A/N: Ok, just a story I wrote, it has more chapters (a lot more) and I hope you like it.

Title: Happy Christmas

Rating: PG

Pairing: None

Summary: "I'll never want anything but to know I wasn't a mistake, and that maybe someone does loves me."

Disclaimer: None of it belongs to me, even though I wish it did, it doesn't.

The sun slowly dipped under the trees and hills as I think about why I'm here.

I never thought I'd be sitting in bus on my way to meet him.

I never thought I'd meet my father at all.

My mother had always told me he was an okay guy, and that their parents didn't approve their relationship and that the pressure of it had torn them apart.

She's never really said anything bad about him, but she's never really said anything good about him either.

She never talked about him at all unless I asked, and after her just crying at any mention of him I learned not to ask.

I don't know that much about him, and I never expected to know that much about him.

I had overheard one of her conversations with one of her friends when I was younger.

About how he was the normal football jock with everything going for him, and she was the blond cheerleader that aspired to be teacher some day.

They had been the perfect couple, best friends since second grade that had slowly become girlfriend and boyfriend, the two people that everyone else wanted to be, the image of perfection.

They had wanted to get married after high school, to go to college, get good jobs, and someday have a family.

But in there senior year the mistake that was me killed there hopes and dreams.

I had been the child that neither of my parents had really wanted, but that someone had to take.

After that I knew she had lied to me, that I had split them apart not their parents.

Neither of them wanted a baby then and the decision of what to do about me had slowly drew them apart.

I always hated that I was a mistake, that my mother and father never really wanted me.

I was ten when I had heard her say that, and it hurts just as much now as it did then.

I look down at my watch and I still have an hour till this long bus ride ends and I can embark on the last part of my trip.

My mother would kill me if she knew where I was, but I know she has no idea I'm not sitting at home and watching something on the TV.

If she knew I was on a bus going to DC to see my father, I'd be grounded till I was thirty.

I look down at my watch again and it's only been one minute since I looked at it before.

I try to think of what kind of dad he is, if he's nice and kind or if he's angry and mad.

I wonder if he's the kind of dad that when your mom tells you to go to bed that he tells you if you be quiet you can stay up and watch a move with him.

I wonder if he's the kind of dad that goes out in the backyard and plays football, or sits down and plays a board game, or if he just likes to sit down and watch a movie or TV.

I wonder if he's the kind of dad that takes his daughter to a baseball game and eats hotdogs and peanuts just for the sake of going to a game.

I wonder what color his eyes are, if there blue or brown or green.

I wonder what color his hair is, if it's brown or blond or red or gray.

I wonder if he's tall or if he's short, if he's an only child or if he has lots of bothers and sisters, if he smiles a lot or if he never smiles.

Small fluffs of snowfalls from the sky and stick to my window.

I love snow, how it tastes good and you can do almost anything with it, how it covers the ground and makes everything clean and white.

I wonder if he likes snow or if he likes any of the things I like.

There are so many things I don't know about him, so many questions I want to ask him.

Once again I look down at my watch, and now I only have forty-five minutes to go.

Time sure does fly when you're talking to yourself.

I watch the trees and the bushes run by my window as the white fluffy snow falls out side on the trees and road.

It's really dark outside now and with the slow fall of snow on the windows it gives the bus an almost eerie feeling.

I hold by bag close to me as I lay my head against the cold window beside me.

My legs hurt, and I know it's the fact that I haven't moved them in over five hours and the comfort, or lack there of, of the bus seat.

I had found his address in the back one of mom's desks, it had seemed like nothing then but when the chance of my Mom, step-dad and half brothers and sister I called my family being gone long enough and a cheap bus leaving I took my chances and left, hoping he still lived there and that maybe he didn't hate me and maybe he wanted to see me.

Before this I had never really thought about him, and there was no reason to think about him.

There was no reason to think about running away to meet him, there was no reason to think about what color his eyes and hair are, there was no reason to think about what kind of dad he would be if he was around.

There was no reason to think about if he loved me or not.

I never worried about rejection from my father or him not loving me, just because of the fact that I never thought I would meet him.

This was the most frightening feeling I had ever felt, the simple fear of being rejected by someone I didn't even know and I knew that there was every chance that I would get there and find out that he absolutely hated me and never wanted to see me again.

Not knowing anything about him was the scariest feeling in the world right now.

I pull out a small piece of paper from my pocket and unfold the very creased edges to show the worn pencil written address.

This small piece of paper was the only thing I had of him.

I had memorized the address and there was really no reason for me to have it written down on paper any more, but the feeling of having it there with me in my hand to look at was much better that having every number and letter in perfect sequence embedded into my brain.

Once again I find myself looking at my watch, I was really going to have to tell Grandma thank you.

This time I found exactly twenty-five minutes and fifty-eight seconds, fifty-seven, fifty-six.

Counting back seconds really isn't that fun, and is really not what I want to do for the next twenty-five minutes.

But then again thinking about all the things that could go wrong isn't really what I want to do for the next; I look down at my watch, twenty-four minutes either.

I fold the paper back up and slide it back into my pocket, safe where no one can take it.

I had dropped it at school once back when I had just found it, and some other kid had picked it up, threatening to tare it in half. I had been so scarred that he would rip it and I would loose my only possible contact to my father I had punched him in the stomach, really hard.

I got a day of suspension and a month of being grounded, but knowing that I had that small piece of paper right now made it worth the punishment.

I can't help but look down at my watch again, twenty-two minutes to go; I thought time moved faster when you talk to yourself.

I really should be working on a report right now on how someone did something to save someone else, but that's writing and I hate writing.

I've never had a diary or a journal, not sure that there's a difference, never written a story or a good report.

I'm more of the type to just talk, tell you what's on my mind and if your not listening, then I'll tell you anyway.

That was the first of the only two things my mother had told me about his personality, that I had a motor mouth like his.

That I talked just as much as I walked every day, and that he was the exact same way.

The second was when she was mad at me one time, she told me 'You can make me mad just as easily as your father could', and every once and a while I hold pleasure in making her so mad it makes her go back a generation to show me how displeased she is with me.

I lay my head back and close my eyes, just for a minute, just long enough to resist the yawn begging my mouth to open.

Opening my eyes back up I look around the bus, there's a couple in front of me in there late twenties, a woman with three kids three rows in front of me, an older man across the isle, an elderly woman behind me, with countless others scattered around the bus.

I felt safe around the bus people, with the warm, loving mother a few rows off, the a sweet couple in front of me, and the nice older woman behind me I almost felt as safe as being at home.

But I'm sure the fact of having a pocketknife in my back pocket had nothing to do with my security, or the pepper spray in the front of my bag.

I lay my head back down closing my eyes again, this time not opening them back up, just resting for a while.

It's no surprise to me that the next thing I know someone's taping on my shoulder telling me to wake up.

When I open my eyes I find the older lady that had been sitting behind me at my side waking me up.

"Where here in DC honey," I heard her tell me, "I'm sure you want to get off this small bus."

"Thank you," I tell her as I swing my bag over my shoulder and stand up.

"No problem, I hope you find a dry way through all of this snow."

I look out my window to see how bad the snow had gotten, and I could hardly see the pavement of the parking area through all of the still falling snow.

It's only one week till Christmas and it's been snowing more and more lately.

"Wow, the snows really gotten bad," I say to no one particular.

When I turn around I find that the older lady was gone, and everyone else is to.

I walk toward the front of the bus, rapping my coat tight around me as I walk into the cold, snowy DC night.

I take a quick look at my watch, 9:34, and I know I should get a cab before it gets any later.

Walking away from the bus I make my way to the front of the bus station, quickly finding a cab to take me the last few miles on my long trip.

"Where to?" the cab driver asks me as we pull out of the bus station.

"Walnut Grove Rd." I answer him; slightly more interested in the snow falling out side my window.

"Walnut Grove, a lot of FBI agents and stuff live down that way. NSA, CIA, NCIS, all that kind of stuff," he informs me.

"NCIS, what's that stand for?" I ask him, curious as to what the answer will be.

"Naval Criminal Investigative Service, the Navy's cops that investigate murders and stuff," he answers as he turns at various roads.

The houses we were passing by all had lights, some had glowing snow men and reindeer, one had a giant blow-up Santa sitting in the middle of there yard.

Mom had never liked lights and things like that so we never had anything like the houses around here do, we would only have a Christmas tree and small decorations in the living room.

"Here we are, Walnut Grove Rd.," the driver said as he pulled into the street I was looking for.

"I need 138," I said as he drove down the street.

"There, 138 Walnut Grove Rd.," he said as he stopped the cab in front of small house with a few lights and decorations.

"Thank you," I say as I get out of the cab and pay the man for the ride.

It was hard to make myself walk the few feet to the front of the house, yet strangely easy.

I've changed my mind, ringing the doorbell to his house is the scariest thing I've ever had to do, and it's very hard to bring my hand from my side to push the glowing button.

As soon as I ring that bell twice I'm almost ready to run, run and hind from what ever might be behind that door.

I can hear foot steps only a few seconds later as they come closer to the door.

As I hear the locks being undone and the doorknob being turned I think I forget to breath, my heart stops beating, and I can't move a muscle.

The second I can see his face as he opens the door all the way open, something inside me just knows it him, something inside me screams this is him and somewhere inside I know I never want to leave.

In my gut I just know he'll answer this question with a yes, and I know the second he does I'll never want anything but knowing that I wasn't a mistake, and that maybe someone does love me.

A/N: Ok, guess who's kid it is, and please review!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!