Looking around the room, John's eyes rested on Filip. He'd probably be the hardest of the four boys to win over. John couldn't blame him; it had to be hard to take any adult at his or her word after what he'd been through. Eight years of dealing with alcoholic parents – half of those years spent living on the streets, or in a car, or in the back room of bars, and having to take care of his younger siblings when he was barely old enough to take care of himself – had taken a toll on the boy.

He'd come to them bruised and belligerent, ready to run away at the drop of a hat. He'd already been in and out of several foster homes for: fighting with his foster siblings; threatening the parents; running away; and, just being too difficult for some of the foster parents to handle.

Filip had certainly done his damnedest to get the Tellers to give up on him, but John and Gemma had seen his misbehavior for what it was – a test to see if they'd give up on him as all of the rest had – and persevered through the trial. John hoped that they were almost at the end of it, that Filip would stop pushing them away, and start trusting them.

Alex would be another hard sell. He'd come to them in the middle of the night, the police had brought him, wrapped up in a blanket, to them. There'd been some kind of domestic disturbance which had led to the death of his mother. The police didn't know if Alex had witnessed his father shoot his mother or not. They'd found the little boy, dressed in his pajamas, sitting in the middle of the staircase, as though frozen to the spot.

Alex hadn't spoken a single word to the police, and, as the Tellers were registered as emergency foster caretakers, he was brought to them after he'd been checked out by the doctors. He was uninjured, save for some bruises which appeared to be a couple of days old. It was clear that he'd been abused, but the extent of the abuse was unknown.

John can still remember the terror in the little boy's eyes, how wide they'd been, and, the distinct lack of tears. Little Alex hadn't said a word to them for several weeks, but he'd watched them, catalogued their movements, listened to them, and walked very carefully around them. He reminded John of a caged tiger.

Clarence, on the other hand, hadn't been hard to win over. He'd been with them the longest, and he had taken everything in stride, adjusting to the death of his parents, moving from one relative to the next until he wound up in the foster care system and then with the Tellers. By John's estimate, Clarence had been in ten different homes in the past two and a half years.

Instead of becoming bitter and jaded, as a number of children his age would have, Clarence seemed to have learned flexibility, and resilience in the face of his ever-changing circumstances. John knew, however, that, just because Clarence didn't display any outright misbehaviors associated with what he'd been through, it didn't mean that he was scar free either.

Clarence just didn't wear his emotions on his sleeve, and preferred to work them out though physical labor. John had immediately put him to work on a moped shortly after he arrived, and, whenever Clarence was overwhelmed, he'd go out to the garage and work on it.

Sometimes John would join him and they'd work together in silence, each lost in his own thoughts. John figured that it was cathartic. Gemma called it male bonding, and left them to it.

Juan, their latest foster child, was a true joy to have in their home. In spite of what he'd been through, he was quick to trust, and, a smile or laughter never seemed far from his lips. His mandatory visits to the therapist (all four boys had court-ordered therapy) had revealed horrors that sometimes kept John and Gemma up late at night, wondering how anyone could hurt any child, let alone one who was as sweet and loving as Juan was.

John and Gemma had taken in dozens of foster children over the years. They'd first opened their home a few years after their son, Thomas, had died. Some of the children they'd taken in over the years had only been short-term, emergency placements – in and out of their home within just a few days' time. Others had stayed for a couple of years. Some still kept in touch with them, and they'd lost contact with others.

Though it was hard when a placement didn't work out, or seeing some kids go through the system like cattle and not being able to do anything about it, it had ultimately been worthwhile. John and Gemma felt that their lives, as well as their son's, Jackson, had been enriched through the opening of their home to kids who needed a safe harbor.

With Jackson now in college, John and Gemma had come to a decision. They weren't yet ready to stop being parents, and yet they couldn't keep losing children that they brought into their home. It was heart-wrenching, and John didn't think he could go through that again and again anymore. He knew that Gemma couldn't.

"W's f'r bekfest?" Juan asked around the thumb that he'd tucked in his mouth. He leaned back so that his head was resting against John's chest, and he stared at the Christmas tree.

"Pancakes, sausage, bacon, and eggs," John answered.

"W'a 'bout j'us?" Juan asked. His brown eyes were now watching John, his mouth downturned in what looked like worry.

"Is that all you care about, juice?" Filip asked. He turned around to face the little boy who was crestfallen. "That's all you ever ask about, at dinner, lunch, breakfast. It's always juice, juice, juice…"

John held up a finger, stopping whatever else the eight year old was about to say. "Filip, that's enough. Yes, there'll be juice."

"You'd think his name was Juice what with the way he goes on about it," Filip muttered just loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Hmm, Juice, I kind of like it," Bobby said, and he prodded Juan's arm, drawing a smile from the little boy.

"It does seem like a fitting nickname," Gemma said from the kitchen doorway.

"I suppose it does," John said, looking at Juan for confirmation.

The little boy seemed to consider it seriously before nodding his assent. Filip was watching all of them with a look that showed he thought they were all insane.

"Next thing you know, we're gonna start calling Clarence, Clay, on a count'a Juice bein' unable to pronounce his name correctly," Filip grumbled.

John stifled his urge to laugh at the little scrooge in their midst.

"It's better than Clarence," the boy in question said with a shrug. "I kind of like it."

"So's his name Juice now?" Alex asked, pointing at Juan, "And his name Clay?" He pointed at Clarence, his eyes, however, were on Gemma. "Are you gonna give all of us new names?"

Gemma walked into the room and shook her head. "No, honey, not unless you want a new name."

She sat down on the floor next to the six-year-old, and drew him into a half-hug. Alex seemed most comfortable around Gemma, whereas he shied away from John.

"I like Alex," he stated firmly.

"Alex is a fine name," Gemma assured him.

Filip groaned and placed his head in his hands. He mumbled something that none of them could properly make out, and John thought that might be for the best.

"'Course you're still gonna be Alex," the eight-year-old said crossly, "'s'not like Juan's really Juice, or Clarence's really Clay, those is just nicknames, you know, what you call people for short. An' I suppose, since we're giving everybody nicknames, we should call you Tig 'cause o' the jammas y're wearing, and because y're always walkin' 'round lookin' like y're ready to pounce on someone, like a tiger."

Alex's eyes were wide by the time Filip finished his heated speech. He was breathless at the end of it, and his eyes had an almost wild look to them.

"I really look like a tiger?" Alex turned to Gemma, he almost seemed excited by the prospect of it.

Gemma laughed and nodded.

"Now that Filip's done nicknaming everyone," Gemma smiled at the eight-year-old who was scowling at everyone's happiness, "what do you all say to having breakfast, and then seeing what Santa brought everyone for Christmas?"

"Filip said the presents ain't for us," Juan pulled his thumb out of his mouth to say.

"Bad boys don't get presents from Santa," Alex added.

"We ain't your real children," Filip said, "'sides, Santa isn't real."

"Is too," Alex said quietly. His eyes darted over to Juan and then to Clarence. "Maybe he just didn't visit you, 'cause you were naughty, an' you're a scrooge."

Clarence laughed and shrugged. "I wasn't expecting any presents, from Santa or anyone. Though, I guess that Filip already gave me a present."

Filip raised an eyebrow at the older boy.

"My nickname," Clarence reminded him. "That's as good a gift as any. Actually, better than some. My grandma always gave me socks for Christmas, and I had an uncle who always gave me a knuckle sandwich."

"Wha's a nuck old sandwich?" Juan asked, scrunching his nose.

"Nothing you need to worry about little Juicy," Clay said, and he ruffled the little boy's hair as he took a seat next to Gemma on the floor.

"Well, Santa is real. He did come. He left gifts for everyone," Gemma looked pointedly at Filip whose gaze fell to the floor. She jostled him a little until he looked up, and then smiled at him.

John would've been surprised if Filip hadn't smiled in response. Gemma had a special brand of magic all her own, and often won over even the hardest of boys that they'd taken into their home – Filip appeared to be no exception to that. It was one of the things that john loved about his wife – her ability to worm her way into even the hardest of hearts, and garner a smile from the crankiest of grouches.

"I don't know about everyone else, but I'm ready for breakfast," Bobby declared.

Breakfast was an even livelier affair than usual with the newly dubbed, Clay, starting an impromptu food fight by flinging a syrup saturated piece of pancake at Filip, and hitting the younger boy in the eye with it. Filip had looked murderous, but he'd calmly, one could argue calculatedly, took his orange juice and dumped it on the other boy's head.

The chaos that ensued was not a wholly unwelcome one – it was the first time that John, Gemma and Bobby, had witnessed any of the new additions to their home (with the exception of Juan) acting like kids. Everyone joined in on the fun, and that was what Jackson and Opie walked into when they finally stepped into the house after several hours of driving from the university.

Everyone froze mid-swing. Alex, hand loaded with eggs, swiveled when he heard the door open with a loud bang, and let the handful loose, hitting Jackson – a young man he'd only seen in pictures that hung on the walls – square in the face. Terrified at the possible repercussions for his actions, Alex ran pell-mell from the room and wedged himself between the couch and the wall.

Jackson, however, merely wiped the mess of egg off of his face and grinned at Opie. Both boys scooped some eggs up in their hands and the food fight resumed. Jackson shook his head at his father when John motioned for a temporary ceasefire so he could go check on Tig, and he snuck out of the kitchen and into the living room.

"Hey," Jackson called.

John watched his son carefully, even as a pancake hit him in the side of the head and fell to the floor. He wanted to make sure that he didn't scare Alex. He and Gemma had told Jackson about their latest group of foster boys, but he hadn't gone into any details about what their situations prior to arriving in the Teller home had been like, and he feared that Alex might react poorly. The last thing that he wanted was for Alex to retreat into himself again.

"Alex?" Jackson rightly guessed. He lowered his weapon of eggs when he spied the little boy's foot sticking out from behind the couch.

"Hey, come on out, I'm not mad." He crept toward the couch, not wanting to frighten the little boy more than he already was.

"Sorry." The little boy's voice was muffled by the couch.

Jackson crouched beside the couch and peeked behind it. A pair of bright blue eyes stared back at him and he smiled.

"Hey, my fault, I walked into a food fight unarmed," Jackson said easily, and he sat down on the floor.

When his parents had first started taking foster children in, Jackson had been resentful, and angry. He hadn't wanted to share his parents, and he'd wondered what he'd done wrong – why he wasn't good enough for them.

But, once, after a major blowup in which he'd runaway and wound up at his best friend's, Opie's house, his Uncle Bobby had explained to him that his parents didn't take other kids in because he wasn't good enough, or because his parents didn't love him, but it was because they, and he, had so much love to give to others.

Things hadn't been magically resolved then, and it had taken time for Jackson to get used to their doors always being open to foster children, but he had gotten used to it, and he had learned a thing or two about how to deal with skittish children. His upbringing was part of why he'd decided – and he still had to talk with his parents about this – to become a child psychologist. Though he'd only had a couple of low-level psych classes, Jackson had learned a lot from growing up in the Teller home, and his classes had, more often than not, corroborated what he'd learned from his parents.

"Y're not mad?" Alex was eyeing him warily, one arm held up over his head like he was expecting Jackson to hit him.

Jackson shook his head. "Nah, that's some aim you've got there."

"Didn't mean to." Alex sniffed.

Jackson felt another presence in the room with the two of them. The sounds from the kitchen had quieted, signifying the end of the 'war' that he and Opie had unwittingly walked into.

"It's okay," Jackson assured him.

"He din't mean to mister," another little boy, and from his small stature, Jackson surmised that it was Juan, said from beside him. "You ain't gointa hurt him, are ya?"

Jackson shook his head. "No, I'm not going to hurt anyone."

"How come you gots eggs in y're hand?"

Jackson chuckled and lifted the eggs to his mouth and shoveled them in. He chewed them thoughtfully, tried not to grimace at the cold, rubbery feel of them, and then swallowed.

Juan's nose crinkled up in disgust. "Yuck."

"Gross," Alex said from his hiding spot.

Jackson smiled widely and patted his belly. "Mmmm…that was tasty."

Alex narrowed his eyes at him, and shook his head. An action which was far too adult for someone his age, something that Jackson filed to the back of his mind to think about later. Not that he was going to use his parents' latest foster children as Guinea Pigs for his education, but, he was concerned and wanted to make sure that he didn't do anything to jeopardize any headway that his parents had made with Alex and the others. His parents had a penchant for taking in the troubled ones, and, he could tell that these four were no exceptions to that.

Juan knelt in front of where Alex was hiding, and he peeked into the small space. "Come out Alex. We got pessents from Santa."

"It's presents," Alex corrected. "Move."

Jackson caught the surprised look that his parents exchanged, and gathered that this wasn't typical of Alex, but it was more on par with what a six-year-old would say to a bossy four-year-old. Apparently some sort of breakthrough had happened, and Jackson was at a loss to fully understand exactly how that had come about, but he wasn't about to question it.

Juan moved, scooting backwards, and Alex came out from behind the couch. He kept his eyes on everyone in the room, and his back to the wall. Baby steps, Jackson thought, but it's a start.

"Maybe I should get out of your hair, come back tomorrow," Opie said.

"What are you talking about?" Gemma spun, and glared at him. "You are as much a part of this family as Jackson is. Stay."

Opie's eyes grew wide, and Jackson knew that his best friend would be spending Christmas with them. It was a given anyway. He didn't know why Opie tried to shove off Christmas in the first place. His own family didn't celebrate, and Opie didn't like having to choose between his father and mother for his brief visits from college, so he typically stayed with the Tellers.

"I just thought, you know, with the kids an' all…" Opie gestured toward the group of boys. "That you'd want…"

"Like Gemma said, you're family," John said, placing a hand on Opie's shoulder.

"Maybe Santa lef' a pessent for you too," Juan said.

"I'm betting that he did." Jackson winked at Opie who finally relaxed his shoulders.

"I'm afraid that, thanks to Clay, here," Gemma said, giving the boy a stern look which lost its sting as it was quickly followed up by a grin, "we're all going to have to get cleaned up before we can open presents."

Though the pronouncement was met with a groan, all four boys raced up the stairs to get cleaned up, the youngest two in the lead, with the older two hanging back a little. Their voices drifted down the stairs – shouts of, 'hurry up,' and, 'stop pushing,' and, 'let go'.

"I suppose we'd better get ourselves cleaned up as well," Gemma stated as she shifted her gaze around the room. The only one relatively unscathed was Opie.

"And, from the sounds of things upstairs, we'd better hurry," Bobby said, his eyes were raised toward the stairs.

The ensuing cleanup was subdued, and quick. The boys, who just an hour ago had little hope of celebrating an actual Christmas, were now eager to get the festivities started.

Jackson learned, through casual conversation, that Juan had never gotten a Christmas (or birthday) present before, let alone one from a Santa Claus that he'd heard about, but never quite understood. Alex had never been good enough to receive Christmas presents. Filip had spent his Christmases scrounging presents for his younger siblings so that they could have a good Christmas, but he'd never gotten a present either. Clarence, who insisted upon being called Clay, hadn't celebrated an actual Christmas since the death of his parents.

When the last dish had been put away, and the kitchen looked spotless, aside from the plates of cookies which lined the counters, they all trooped into the other room. Juan's and Alex's eyes widened in wonder and they gasped in surprise as they took in the piles of presents that had been strewn throughout the living room.

The Christmas tree still stood sacrosanct in its corner. The silver and white angel affixed at the top, seemed to survey the group below with a twinkle in her eye.

"Wow," Juan and Alex exclaimed at the same time, and both boys were rooted to the spot, unsure of how to proceed.

John plucked them both up, one under each arm, and hauled them toward the pile of presents designated for them. He deposited Juan next to one pile, and Alex next to another.

"Go on, Filip," Jackson gave the boy a push toward the living room when it looked like he wasn't going to move. There was a look of disbelief on his face. "Go find your pile."

Filip shook his head and leaned against Jackson's hand. "Christmas is for the little kids," he said in a whisper.

Jackson crouched so that he was eye-level with the boy. "Let me let you in on a little secret," he waited until Filip shifted his gaze from the floor to him and then nodded, "around here, everyone's a little kid."

He whispered the next part into Filip's ear so that only he would be able to hear, "Uncle Bobby's the biggest one of all."

Filip's gaze flitted to Bobby, and Jackson nodded. His cause was helped when Bobby practically dove into the room of presents. Filip hesitantly stepped into the room and followed John's lead to his presents.

Opie propelled 'Clay' into the room, with, "C'mon, we might as well join them. The Tellers always go all-out for Christmas."

Gemma came into the room last. She held a camera in hand, and started snapping pictures as the boys tentatively began to open their presents when John gave them the go-ahead. There was something different about this Christmas, and Gemma couldn't quite place her finger on what it was – whether it was the impending announcement that John and she were going to make just as soon as all of the physical presents were opened, or the mixture of different personalities, or something else entirely.

This was by no means their first Christmas with foster children. She'd lost count of how many first Christmases she'd hosted for some of the foster kids, or for how many of them it would be the only real Christmas they ever experienced.

It was depressing, but Gemma never let herself dwell too much on that aspect of it. If she had, she doubted that she'd have made it through. Instead, she poured her heart and soul into making Christmas a magical and memorable experience for everyone. Something they could carry with them no matter what happened after they left her and John.

Some of the kids they'd hosted in years past had been worse off than the boys currently gathered in their living room, with the exception of Alex and Juan. But, there was something different about this group of boys, something extraordinary, and Gemma knew that she and John were doing the right thing.

She watched Jackson, her baby, interact with the four boys with an ease that she'd never witnessed in prior years. Maybe it had come with age and maturity, or maybe he too, was feeling the same pull that she and John, and even Bobby had felt when first Clay, then Filip, and then Alex and Juan had been placed with them. Like they were destined to be a family, and it had just been a matter of getting them all together at the right time and in the right place. Gemma just wished it had all happened sooner.

"What'cha thinking sweetheart?" John's voice right next to her ear startled her, and she swatted him on the arm.

She blinked back tears and took a deep breath. "I think it's time."

All the presents were opened, colorful paper littered the floor, and the boys were already playing with or admiring their gifts. Gemma smiled at the disarray. It was perfect, the way a family Christmas should be – all childish wonder and love.

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