Jon: Santa

Jon looked around the party, which was in full swing. Travis, still practically glowing from his promotion, was among a group of people trying to come up with a Christmas-related word for every letter of the alphabet.

"'Nog?'" someone suggested.

Lieutenant Hess disapproved. "I don't think that's a word."

"It's 'eggnog,' but if we get desperate…" trailed off Travis.

A deep baritone piped up, "My aunt used to make nut bars every Christmas."

"'Nut bars.' Perfect!"

Meanwhile, for reasons Jon couldn't begin to comprehend, Malcolm and Hoshi were working with two of Columbia's crewmembers to figure out how many bird were in 'The Twelve Days of Christmas.' They had just begun, and it was an interesting conversation to listen in on.

"Wait. If there are six geese but they're laying eggs, do we have to count potential goslings?"

"Let's assume they were simply eating the eggs." That was Malcolm.

"Well, there aren't any ganders, so that makes sense."

Hoshi moved the conversation along. "Seven swans a-swimming on the seventh, eighth, ninth, tenth, eleventh, and twelfth days. That's six days."

"Forty-two swans."

"I hope they had a big pond," noted Malcolm.

Erika made her way over to the table by Jon. "Any recommendations?" she asked, eying the display.

"Try a Rice Krispie wreath," he suggested.

She picked one up. "We used to make these for every single holiday, but we just made the bars."

"Chef likes to outdo himself. Speaking offancy food, I hear the party on Columbia featured a Christmas tree cake."

"They saved me a piece. It was good, although a bright green cake is unusual."

"Ho ho ho!" sang out the Santa hat. Oh no. That might give Chef an idea.

Sure enough, he came out. "Captain Hernandez, may I have a word with Captain Archer for a moment?"

"Sure."

Porthos followed him, probably hoping that he'd found cheese. Chef had decided against a cheese and cracker display this year because, he claimed, half the cheese ended up being fed to Porthos and he didn't want to be responsible for any such thing again.

"It's time," declared Chef. He handed Jon neatly folded clothes. "Here's your outfit."

Several minutes later, Jon reluctantly emerged from a supply closet. "All these years I've worked on preserving my dignity," he sighed.

"This is not going to harm your image as captain," countered Chef, who'd been through this before.

"How did I get talked into this again? Dr. Phlox would make a much better Santa."

"A Denobulan Santa Claus?" Chef rolled his eyes. "Everyone will love you. Now, do you have the candy canes?"

Resigned, he adjusted his beard and picked up the sack containing candy canes. "Right here."

Chef opened the door, and Jon peered out. Crewman Johnson, the only other person who knew about this stunt Chef had talked him into, was taking her job of keeping an eye on Porthos very seriously. Considering that she knew he was dressing up like Santa, that was probably a good sign, he thought. Then it occurred to him that she hadn't yet seen him in costume. Well, the time for getting out of this particular exploit had come and gone. That ship having set sail, there was nothing to do but step out the door. Still, he hesitated.

When he thought about it, his concerns were a little strange. He'd faced down Klingons, Romulans, the Xindi, and numerous other hostile species intent on his destruction. He'd escaped alien custody so many times he'd lost count. He had brought his ship through unknown phenomena that seemed likely to tear it apart. Only Malcolm and Trip had logged more time in Sickbay and more near-death experiences. So why was he afraid of the people in the room?

He looked out again and saw many familiar faces. That was it. He had to work with half of them every day, and the other half – well, you never know.

Chef nudged him. "Go out already!"

"Alright." Jon finally walked out the door. "Ho ho ho! Merry Christmas!"

Merry Christmas to all my readers!