THE SECRET SANTA DEBACLE OF 2005
A Psych Christmas story.
Set before season one, and based on a reference made by Chief Vick in 'Poker… I Barely Know Her', when she is explaining to Juliet (who really should have listened) why it is that Lassiter doesn't like surprises…
Note: In this story, Carlton's mother calls him Booker, which is also a reference to a conversation in the above episode.
Shuuuliet, the quote at the beginning is for you. As I'm sure you can tell.
-x0x-
"Rats. Nobody sent me a Christmas card today. I almost wish there weren't a holiday season. I know nobody likes me. Why do we have to have a holiday season to emphasise it?"
(From: 'A Charlie Brown Christmas'.)
-x0x-
"Christmas is a gimmick-ridden holiday for happy people. Trust me on that. It's a lesson learned from years of observation."
"And 'bah humbug' to you, too, Detective," said Lucinda Barry, pulling a face.
Lassiter poked at the regulation tinsel that some well-meaning soul (probably the new guy, McFarTooEager) had draped across his nice, tidy desk. It was pink and it was glittery, two qualities he hated. "Let me guess. You're a big fan of all things jolly. Hohoho and all that garbage."
"I have a reasonable fondness for the season. I'm certainly not the Grinch." Her bright eyes challenged him to keep on fighting his corner, if he dared.
"Wait - I thought I was Scrooge in this scenario."
"You can be both," she told him archly. "It's my scenario."
"And I suppose you'll be spending Christmas Day in the loving arms of your extended family. Mother, father, rowdy cousins, the uncle who thinks he's a comedian… your boyfriend?"
Barry shrugged. "Try a cat and a Christmas tree." When he frowned, she pulled back slightly. "Hey, don't pity me. That's just the way I like it. How about you?"
"Oh, you know."
"No," she said patiently, "I don't. That's why I'm asking you."
Why couldn't he bring himself to answer? It had been more than a year, for pity's sake. He should be fine by now, but Christmas really was the worst time of all. They had always had such fun in the past. He gave Victoria money to treat herself. She gave him the most thoughtful gifts, showing how well she knew him. That was then. That was marriage. This was… "None of your business, Detective Barry," he blurted out, far too sharply. The sense of guilt he felt was unexpected and he blocked it immediately. Walls up. Emotion safely stowed away.
Watching Barry's wordless reaction, he could have sworn that she was doing the same.
-x0x-
The worst part was that he had been forced to try much harder than usual with his Secret Santa gift. Part of him – the deeply suspicious side that he always trusted – had the strongest feeling that the draw had been manipulated against him. Chief Vick. Chief Vick, of all people. How the others would love to see him fail at this, the cruellest kind of test. What were you supposed to buy for your interim boss? Too small a gift, and she would think him mean. Too flashy, and everyone would automatically think that he was buying her favour.
"'Secret' Santa. Riiight," he complained to himself, as he waited in line at the store. "There's no 'secret' about it. They know. I know they know."
He had even sought his mother's advice, something he hated to do. "Presents are easy, Booker," she had told him smugly. "If it's someone you care about – flowers or jewellery. If not – Sudoku. Buy them a puzzle book. There's no comeback for that. Not unless they want folk to think they're too dumb to appreciate it."
He had nodded and smiled, and walked away feeling more deflated than ever. Just imagining the chief ripping off the paper in front of everyone, only to reveal a bumper book of math puzzles, was enough to make him wish that he could turn into a bear and sleep right through the season in some nice, cosy cave, far away from the madness and the paralysing merriment.
Still, the idea of a book did appeal to him. Several hours, three stores and one very harassed salesperson later, he finally found a suitable candidate. It was the kind of book he would have liked to buy for himself and he knew that Vick would love it too. In addition, it was heavy, so points for that. It also cost a reasonable amount of money – right in the sweet zone between disrespectful and brown-nosing. Lassiter felt a sense of peace as he left the store with his purchase weighing him down, and a smile on his face for the first time in days. He had done the right thing. He had saved Christmas, and his honour. It was going to be okay…
-x0x-
"What on earth is this?" said Karen Vick, staring at the giant tome on her desk, surrounded by the wreckage of what had once been immaculately folded paper and (here, Lassiter shuddered at his own presumption) a bright red ribbon with curling ends.
He stayed at his own desk, clenching his jaw and trying not to look as though he were in any way responsible.
"Detective Lassiter? Get in here right now," she demanded loudly, causing everyone else to scatter in relief.
The walk to her office felt like a walk to his own execution. "Yes, Chief?" he said with false holiday cheer.
Vick folded her arms. Her smile was inscrutable. "Something tells me I have you to thank for this, Santa," she said.
"I… Oh…" Where were all of the words when he needed them? No doubt they had fled to the bullpen, just like everyone else. "Um, yes, Chief. I thought you would like it." But why? Why had he thought that, exactly?
"'A Call to Arms: Weaponry of the Civil War Era,' by L. M. Hamilton."
"Just so," Lassiter agreed, for want of anything tactful to say.
"This is… It's too much. You know, detective, a box of chocolates would have done the trick. Or even a bottle of wine. I could certainly do with one," she added under her breath.
Dammit. Why hadn't he thought of that? "I was going for something more meaningful."
"Meaning what?" Now her smile had disappeared altogether. Lassiter froze.
"Um – history. I'm a history buff, myself. I even do a bit of re-enacting on the side, as a matter of fact…. but, okay, that's irrelevant. This is a great book, Chief…"
"Detective Lassiter. It's heavier than a cannon. And…" She looked down. "And it actually has a cannon on the cover."
"So… just to clarify. You don't like it?"
"Oh, no – I love it. Really, Carlton, thanks so much."
He stared at her. Sarcasm floored him sometimes. "O-okay then. Can I go now?" Please…
Vick sighed. "Yes, of course." And then, presumably because she felt sorry for him: "Merry Christmas, Detective."
"Merry Christmas," he responded dutifully, hating the words more than ever.
-x0x-
The rest of Christmas Eve went by in a blur of gifts and laughter (some of the latter at his expense, no doubt). Santa Barbara was short on crime today and long on celebration, but Lassiter's mood kept sinking. No gift settled on his desk. He even made a few trips to the bathroom, just to see if the 'magic' would happen in his absence. No such luck.
As the end of his shift rolled around, he made one last trip, to the copier this time.
When he returned, his arms full of files, a miracle had occurred. A small parcel sat in the middle of his mouse pad, shiny and red, with a golden bow. He stared at it, nonplussed – and then a shy smile broke out on his face.
"Thank you," he said softly, hoping that his Secret Santa was around to hear it.
He sat down and picked up the gift, turning it round in his hands and enjoying the feel of it. Someone had remembered him. Somebody cared. The wrapping was neat, in accordance with his high standards. What could be inside?
"Only one way to find out," he chuckled to himself. With careful fingers, he unpicked the folds and drew out a little box, still keeping the shape of the parcel intact, like a nut with the kernel removed.
When he opened the box, his jaw dropped.
Inside, nestled on a dark velvet background, was a set of antique buttons; the real deal, straight from a colonel's uniform, just like the one his own ancestor, Muscum T. Lassiter would have worn. The detective was charmed beyond measure. This was no Secret Santa gift. There was only one person who knew him well enough to dream up such a perfect surprise.
"Hey," said McStickingHisNoseIn, passing by. "Nice buttons."
"Thanks," said Lassiter. "They're from my wife."
And he picked up his phone to call her…
-x0x-
By the time the wretched call was over, everyone in the bullpen was fully aware that Lassiter's gift did not originate from Victoria. They had tried not to listen – he knew that, deep down – but the embarrassment was too much for him to contain. Red-faced, he blasted his co-workers on the subject of boundaries and private conversations, wilfully ignoring the fact that he was the one who had broken all bounds of decency in the first place by subjecting them to a one-sided, fifteen minute display of bad feeling and disappointment.
When he finally ran out of steam, Lassiter picked up his gift and his jacket and sloped from the room like a beaten man. All eyes were on him, but he didn't care. This day was over. He was going home, right now, to lie on his couch and drink himself straight into Boxing Day.
On the steps outside the precinct, he bumped into Detective Barry. When she saw the box in his hands, she blushed. "Oh," she said. "You got it, then."
Lassiter halted on the bottom step and gazed up at her in shock.
"You?" he said. "You did this?"
"Yes, of course. Well – okay, I'm sorry. I know it's supposed to be a secret. But I saw them in an antique store, and I knew you'd love them… because of your hobby, I mean… You do like them?"
"I do," he said, bewildered.
Lucinda's posture relaxed and she flashed him a brilliant smile, quite unlike her usual expression. "I'm so glad. Merry Christmas, Ebenezer."
When she turned and walked away with her usual grace, he watched her back until she disappeared into the station. The little box of buttons, he clutched to his chest like a talisman. It was precious after all, in a way that was quite surprising.
"Merry Christmas, Lucinda," he murmured, with a tiny, hopeful smile.