#4 Nuttin' for Christmas

And wild and sweet, the words repeat…

"Steve?"

… peace on earth, good will to men…

Oh, yeah. He liked this one.

…I turned away and bowed my head…

"Steve. Lieutenant."

…is no peace on earth, I said. For hate is strong and blocks the song…

Hate. He started awake with a jerk, blinking back the dark fuzziness that sloshed in every corner of his brain.

There is no peace on earth. No, there isn't. A nice thought of course…he flattened his palms over his face, trying to subdue a dull pain that pulsed behind his cheekbones in time to the music.

No peace. Peace keeping was his job. Which was the reason he was supposed to be -

"That's better." Cool fingers peeled his hands away from his face and cupped his jaw. "Let me see your eyes." The fingers tilted his head this way and that, until he reached up decidedly and stopped them.

"Not a good idea," he choked.

"I'm betting you're a little concussed. I was afraid you might drop off if I left you alone. I have a cot in the back if you want to lie down."

Lying down on stakeout. That would set a great example for his men. As it was…"Cahill?" With his luck he'd been snoring and Cahill knew anyway. Actually, in that case they'd all know, since they were all on the same frequency. This was just great.

"Yes, sir." Cahill's voice sounded hushed, as if he was trying not to disturb him.

Perfect. Well, nothing to do but push on and accept whatever ribbing came with it. "Any sign of him yet?"

"Not yet, sir."

Steve nodded dismally, remembered that Cahill couldn't hear that and said, "Okay."

Karen held a pair of navy sweat pants up in front of him and his mouth turned up in a grateful smile. "I'm heading back to surveillance in a minute. Keep sweeping. You other guys too. He's got to be here somewhere - he can't hide forever."

In an airport full of holiday travelers? Who was he kidding? Of course he could. Karen shook the sweatpants meaningfully at him and he hesitated.

She raised her hands heavenward in exasperation and mouthed, I'm a nurse!

He hesitated one second more, but another glance at the clock had him lumbering to his feet.

Wow, he was stiff. His back was tight as a board and his knees were hot with pain. Turning away to muster some semblance of privacy, he removed his Sam Browne with the gun and badge and cuffs still attached and lowered it carefully, then hastily unbuttoned what was left of his jeans and dropped them.

"Nice butt," Karen's cheerful voice observed helpfully.

He whirled back around, making a grab for the chair as the quick movement scuttled his fragile balance, and then positioning it in front of him as a shield. "Could you hand me those, please?" He found himself suddenly wondering, with a dull sinking feeling, how much of this was carrying back to the surveillance team.

"If you insist - " She held out the sweat pants so that he had to let go of the chair with one hand to grab them. "But I don't think you'll be able to get them on by yourself."

Steve scoffed. "I'll have you know I've been dressing myself since - " he paused, staring thoughtfully at the sweatpants. He was going to have to let go of the chair with both hands. That didn't worry him so much, but the thought of balancing on one foot as he tried to insert the other into a pant leg…and then bending each knee high enough to…well, damn.

Karen clucked sympathetically. "See, stubbornness doesn't actually compensate for everything. Why don't you sit down and I'll help you?"

Steve glanced anxiously at the clock again and surrendered to the inevitable. He hobbled around the chair and lowered himself awkwardly into it, bending his knees as little as possible. "Do you know how many years it's been since somebody's put my pants on for me? Wait - " he held up a hand, hearing the potential implications in the words too late. "No smart remarks!"

Karen smiled. "Would I do that?"

Steve gave a short, disbelieving laugh.

"The other was just professional strategy - to keep you off balance and get you to give in quickly. See how well that worked?" Steve growled non-commitally as she gathered one pant leg and slipped the elastic cuff over his shoe. "Not that you don't. Have a nice one, I mean."

Steve dropped his hand from its tender exploration of the back of his skull. "You don't know a Dr. Jesse Travis by any chance, do you?"

"I don't think so." She neatly slid the other elastic cuff over his remaining shoe. "Why do you ask?"

"I don't know," Steve accepted the edge of the waistband from her as she tugged the soft fabric gently up over his injuries, then he stood stiffly to pull them up the rest of the way. "You remind me of him."

"Dr. Travis thinks you have a nice…?"

"All right." Steve held up a hand again to stop her before she could finish and almost lost his grip on the waistband. "God, I hope not. I just meant that you both seem to have worked your way through medical school via a comedy club."

"Hm." Nurse Petrillo eyed him suspiciously. "Is that a compliment?"

"I haven't decided yet. Could you - um - " he gestured to his Sam Browne and she picked it up, making a face as she lifted it.

"This weighs a ton." He took it from her without comment and buckled it on. "Better buckle it tight - you don't have any belt loops."

Steve felt a faint draft at his ankles and looked down the length of his navy sweat pants. "No extra long?" he asked resignedly, noticing where the cuffs stopped.

"Sorry."

He looked at his Sam Browne, sagging precariously around the top of the sweat pants, noticed for the first time that one jacket sleeve was torn away about halfway up and the other elbow split. Well, this was certainly the professional, well-groomed appearance the LAPD liked its officers to project.

"Here."

He was adjusting his gun in its holster, but looked up to seeNurse Petrillooffering him a couple of pieces of paper and a small vial of pills.

"The prescription is for an antibiotic - always a good idea with open scrapes like that. The sample is in case the pain gets bad. I recommend a CAT scan at the earliest possible moment. The list is for your father - what I've checked and what I think should be watched."

"Thanks." Steve gave her a smile and stuffed them carelessly in his jacket pocket. He pulled something back out of the pocket and held it out to her. "Say, Karen - I'm sure your cats are good company, but like you say, they don't know one day from another, so if you find you'd like a little human company, why don't you stop in and help us celebrate Christmas? There's drinks tonight and dinner tomorrow - my Dad loves a real open house. Even if I don't make it there on time, he'd love to have you - just tell him I invited you and what happened. Oh - and take his wildly apocryphal stories about me with a ton of salt."

Karen took the card from him and read the private address on the back. "Wild stories, hm? Tempting. I might just take you up on that, Lieutenant Steve. Now, I have one of those carts waiting for you - you go home and get some real treatment as soon as you can, right?"

"I promise. Stop by so I can thank you and really wish you a Merry Christmas. Bring the punch - Dad'll get a kick out of it."

"I might even bring the cookies."

A shrill horn sounded, and Steve started his stilted progress toward the door.

I think I saw this walk in Bride of Frankenstein, he thought ruefully. I won't be doing any foot pursuit like this.

He told the driver the general direction of the surveillance room.

Karen steadied him while he climbed into the small electric cart, then helped him boost himself into the seat. "You know, after a closer look? I don't think I gave it just dues. That really is a very nice - ."

Steve made a face and shook his head. "You sure you don't know Jesse Travis? Because somehow, it seems like you should."

She patted his better leg and gestured the driver to take off. "I think it's you that brings it out in us."

"Trust me. That's just what he'd say."

Choral voices harmonizing Do You Hear What I Hear in chirping tones from every speaker as they pulled back onto the concourse reminded him that he should check in. He adjusted the small mike on his collar. "Cahill?"

"Here, sir." Cahill's voice was polite and controlled - too much so, barely suppressed merriment underlying it.

Steve kneaded his eyelids, trying to estimate how much he might have overheard, then gave it up. Nothing he could do about it now. He was about to ask for an update, when he heard Cahill's sharp intake of breath, followed by a subdued war whoop. He automatically pressed on his ear. "You got something, Cahill?"

"Got'em, Sir," Steve smiled as he overheard what sounded like the slap of a high-five from over the earpiece. " - moving fast."

Steve stiffened with excitement, trying to tune out the Christmas carols, the beeping of other passing carts, the rumble of the crowds. "Where?"

"Baggage. Look at that. We got'em cold."

"Harper and Stiles - get ready. Manning - stand by to offer back up." Steve turned to the driver of the cart, who was carefully manipulating them through the traffic. "There's been a change of plans. Can you get me to baggage claim?"

The driver didn't take his eyes off the other traffic. "We're not allowed in baggage claim."

Overhead, Bing Crosby was now dreaming of a white Christmas, just like the ones he used to know.

Sounded good, but he'd have to make time for his own dreaming later - right now he had things to take care of. He rubbed a thumb along the handgrip of his gun. "Then get me as close as you can."

TBC

A/N: Mean to Steve? Me? How can you say so? :)