Maybe Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more!

Will finally reaches the front door, and stands in front of it for a moment, hardly daring to breathe. This will not be fun. It is not what he wants to do in the slightest. And yet? He has to. He just has to. Slowly, he reaches out a hand, and knocks on the icy paint work of the door. Behind the rippled, distorted glass of the door, a shape appears and the door opens. He winces.

"Hi."

Josh raises an eyebrow.

"Look, I'm an idiot. A massive, assish idiot, and I'm sorry."

A smile plays around Josh's mouth.

"I was angry and exhausted and frankly, I'm still exhausted, but I should never have phoned you like that."

"Especially at home."

Will winces again. "Yeah, especially at home. I'm sorry."

Josh raises an eyebrow again.

"I brought wine."

"Well in that case..." Josh opens the door to him, and smiles. "Come on in."

Will sighs with relief and walks in behind Josh.

"Donna! Will's here!"

She appears in the kitchen doorway, a ladle in hand. "Oh, good. Hey Will."

He smiles, sheepishly. "Hi. Look, Donna, I'm sorry about the phone message."

She shrugs. "It's fine. You were yelling at Josh, not me. You managed not to swear too badly in front of my daughter. It's all fine with me."

He smiles again, relieved.

"And you're staying for dinner?"

"Oh, I..."

"Course he is. He's brought wine. We're celebrating anyway, aren't we, and it's not like you can drink..."

Josh trails off as Donna's expression hardens. "Oh."

Will turns back to Donna. "Really?"

She shrugs again, with a murderous glare at her husband. "Yeah, we only found out yesterday." She grins. "Maybe you can keep this quieter?"

Josh grimaces. "Wouldn't be hard." He grins at Donna, and kisses her cheek, before waltzing off through the kitchen and inciting a squeal from the playroom beyond. Immediately, the soft thumping of footsie-pyjamaed feet speeds through and skids to a halt behind Donna's legs. Claudia Lyman, the very image of her father, gives Will a shy smile, looking up through her thick, dark, wonky fringe, little hands holding on to the back of Donna's jeans before she whips round to see Josh, sneaking up on her, squeals and runs into his open arms. Donna watches them wryly.

"They're one in the same," she says, shaking her head.

"Good luck."

She laughs and pats a hand on Will's arm. "You're a nice boy," she says. "You want to take them away from me?"

"Not desperately," Will laughs. "I've already got a little sister who's more trouble than she's worth."

"Oh, right. How's she doing?"

Will leans against the kitchen counter as Donna turns back to the stove, stirring a pot of stew. "Really good. She's studying for an MA in Dance Performance now."

"Wow. Well give her our love. I'd love to see her dance sometime."

Will smiles. "Good luck getting Josh there."

"Oh him." She shrugs. "He can stay home and look after Claudie."

She turns back to see Josh now tossing his little girl over his shoulder to her loud acclaim, excited shrieks echoing around the house. "Josh, don't wind her up too much. She's supposed to be going to bed."

"NO BED NO BED NO BED."

Josh has the grace to look a little apologetic. "Well then," he says. "I think I'm putting her to bed tonight."

"I think you are too."

He grimaces, offers his now upside-down daughter to Donna for a good-night kiss, and then hoists her back over his shoulder and walks off upstairs, Claudie giggling all the way.

Fr: ebethbnet

To: george at jrusselonline

Subject: Hi

Sorry that I didn't reply for a while. It all got a little crazy here. Well, anyway, I quit my job. So I'm back in Pulaski. But here's the thing. I like you George. You're a nice guy. But right now I can't be doing with relationships and all that. It's just a bit much. So could we just be friends?

Well, I hope you're all right. And think about getting back with Mary King. She looks really nice in People.

So, that's it. Have a Merry Christmas.

Love,

Lizzie

"I'm horrible."

"No, you're not."

"He broke up with someone else for me."

"That was his own fault."

Lizzie props her chin on her hand, where before her face was buried in her quilt. "She was pretty. And famous. And rich."

"Who are you talking about?" asks Lydia, stopping on her way past, leaning in the doorway.

"Oh, no one," covers Jane.

"No, come on. She's pretty and famous and rich? Someone you know?"

Lizzie groans. "No Lyds. Just a friend of a friend."

"Which friend?"

"Lydia!"

Lydia shrugs at Jane. "What? I'm showing a healthy interest in your boring lives. Or not so boring lives, as it turns out."

Lizzie groans again, face down on her bed. "George."

Lydia's eyes widen and she slides into the bedroom. "George?" she asks. "Sexy George the journalist, George?"

"Yes."

"So you were talking about Mary King?"

"Yes! How did you know that?"

Lydia drops onto the window seat, a sardonic expression gracing her face. "Well gosh Lizzie. I'll guess that People has a circulation of a few more than you."

Lizzie returns to her face-down-in-the-quilt position. "Well great."

Silence falls for a second, only to be broken by Lydia again. "So what were you saying about Mary King?"

"Lydia!"

She turns a scowling face to Jane. "Look. I'm just interested. So sue me."

"OK," mumbles Lizzie.

"For once, you two appear to be the most interesting people around, all right? You've met famous people, even if they are politicians," she says laced with derision, eyes rolling. "You've been photographed by the paparazzi. You've been in the papers. I was just interested."

Jane nods slowly. "Well we were going to be on Regis and Kelly, but you know, with the holidays coming up…"

Lizzie laughs into her quilt, still face down into its insanely cheery Christmas pattern.

"Fine," says Lydia, getting up. "If you just want to keep your little 'Jane and Lizzie exclusive club' that's fine. I don't give a damn."

"Just like Rhett," mumbles Lizzie again, propping her head up, pushing her hair out of her face.

Jane catches Lydia's hand as she prepares to moodily stomp back out of the room. "Lyddie, it's nothing secret…is it?" she adds, asking Lizzie.

"No," says Lizzie, resignedly. "It's just that George emailed me, saying that he'd split up with Mary King because he wanted to date me, and I emailed him back to say that I wasn't interested in a relationship now, but I'd like to remain friends. That's all."

Lydia frowns. "He split up, with her?"

"Yeah."

Lydia raises her eyebrows. "That's not what I heard."

"Who from?"

Lydia adopts an expression which would suitably be accompanied with a 'duh!'. "Everyone. Everywhere."

Lizzie ignores this for a second. "What had you heard Lyds?" she asks, tiredly.

"Well." Lydia retakes her place on the window seat and leans in, conspiratorially. "I heard that her dad disapproved and made it known. Allegedly, they were going to go to Aruba or somewhere for Christmas, and then he stepped in and now? Well, they're both single."

Jane glances at Lizzie for support, only to see her frowning, looking far off. "Lyddie, how do you know this?"

"Oh places, people. You know."

"No."

Lydia shrugs. "It's not like it was that big of a surprise. Her father is famously controlling. He's been really careful of her PR and everything."

"Famously? Who is he?"

Lydia rolls her eyes. "Walt Elliot. Seriously? You didn't know?"

Jane shrugs. "Not all of us keep a close eye on teen celebrities."

Lizzie sits up, and shakes her hair out of her eyes. "So, wait, Mary King's father, Walt Elliot, split them up, from their planned Christmas together in, where, Aruba? And then he whisked her away, far from George?"

"Yeah, pretty much. That's what I heard, anyway."

"Wait, why are their surnames different?" asks Jane.

Lydia shrugs. "A stage name I think. There was already a Mary Elliot in the actors guild, or something."

Jane turns back to look at Lizzie, who is sitting still, her chin resting on her knees, deep in thought.

"Well," says Lydia. "My work here is done." She gets up and walks out of the room, soon followed by a shriek down the hall of "I WAS NAKED! YOU COULDN'T KNOCK?" and a slow dissolve into giggles.

"Lizzie?" says Jane, slowly. "Are you…?"

"Why did I trust him? Why did I ever trust him? I knew early on that he was somewhat economical with the truth. And I knew that Will thought that the truth was more important than breathing. Why did I trust George and not Will?"

"Don't beat yourself up about it."

"I feel like an idiot," she breathes, distressed.

"Look," says Jane, as she climbs onto the bed opposite Lizzie, facing her. "Maybe you could have realised. Maybe if you had sat down and really thought about it, you could have had a clue. But Lizzie, don't forget, George may have lied, but he was really nice to you, really flattering, throughout."

"Oh great, so I'm a hopeless female, blinded by nice words."

"No," says Jane slowly, "but anyone would not want to trust someone who was, let's be honest, offensive. Will was grumpy and uncommunicative, mean occasionally, and stubborn as hell."

Lizzie looks up, bewildered. "I have never heard a list of such negative words leave your mouth like that. Except talking about me," she adds, and smiles.

"He was," says Jane, ignoring her. "And there is no shame in believing the guy who is nice to you, and being suspicious of the one who is mean, all right?"

Lizzie wrinkles her nose in disgust. "I was still an idiot."

"Well, maybe," concedes Jane, scooting up to next to her little sister. "But you're my idiot."

"MERRY CHRISTMAS!"

Mary groans and rolls over. Lizzie cracks an eye, and fixes it not on her younger cousin, but on her oldest sister, standing in the doorway in her Christmas pyjama bottoms and a thick hoody. The steadiness of the said gaze is however impeded by said younger cousin tugging on her arm.

"Lizzie?" she whispers, somewhat conspiratorially. Strange, really, given that she burst in, yelling. Whispering would have worked then. Not so much now.

"Mmgg?" she mumbles into her pillow.

"It's Christmas morning Lizzie." A pause. "Aren't you excited?" Another pause. "Don't you want to find out if Santa has been?"

Jane clears her throat at this, and Lizzie opens the other eye. "Right," she says slowly. "Santa." She makes a long arm and tugs Mary's bedding clean off both Mary and the lilo on which she is sleeping. "Mary, we need to go and see if Santa has been."

Mary curls tighter into the foetal position, grabbing feebly for her bedding. "Just one more minute…" she mutters, curling tighter still.

"Nope," says Jane in somewhat clarion tones. "We've been up for a while. It's time you were too."

Mary groans, and feels around blindly (pre contact lenses) for her college hoody which was laid across the bottom of the bed as an extra blanket, but is now catapulted across the room, along with her bedding. She scowls at Lizzie, and then turns to find her glasses instead. Lizzie meanwhile slowly sits up, and pulls on slipper socks and a long, rather old, cardigan.

"Wait up," she says, as Clara turns to skip along the hall. "Come here a second."

Clara skips back into the room, and stands in front of her cousin. "Yes?" she asks, all innocence.

Lizzie looks at her carefully for a second, and then shakes her head slowly. "Boy, you are good. It used to take Lydia much longer than that…" She grins and pulls her into a hug. "Merry Christmas to you…pest," she adds.

Clara grins, and scampers away down the hall, singing Deck the halls, shrilly.

Jane slumps for a minute in the doorway.

"What time was it?" Mary asks, finally having located her hoody and slippers.

"The first wake up call? Five."

The sharp intake of breath is warranted.

"I bought an hour with a promise of watching The Game Plan."

"A small price to pay."

Lizzie grins. "No price at all. I'd have watched it, bribery or no."

"Good then, because it was you I was bartering."

Jane grins, and then walks off down the hall, following her exuberant cousin to find that Santa left quite the stash of loot, under the tree.

In the age old Bennet tradition, stockings are ripped through before breakfast, Christmas bread and coffee is devoured with much devotion, especially from the male contingent, then the whole family piles into cars for church. Church over, and everyone safely home, lunch is prepared in potentially the least restful or festive atmosphere, imaginable. Uncle Phil and Rex manfully take on the requirement of 'entertaining the children'. This has morphed over the years, from reading quiet Christmas stories to Jane and Lizzie, to guarding the presents from Kit and Lydia, to guarding the kitchen from Phil's boys Aksel, Jason and Seb, and now, it requires a family wide re-enactment of Barbie in the Nutcracker, just for Clara. It started last year, and unfortunately for them, the boys were too nice, and far too successful as the rats, the Nutcracker, and generally every other part that was required of them. So now they prance around the living room, spinning their little sister around in the air, her Nutcracker Barbie dress flying out around her. Rex and Phil are occasionally pulled in as furniture, generally unmoving characters or the Christmas tree, largely due to their expressions when asked to participate, and Phil's handy excuse of looking after his youngest daughter who can barely sit up. Agathe sleeps through it all, snuffling against her father's flannel shirt as he sits quietly beside the fire, watching his four other children disport themselves around the room.

"Where's Lydia?" asks Lizzie in a brief pause whilst Clara and Jane search for Clara's missing ballet shoe that was kicked off at a rather exuberant moment.

Mary is taking pictures throughout, beautiful mementos to add to the collection, and yet another good reason not to join in. She looks up from her camera. "I think she left a while ago," she says. "Something about returning text messages and emails."

Kit drops onto the couch, exhausted after playing all of the courtiers, simultaneously. "It's bull," she mutters, a keen eye for the whereabouts of her young cousin. "It's just that she didn't get to play Clara."

Lizzie snorts with laughter, gets up, and wanders into the kitchen to check on dinner.

"Anything I can do?" she asks warily from the doorway.

"We're almost done," says Francesca, her concentration not breaking for a second as she whips the gravy into shape.

"The table laid too?"

"Aliz is doing it."

Lizzie nods and quietly walks through to the dining room. It has been transformed from a slightly festive room (cards stood on the dresser, holly rammed behind pictures) to a table which would rival that of Saint Nicholas' in it's festive cheer. The red placemats outline the table, set with cutlery and shining glasses. The sideboard is now clear, and ready to receive the mountains of food which will be laid out, and down the middle of the table, candles are intertwined with greenery, hung with tiny ornaments and interspersed with figurines and ribbons.

"Holy…" mutters Lizzie, stock still in the door way. "How long has this taken you?"

Aliz Gardiner turns round from putting the finishing touches to a pot of bare twigs in the corner, ornamented with fairy lights and baubles. "Oh, you know," she says, shrugging. "Not long." Her long greying blonde hair is piled on top of her head, glasses perched on top of that as she frowns with an artist's concentration to finish tying the last bauble. "There," she says, "done." She steps back to admire her handiwork, next to Lizzie, and slips an arm round her niece. "You like?"

Lizzie gazes at her aunt for a second, slack jawed. "I am, yet again, without words."

She grins. "That's a good sign, I have learned over the years."

"Hey!"

She grins again. "Come on. Let's go and see what the little elfen have got up to."

"Hopefully not felling the tree."

Aliz turns and laughs. "Hopefully" she agrees, and following the sound of wailing, walks into the living room.

The marathon of Christmas dinner over, Rex and Phil take Clara and Seb with them out to walk the dogs in the frosty fields, whilst Aliz goes to lie down with Aggie for a while, Fran falls asleep in front of the fire, and all of the rest of the children (save for Lydia who has mysteriously disappeared again) do the washing up. As the last pans are dried, Aggie wakes up, and the other party return, the family congregates around the tree and pass out presents. The sky begins to darken, the room bustles with people squashed into too small couches, and too little floor space, and a rare and surprising peace settles on the room, no doubt only to last for a short while, but for now, glorious.

"He would have come by now."

Juliet shrugs. "He's working so hard. I'll bet you anything he worked all day today."

"So what, he could still arrive? Come on Jules."

At her husband's raised voice, Juliet frowns a little, and gently pushes the living room door to, letting them talk, in the kitchen, in peace. "Don't be like that. And if he does come, don't be so mean."

Rich shakes his head slowly, and paces around the small kitchen, coming to rest in front of the remains of the Christmas trifle. He picks up a spoon, and straightens up the spoon shaped scoops in the cream and custard. After a few minutes of silence as Rich moodily picks at the desert, he finally sighs and throws down the spoon. "Fine," he says. "I'll be nice. But he should apologise to George. She has been waiting for him all day."

"You noticed that too?"

"How she's hovered by the window? Yeah, couldn't miss it."

"Yeah well…" Jules sighs and takes a breath. "Let's go and make the most of what's left of the day, no matter if he turns up or not." She frowns at her husband. "All right?"

He frowns. "Fine" he says, sighs, takes a consolatory last spoonful of trifle, then takes her hand and walks back into the living room.

Sam, beginning to feel the effects of a long, exciting day, is rubbing a toy bunny's ear between his fingers whilst his grandmother reads to him, this time, How the Grinch Stole Christmas. One thumb creeps into his mouth, but his eyes remain wide saucers, thrilled to know if the Whos will get their Christmas after all. Bella is curled up in Georgiana's lap, fast asleep, whilst her twin sits wide awake in the midst of a wave of wrapping paper, splashing fat little hands into the crinkly, crunchy paper with glee. As Rich and Juliet pause in the kitchen doorway to smile at the scene before them, a car pulls up outside. Georgiana whips around, her face transformed in hopeful anticipation. Rich is prepared for disappointment, so much in fact that when, just as Harriet finishes reading The Grinch to Sam and the doorbell chimes, he is surprised to a level where he forgets to go and answer the door. Sam, transfixed by the end of the story, the already exciting day, and probably quite a lot of chocolate, leaps off the couch and sprints to the door.

"Can I open it? Can I? Please, can I?"

Rich slowly levers himself off the couch, and strides through to the hall. "All right," he says, "but ask who it is first."

"Who is it?" calls Sam, his mouth smooshed against the crack between the door and the frame.

"Santa," calls a quiet, distinct, and very tired sounding voice. "I forgot some presents."

Sam frowns in disbelief. "But you sound like Uncle Will." He takes a step back and peers through the obscured glass. "And you look like Uncle Will."

"OK, you got me. But I do have presents that he forgot!"

Sam squeals, then turns, bobbing up and down on his tip toes. "Now can I open it?"

Rich is now sitting on the stairs, watching the scene with tired amusement. "All right. Go on."

With the difficulty it takes for a four year old to heave open a heavy door, Sam finally gets it open, not long before hurling himself into his uncle's waiting arms.

"Hi!" he says, exuberantly.

"Hi yourself," says Will, and he hugs Sam, before putting him down again.

"What do you say, Sam?" calls Juliet from the living room.

Sam rolls his eyes, clasps his hands behind his back, and says with an angelic expression, "Merry Christmas and a happy New Year."

"And to you," he says, ruffling Sam's dark curly hair.

Sam grins, then spins round on the shiny wooden floor and sprints back into the living room.

"Hey," says Will, putting down his massive backpack, and offering a half hearted smile at Rich.

"Hey yourself." Rich takes a deep breath. "Merry Christmas."

"Happy Christmas."

Rich stands up slowly, and frowns. "You should have been here earlier."

"I know."

"Well…OK then."

They walk back into the living room together, and Will slumps onto the couch, next to his sister.

"Hello," she says, softly, all for the sake of the sleeping child in her lap.

"Hi," says Will, who leans over, and kisses her cheek. "Sorry I'm so late."

"Yeah," says Rich, blustering until Jules' steely glare meets his gaze. "Um…so why were you so late?" he asks, somewhat chastened by his wife.

Will sighs, and spreads out his hands wide in a look of mingled resignation and embarrassment. "Work," he says, shortly. "A whole…bunch of work." His carefully amended sentence causes Georgiana to smile.

"It's all right," she says.

"Really?"

"Yeah, really…?" Rich is cut off by a carefully hurled pillow. Jules grins back at him.

"Really," says Georgiana. "I mean," she adds, "as long as you brought a…bunch, was it, of presents."

Sam leaps up from where he momentarily had forgotten the impending presents, so intrigued was he by Lucy's game of smack the wrapping paper. "YEAH," he shouts, and runs and skids his way to Will's knees. "What did you bring Uncle Will? What have you got? Where are the…"

Jules gives her son a warning look. "Samuel," she says, "we don't badger our guests for presents."

His lower lip juts out. "But he's not a guest," he murmurs. "He's Uncle Will."

Jules' eyebrows disappear into her fringe.

"No, it's all right," cuts in Will, hastily. "I'm unforgivably late, and it was the reason he let me in. Here, Sam, have a rummage in there."

He indicates his backpack, and with glee, Sam dives for it, regardless that it is almost his height, tossing wash bags and socks out with delighted abandon, in his search for gifts.

"Here!" he crows, as his hands close around and wrench out, a distinctly bottle shaped gift.

"Whoa," calls Will, and leaps up. "That one's for Daddy," he says, swiftly takes it out of Sam's hands, and passes it to Rich, with a wry look. "Happy Christmas," he says, with a smile.

Sam watches his father with narrowed eyes, before turning back to the bag. "This one?" he asks, pulling out another gift.

"Sam honey, look on the label," says Jules. "Does that name start with an S? S for Sam?"

He screws up his face. "No," he says slowly.

"No," agrees Jules. "It's a G for George, isn't it."

He nods his head, and then lethargically walks it over to Georgiana.

His interest is waning. He clearly thinks that it is all a hoax.

"You know what, Sam," says Will, seeing trouble brewing, "I think there's one here that might have your name on it." He rummages further, practically shoves his head in the bag, but then, with a triumphant "HA" he pulls out a big box. "Here," he says. "Happy Christmas."

Sam's face transforms, and, opposed to his earlier method, he slowly prises off the paper, piece by Christmassy piece, to finally reveal a Playmobil castle, complete with knights, horses, swords and flags, catapults, a drawbridge and a trapdoor. He draws in an excited breath. "Look," he whispers, to no one in particular.

"Oh Will," says Jules slowly, eyeing the new gift. "It's too much."

Will grins and shrugs.

"Rich? Come on. Remonstrate him."

Rich is too distracted by the fancy new toy on the floor before him to say anything. Jules rolls her eyes at her husband.

"Really Will, it is too much, no matter what Rich will tell you when he snaps out of his toy-enduced trance."

Will laughs. "Seriously, it's not. I'm a dreadful uncle, or, you know, whatever I am. I'm never here. I miss birthdays and holidays and everything. It's only fair I make up for it now."

"But Will…"

He smiles again. "Look, blame George. She sent me a whole bunch of links online, and told me to pick one."

Georgiana leans forward, careful not to jostle Bella. "I didn't send you that one," she says, eyes wide. "I sent you the fold out one."

He shrugs. "It was small. This one has a trap door."

"Oh Will…"

He grins. "Happy Christmas." And that is all there is to say.

The empty living room is stark contrast to the few hours before. Everyone in bed, save Will and Rich, the house has settled to a comfortable silence, broken only by the popping of the log in the fire. Rich stretches out. "Well I guess I'll be going to…"

Will's last few minutes of silence end abruptly as he interrupts his cousin. "Am I turning into my father?"

"Uh…what?" Rich pauses, hands still clasped and drawn above his head. "Are you what?"

Will sighs, looks at his hands, and then looks back up at Rich. "Am I turning into Dad?"

Rich slumps into his seat for a second, then nods, stands up and strides purposefully over to the liquor cabinet. "Times like these," he mutters, getting out two glasses.

"I'm serious," says Will, leaning forward.

"I know. That's why I'm getting whiskey."

"Rich…"

He walks back over, hands a glass to his cousin, then retakes his chair by the fire. "Sip."

"Rich, I'm serious…"

"Sip."

Will gives his cousin the evil eye, grimaces, then sips the liquid. He frowns. "This isn't whiskey."

Rich shrugs. "It was the first bottle I found."

Will takes another sip. "I think it's Meade."

"Thrilling."

Will takes another sip. "Definitely Meade."

Rich watches him in silence for a second, then, "have you had long enough?"

Will raises an eyebrow over the rim of his glass. "Long enough for what?"

"Long enough to realise what a ridiculous question it was that you just asked."

Slowly, Will smiles. "Ah," he says, then takes another sip. He sighs. "It wasn't that ridiculous," he reasons, twisting the glass to catch the multicoloured fairy lights. "It feels like I'm getting more like him every day."

Rich grins. "I'll say. Buying that awesome castle was something Uncle David would have done."

"I didn't mean that."

"Then what?" Rich leans forward.

"The…the distance. Burying myself in work. Never coming up for air. Leaving George on her own for you to look after. I mean, look at today! All she wanted was a day, and what do I give her? Three hours? Maybe four?"

Rich watches his cousin, silently.

"It's not fair," mutters Will. "I won't do that to her again."

"Don't you think," says Rich, his voice breaking the heavy quiet of the room, "that maybe, the fact that you're sitting here screwing yourself up about it means that you are, by definition, not like your father?"

"I don't know," murmurs Will. "It's not enough to just know it."

Rich sighs and rolls his eyes. "Of course it isn't. But I know you, Will."

"Oh good," he mutters.

"I mean," continues Rich, "that you'll do something about it. Now you've realised, you'll do something, won't you?"

Will turns the Meade back and forth in his hand. "I want to," he says.

"Good…"

"But I can't. I can't just drop everything and always be available. Always come to Sunday lunch."

"That's not what anyone's asking."

Will sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. "Why did no one tell me that being an adult is terrible?"

Rich laughs. "Don't know. Maybe because short of running away to Neverland, it's all pretty inevitable."

Will smiles slowly. "I'm serious," he says, shaking his head. "It's like leading a school party through an avalanche, in the fog."

"Um…what?"

He smiles a little more. "You know. You've suddenly got responsibilities, but you're battling through seemingly impossible things, with no end in sight or any idea where you're going."

Rich grimaces. "Wow," he says, dryly. "You're a regular little Tiny Tim. All that cheer…"

Will leans back in his chair, and looks at the fire for a moment. "When does it end?" he asks. "When does it stop feeling like this?"

"When you've had five Tequila slammers?"

Will groans. "So, in conclusion, I am doomed to become my father."

Rich sighs heavily. "No. Shut up about that, all right? You are not your father, just as Anne is not her mother, thank God. I mean, you do appear to be pretty out of your depth, right? You've just got to keep swimming, and, you know, not drown."

"Comforting."

Rich grins, finishes his Meade, and drops the empty glass onto the mantelpiece. "OK," he says. "Seeing as this is pretty much the only day of the year that I can legitimately be this sappy, I'm going to take my chance. William Darcy. We are all here for you. We are not going anywhere. If you miss stuff with my kids, tough. They won't love you any less, although I think you have successfully bought Sam's love, so, you know, congratulations." He grins. "Win this election. Don't win it. We don't care as long as you're still around. All right?"

Will observes him silently for a moment. He smiles slowly. "And what if I'm a mere shadow of the man I was before?"

Rich shrugs. "Jules makes awesome brownies. They're pretty restorative."

Will laughs as he sips his Meade, causing him to inhale it, then sit coughing for a few minutes. "Great," he says, croakily.

"You're welcome dude," says Rich, and he grins. "So. I need to go to bed. Sam had us up at five this morning."

"OK. Happy Christmas."

Rich pauses in the doorway, and grins again. "Happy Christmas," he says, and then turns to slowly climb the stairs, check on his three sleeping children, and then slip into bed himself, exhausted with the rollercoaster that is Christmas.

You may think it's unseasonal, but there are, after all, only 151 sleeps to go. So. Happy Christmas to all my lovely readers and reviewers. God bless us, everyone, and all that.

Oh, and having read your comments, I've edited:

titans123: Thank you. And you don't need to apologise either. I'm grateful.

NYT: I've taken some of them out. Will, however, probably would 'Happy Christmas'. Or not. But I'm stubbornly leaving them in. Also, I'm thinking hiking backpack here. Although, I hear you- it would take up most of the space, if not all. What can I say? He's a devoted uncle with impressive luggage.