December 18th, 1975, Pacific Ocean, 9:17 P.M[/b[

"Wake up, Matee," the captain grumbled. With a kick, William turned over and looked up. The wooden frames that had become synonymous with Home for a week greeted him. True, he hated the fact that he was living in such a poor excuse for a boat for a week, but it was still better than… he couldn't even bring himself to thinking it. The floor all of a sudden became much harder, even after eight hours of sleep on it. The comforter, too, became more uncomfortable and warmer. Shedding his sole sheet, he revealed himself to be in a white undershirt and blue boxers. He stepped out onto the pathetic deck. To his left, the captain stood in his normal get-up: a blue and white cap, his blue blazer on the only white shirt her owned, and the customary blue pants.

"Is it hot out here or what?" William asked. He ran a finger over the stubble that had brought itself to life over his week on the boat.

"I'd expect ye to feel that way after six months in - " but he cut himself short, seeing the discomfort he had caused to his crew. "Why were ye there anyway?

"Work," Will replied simply.

Sensing the awkwardness, the captain dropped the subject. "We'll be reaching shore in probably two hours. Do what you want with the time."

"Thank you."

December 18th, 10 miles from California Shore, 11:12 A.M.

"Land ho!" the Captain yelled out. "I'd say we have 20 minutes left."

"20 minutes? Why doesn't your ship have a real motor?"

With a glare of acid, the Captain kindly informed his passenger that should he prefer it, "10 miles is no mean feat for a fit man like yourself."

William looked off the deck and saw a small, power-motor boat behind them. "Now that's a boat! Look at that thing, it could cut down the distance between us in about… a minute… Captain, go! GO!"

He recognized the dark haired pair following them. To nobody's surprise, he was being followed by none other than his official stalker-killers, Alexander Khasinou and Irina Derevko. While Alex manned the controls, Irina pulled out a shotgun and aimed perfectly at William. Realizing the peril he was in, Will ducked. At the same time, he heard the explosion and saw the four bullet holes above him conjure themselves to life in the wall above him. To counter the attack, he pulled his pistol out and aimed at Irina.

"I know this shot won't kill you – it's failed so many times before. So survive this!" In a fluid motion, he shot the motor.

Nothing happened.

"You were right, Alex. Vaughn is pretty foolish. As if we'd actually show our motor in an obvious place like that."

"Then try this one," Will came back with, raising his eyebrows as he emptied his clip making holes in the sides of their boat, and allowing it to fill up with water. The lovers tried to save their boat from sinking, while Will ran to hurry the Captain. But one bullet from Irina's shotgun nestled itself in the Captain's forehead. Will, desperate, began to navigate the ship himself.

Unfortunately, in all his CIA training, he never learned boat controls. It crashed, 7 miles from shore and 6 minutes after the showdown. The harbor was abandoned, so he was forced to swim to shore. Given the time of year, the water was sufficiently chilled, but he found it oddly refreshing.

December 20th, 1975, Los Angeles, 10:47 P.M.

At the CIA headquarters, things were calming down. Only serious, hardcore agents milled around, monitoring surveillance or awaiting phone calls. All the other agents were either on vacation for the holidays, or had left for the evening. Agent Jack Bristow just was exiting the briefing room, and heading out the door when the double doors opened. In a green poncho, drenched with rain, a hooded William Vaughn returned to his place of work. Dramatically, he pulled off his hood to reveal his messed, brown-blonde hair and a full beard grown in. Without realizing it, Jack and William collided at the shoulders. When he went to apologize, Jack's face lit up.

"Vaughn?"

A shadow of a smile came across the returning man's face. "It's good to see you again, Jack. I've missed you," he lied.

"Same here," Jack said, with truth backing his statement. "So, what happened?"

"I got captured," Will admitted, with a shrug.

"You? The great 'Shadow' got caught?" Jack commented with disbelief.

"Yeah, I know. It was them damned Russians, they captured me in St. Petersburg KGB HQ." He felt bad, having to lie to his friend. But it was necessary to keep things under control with the CIA. "So, what have you been up to?" William asked, in a desperate attempt to change the subject.

"Laura comes home tomorrow, so Syd and I are gonna set things up."

"That's great! How is little Sydney these days?"

"An absolute angel. Here, take a look," as Jack pulled out his wallet to show him a picture. But another photo took William's eye.

"Wait, wait. That's Laura?"

"Yeah, she's beautiful. We've been married for six years now."

Almost as if to prevent the awkward moment from happening, Director O'Quinn looked up from a portfolio his nose was in and saw his agents talking.

"Vaughn! Debrief, now!"

"Oh great…" he muttered.

December 24th, 1975, Los Angeles, 8:12 P.M.

"…Merry Christmas to all, and to all…a…good…night!" Nicole finished off the story to her son, and to celebrate, she tickled Mikey on the last four words. Through his shrieks of glee, he yelled "Stop! STOP! DADDY, SAVE MEH-"

The moment was awkward, and Nicole began to cry. "All I want for Christmas is Daddy," the little six-year old said, beginning to cry too. In all their mess, they didn't notice the red-clad figure pass by their window.

"Go to bed, Mikey."

Slowly, he got up and waddled up to his room. The rope and claw found its place, outside, in the chimney, and William followed his son upstairs. When he reached the roof, he pressed his ear against the roof, and heard Mikey saying his prayers. "HO-HO-HO!" the father bellowed.

Mikey stood straight up, and screamed "Mommy! Mommy! Santa's here!"

"What? He can't be…" Nicole said, trying to contemplate what his arrival could mean.

Together, they ran down the stairs where William stood in an overly stuffed Santa suit.

"Merry Christmas, sweetheart."

Michael was too wrapped up in his gifts to notice that his father was the benefactor. He also missed a passionate kiss between Santa and his mother.