In a meeting room at the near-silent Parker Center, Ally greets Sharon from the head of a long conference table, already cross-armed and glowering. "Are we gonna have weekend meetings all the way through? Because this is seriously starting to cramp my style."

Pete stopped by FID offices earlier in the week to announce he'd finished his research. With Halloween creeping around the corner, Sharon had asked the decorating team to gather on another Saturday morning. Nine AM, a compromise between splitting up the day and 'cramping someone's style.'

"I might be able to find a few weeknights to meet, but everyone has different schedules." At Ally's deepening scowl, Sharon lifts a plate from her tote. "I brought cookies…"

This news does little to brighten Ally's mood, though she does inventory the treats as Sharon arranges them across a smaller side table. After picking up a snickerdoodle, she heads for the door. "I'm going for a smoke while everyone else shows up."

On her way out she passes Flynn, who trudges into the room with sunglasses blocking his eyes. Without offering a greeting, he plops a handle-topped box onto the cookie table, followed by a plastic bag. Markered handwriting on the cardboard — Bob's Breakfast Blend — provides context. He pushes his sunglasses up into his hair before twisting a lid from the front of the box and fishing a small paper cup from the bag.

Sharon watches this with a flattened grin. "Do you always have coffee on your person, Sergeant?"

He doesn't pause in his pouring, letting a lifted shoulder answer her question. With the coffee box back on the table, he elaborates: "Quit smoking, quit drinking. Mostly gave up sugar. Plain ol' black coffee is the only vice that helps me do my job, so it's the only vice I still have."

"Well, I can't argue with that."

He holds up another cup. "Can I pour you one?"

"Sure."

With his attention pointed toward the task, he asks, "Cream? Sugar?"

"No sugar, just a little cream."

He seals the box and cracks open a tiny bottle of cream from inside the bag. With a questioning look, he streams a split-second of liquid into the cup before Sharon says, "That's good." She tries to tamp down her under-caffeinated desperation as she reaches for the offered brew. "I'm guessing you're Robbery-Homicide's resident barista."

"Nah, I leave those guys to their own devices." Following a drink, his lips curl. "But I have figured out the perks of knowing the boss's coffee order."

Sharon presses her tongue against her cheek, forcing her amusement away before asking, "So this is a bribe, then?"

"No," he pulls the denial long. "It's assistance."

"Oh, well." A testing sip finds the coffee pleasantly hot and strong. She hums into the realization, tipping the cup in his direction. "Thanks for the help."

"My pleasure." He leans onto the table, peering across to the cookie trays.

"I thought you gave up sugar."

"Mostly." He holds up a green-frosted sugar cookie. "You can't expect me to turn down homemade goodies."

Sharon lifts a brow. "That's between you and your vices, I guess."

It's obvious, right away, that the quip misses its mark. The way his jaw tenses leaves her backtracking, "I mean…" She shakes her head. "Not that this is…"

"Yeah, whatever, LT." He balances the cookie onto the rim of his coffee cup and moves to the far side of the conference table, stretching the distance between them as much as possible.

Ally reappears, chatting with Caroline in low tones. When they reach the coffee, Ally lets out a sigh that leaves her shoulders slumping. "Oh thank God."

Eric has a similar reaction when he plods through the door. He gathers caffeine and a handful of cookies before sinking into a chair at the table. But Pete enters like a ray of sunshine, bright-eyed, hauling plans in one hand and a travel mug in the other. Sharon watches him set up at the front of the room as she pours another cup of coffee and selects a blondie for dunking.

"Okay, so, I watched the movie, and…" Snapping magnets onto its corners, Pete mounts a poster covered with notes, sketches, small multicolor pom-poms, and a handful of color swatches. "I came with ideas." He nods toward Flynn. "You made a good choice, Andy."

Andy. Given this probably unearned familiarity, Sharon braces for a retort, the beginnings of conflict within the group. It doesn't come. Instead, Flynn lifts his cup in Pete's direction, a silent show of recognition.

Despite the meeting's rocky start, Sharon finds herself intrigued by his continued interest. Pete, meanwhile, launches into his findings. "So, overall, we're going to want a lot of bright, peppy elements." He points toward the swatches. "My suggestion is to move away from traditional Christmas colors, build the theme around," he taps his way down the cards, "this vivid pink, light blue, bright green — Grinch-colored, of course — yellow, and red."

Ally grumbles into her coffee, "So you're saying we're not gonna be able to use any of our old decorations."

As Pete's gaze drops, Sharon reminds Ally, "We have more stuff in storage than we would ever need for one party."

"That's true," Pete says, "we can use the trees, wreaths, anything red would be perfect, anything gold. We'll have plenty of opportunities to put up anything that suggests snow, of course."

"Sounds great." Sharon offers him an encouraging smile. She nods toward his poster. "Looks like you have some Who-specific ideas?"

"I do!" He turns back to the board, pointing to a pink-and-white hued sketch. "All the houses in Whoville are pink. Strong curvature, covered in snow." He extends his arm, pulling his palm in a large circle. "I want to arrange these, in two semicircles, around the seating area at the party, to suggest our attendees are in the middle of town."

"The king of cardboard construction," Eric says.

Pete gives a half-bow, "I do what I can," before clapping his hands together with renewed enthusiasm. "Now, at the big moment of the movie, when Christmas comes to Whoville and the Whos all start singing, there's this star thing," he jabs at another drawing on his poster, "that rises up out of the town. I drew up some quick plans on how we could fabricate a lightweight, sparkly gold starburst to hang over the gathering, as a kind of centerpiece."

In the front, Caroline lets out a long ooh. "I like that."

"Good, because this, not the Who houses, is our central element. I say we go mod with the rest of the decorations, as suggested by the movie. With this palette as a guide," he gestures to the swatches, "though easy on the pink since we'll already have a lot — I think we can pull the whole thing together."

"Uh," Flynn raises a hand, squinting toward Pete's poster. "For those of us who aren't fluent in design whatever, what's 'mod?'"

"Retro, 60s style." When this earns a continued blank expression, Pete elaborates, "Pom-pom garland. Angular ribbons. Oh, those cute little snowflake cutouts would fit in. Starbursts, like I said. Swirls, circles, swooping lines; bright colors, of course—"

"Ah," Flynn breaks into the list with a frowning nod, "yeah, okay." But, when Pete's attention returns to the board, Flynn fixes Ally with a wide-eyed, slack-jawed shake of his head.

"I'm sure we'll all get a better sense for the specifics once we get started." Sharon drags her clipboard close. "But first, we need to see what we'll be able to use from storage and what we'll need to order or make before the party, to meet Pete's vision."

"Ah, Andy's vision," Pete corrects.

"Pete and Andy's vision," Sharon says, not looking up from the calendar. "And we need to get moving soon, before the Halloween team crowds back into storage." She shoots an apologetic smile at Caroline before asking, "I know this won't work for everybody, but would we be able to do an inventory on Tuesday evening? Around five?"

Amidst a line of nods, Flynn's answer is wary. "Yeah, as far as I know…"

Sharon lifts her palms. "Work comes first. If you get a case, you get a case. That goes for everyone."

"Then sure. Tuesday's fine."

"Great." She jots the appointment into a square marking October's final week. "Caroline, we'll catch up with you when we start on the fun stuff."

"Wow," Ally pokes at Caroline's shoulder. "Look at you, getting a pass."

"Yeah, and I'm sure it'll feel like a pass when I'm locking up some crackhead and you're all untangling Christmas lights."

This earns a laugh from Flynn as he pushes back from the table. "Ah, the joys of patrol."

Eric, looking much more awake than when he showed up, says, "I hear you'll look back on these days fondly, at some point."

"Right." Caroline rolls her eyes. "I'd like to fast-forward to that day, please."

Before the meeting dissolves on its own, Sharon reiterates, "Meet here, at, let's say, 5:30 on Tuesday."

She gets enough of a response to believe her directive sinks in. While Pete folds up his poster and Caroline sets into describing a recent arrest, Sharon combines what's left of her cookies onto a single plate. She brushes crumbs and sprinkles from the table, gathers the emptied plates into a pile. When she turns from the trash, she finds Flynn headed away from the rest of the group.

Without sparing time to consider the move, Sharon steps into his path. "Please, take a few cookies with you."

His eyes travel from her face, to a point on the far wall, and back. He grits, "You think I wasn't serious about not eating sugar?"

"I know you were serious. About all of it." It's the only olive branch she's able to grasp, at the moment. "But, like you said, these are homemade." She raises the cookie-bearing plate to his chest. "You can save them for a rainy day."

The core of his expression stays dark, even as his lips lift. "Wouldn't you know it? We're in LA. Blue skies across the board."

He steps around her, grabs the remains of his coffee and makes for the door, folding the box under his arm like a running back headed for the endzone. Sharon wouldn't be surprised if he stiff-armed an unwitting passerby on his way out of Parker Center. Finally showing his true colors, she thinks.

It's almost a relief.