#6 It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas

Santa baby, slip a sable under the tree…for me…I've been an awful good girl, Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight…

Steve rubbed a hand over his eyes and thought about asking the cab driver if he could turn the music down.

Santa baby, an out-of-space convertible too - light blue - I'll wait up for you, dear…

No, no, there was nothing more Scrooge-like than asking somebody to turn off the Christmas carols. That is, if Santa Baby could actually be counted as a Christmas carol. Well, no reason to ruin everybody else's good time, and after today he could probably already expect Santa to leave a switch in his stocking without making it any worse.

Santa honey, I want a yacht and really that's not… a lot…

He slid a peek into the shopping bag at his feet. It wasn't totally satisfactory - in fact, it looked a whole lot like something somebody would buy at an airport gift shop at the last minute - but it was better than empty hands and an apology. Full hands and an apology instead. Well, it was a little better anyway.

He let his head rest against the stiff cab seatback, careful to avoid putting pressure on the pounding spot where the growing bump was.

He had been able to turn the collar over to Manning, who had braved the rain to join him on the tarmac. One of the airport baggage handlers had shown up with a set of keys so that his return visit inside could be made upright, instead of with another trip via the baggage conveyor belt. He had paused just inside of baggage claim, trying to wipe his face free of water and take stock. He saw Stiles busily keeping civilians away from the scattered suitcase contents, assisted by a red-faced Harper. He limped over to them.

"You hurt, Harper?"

Harper's color deepened. "No, sir," he growled.

Steve nodded. "Good. Then you can wait for the technicians and start tagging all the evidence here. See that it's safely stowed and signed off on before you call it a night."

"Sir?" Steve looked over at Stiles, who was virtually standing at attention, like an army private at inspection. "Sir, I've started that job and I'd really like to see it through. With your permission, sir."

Steve sighed through his nose, a motion that provoked an ache somewhere under his skin, and he shifted uncomfortably to try and relieve it. Well, Stiles was evidently the gung-ho type and Harper was one lucky son-of-a-gun to have him as a partner. He nodded. "Okay - Harper, you stay and help him."

Harper ducked his head in a nod and Steve put a hand on his shoulder to stop him before he could return to the job at hand. "Harper - " He waited until Harper reluctantly met his eyes. "Look, we'll talk about this. But in the meantime, put it behind you and have a Merry Christmas, okay?"

Harper had flushed even more deeply, but his expression lightened some. "Thank you, sir," he mumbled. "You too, sir."

Steve slapped his shoulder lightly and looked down to see if he still had the microphone attached. "Cahill? You still out there?"

"Yes, sir!"

The rain probably hadn't been good for the mike because his voice sounded scratchy with static, but at least it was there. "You guys start breaking down. Mark and preserve the tapes."

"Yes, sir. We'll see you back at the station."

The station.

Steve groaned inwardly, pushing his hair off of his face and trying to squeeze some of the water out of it.

Paper work. His favorite. But it didn't take everybody to write this up - at least, not right away.

"Look, Manning, you get this guy processed and stowed for the holiday, Harper and Stiles, you take care of the evidence, Cahill, you and the surveillance team make sure your stuff is all marked and packed up and delivered. The rest of you inventory your weapons and sign your logs and then go home. I'll get enough of the paperwork started to keep us out of trouble. Merry Christmas."

There was a brief silence on the line.

"You sure, sir?" Cahill sounded torn between hope and duty.

"I'm sure. Go on - have a nice holiday. You've earned it."

"Thank you, sir!" Cahill's voice was jubilant and Steve shook his head, leaning back against the wall to take some of the weight off of his rubbery legs. "And, sir?"

"Cahill?"

Cahill's voice was solemn now. "I just want you to know, Lieutenant, that Nurse Petrillo did not overstate. I too have always been a great admirer of your - "

"Cahill." Steve broke in firmly.

Hell. I'm going to be in hell when I get back to work.

"You might want to think carefully before you finish that - I could still find a whole lot of paper work for you to do."

"Yes, sir." But Cahill sounded more gleeful than alarmed.

A faint background of snickers echoed across the wire and Steve ground his fingers in first one eyelid, then the other.

Oh, yeah. This was going to be hell, all right.

"And Cahill."

"Sir?" This time, Cahill sounded a little more cautious.

"That was good work tonight. All of you."

"Thank you, sir." There was a return of the sound of high-fives being slapped and backs being pounded and Steve felt his mouth turn up in a faint smile. Just a bunch of kids, most of them. Maybe they should meet his Dad.

That thought reminded him that he had been stopped in mid-call earlier and he fumbled through his pockets for his cell phone. He pulled out a handful of plastic fragments and stared at it in dismay. Oh, great. The LAPD owes me a cell phone. He pushed himself away from the wall and back into motion. And a pair of jeans. And a jacket.

Santa cutie, there's one thing I really do need - the deed - to a platinum mine…

He opened his eyes and glanced dispiritedly around the cab and then at his shopping bag again. Not exactly a platinum mine, Dad - sorry. He looked out the window to gauge their progress. They were making good time. That was one good thing - not a lot of traffic on Christmas Eve. He closed his eyes again. That familiar, dozy-bleary feeling told him that Karen was probably right - he was probably a little concussed. So no bourbon in my eggnog. Oh, well…

Santa baby, I'm filling my stocking with a duplex - and checks. Sign your 'X' on the line…Santa baby…and hurry down the chimney tonight.

Come and trim my Christmas tree…with some decorations bought at Tiffany's…I really do believe in you…let's see if you believe in me…

He tugged the shopping bag protectively closer.

He had sat staring at his computer for what seemed like a long time, trying to get enough of the basic elements of the evening's events on file to keep everything legal and in order. The station echoed with emptiness except for one or two skeleton-staff detectives scattered at their desks, fielding calls, and Mimi Waters, the desk sergeant on duty, who had a sprig of holly tucked behind one ear and a branch of mistletoe suspended from the ceiling over her head. He had dutifully leaned over the desk to give Mimi a kiss on the cheek and wished her a Merry Christmas before settling down to work. She had complained that he was wet, so he'd snagged a cup of tepid, watery coffee in hopes of warming himself up. But that sad excuse for coffee wasn't going to warm anybody. Maybe if it had a shot of something stronger in it. Of course, he was still on duty, and if he was really concussed he shouldn't be touching alcohol. He'd wondered what would happen if he ignored that rule, just this once. Would his head explode or something?

He had been massaging his temples, trying to coax some level of focus so he could finish up, when he'd heard his name called and looked up. Captain Newman was standing just inside his office door.

"I just got back in myself. Didn't hear everything, but it sounded like things went well."

"Yeah." Steve leaned back in his chair, glad to take his eyes from the computer screen. "A couple of glitches, but it came out okay. I'm just writing it up now."

Newman strolled over to Steve's desk. "Where's the rest of the team?"

"I sent them home. Figured I could get things started myself."

"Hm." Newman studied him keenly. "You take a detour through a woodchipper on the way here?"

Steve smiled a little and shook his head slightly. "Naw - little accident is all." He made a swipe at his face to get rid of some of the water still dripping from his bangs. Newman walked over to the coffee station and grabbed a roll of paper towels and tossed it to him. Steve caught it and tore off a few to scrub at his hair.

"I heard some of it - Harper screw up?"

Steve blotted at his face for a minute before answering. "Might be too strong a word," he said at last. "Got a little sloppy. Sure likes the limelight, though. Might be better off in the PR unit if something opens up there."

"I'll keep it mind. Somebody medical took a look at you, right?"

"The airport has a nurse practitioner."

"Thought I heard something like that." Newman meandered back to study the computer monitor over Steve's shoulder. "Why don't you head on home, then? I have the tapes and heard enough to get things started here. Just send me that file you're working on. You can pick it up and fill in the details the day after Christmas."

Steve hesitated. "That's a little irregular, isn't it?"

Newman shrugged. "You're on medical leave for the day as of now, officially. I just said so. I'm betting this nurse practitioner will back me on that. Go on. You look like hell and your dad is waiting for you."

Steve decided that he didn't need telling twice. He forwarded the file to Newman's email address and told the computer to shut down. "What about you? Isn't somebody waiting for you on Christmas Eve?"

Newman stretched and started back toward his office. "That's part of the joy of being a divorced man, Sloan - nobody looking for you on Christmas. Have a good time. Give your dad my best."

Steve picked up his shopping bag and turned off the monitor, hesitated. "Look, Captain - my dad always prepares too much food and then looks hurt when there aren't enough people to eat it. Why don't you come for dinner? I know he'd love it."

Newman folded his arms over his chest. "I might take you up on that. You're not cooking, right?"

Steve gave him a speaking look. "I'll be pouring drinks. Dinner's at three."

"I'll be there, then. And Steve - don't drive, right?"

"Don't worry - I'm calling a cab."

"Good. I'd hate for any carelessness to cause damage to your - er - much-lauded posterior charms."

Steve closed his eyes and counted to five. So. Captain Newman had been there for that part? He was never going to shake this one. Ever. "Very funny, sir," he offered dryly.

He could hear the grin in Captain Newman's voice. "Merry Christmas, Sloan."

Santa baby, forgot to mention one little thing, a ring… I don't mean a phone…

"Your stop, Mac."

Steve sat up slowly and peered through the rain sheeting the window. Lights twinkled along the roof of the house and outlined the door, and a Christmas tree shone bright in the front window. He smiled, carefully gathering his bag and trying to protect it from the rain.

"Thanks." He glanced at the fare on the meter and counted it out, then looked for a good bill for a tip.

Santa baby, and hurry down the chimney tonight. Hurry down the chimney tonight. Hurry down the chimney…

I'm hurrying. "Here you go. Merry Christmas."

"Hey, wow! Thanks, Mac! You too!"

TBC

A/N: Thanks for hanging in there. Almost done now.