~*~*~*~

Rating: G

Category: Humor

Series: 10th in "Daedalus" Series

Warnings: No Santas were harmed in the making of this.

Notes: This series began a week or so after "Murder 101," and will continue through the fourth season and beyond.

Standard disclaimers apply: I don't own them, I'm just playing with them.

~*~*~*~

From "The Cascade Times," Community News Section, December 24, 1999:

MAJOR CRIME HOSTING ANNUAL PD CHRISTMAS PARTY

~*~*~*~

Three jugs of it sat on the island counter, warm and spoiled. Glints of moonlight bounced off the opaque plastic, occasionally blocked off by a moving shadow. After staring at the jugs in darkness for several minutes, the two shadows began to speak.

"It's dead, Jim," the shorter shadow deadpanned.

"Funny, Chief," said the other shadow.

"How could the power go out on Christmas Eve?"

Snort. "Welcome to Cascade."

"So now what?"

A hand snaked out to tap one of the bottles. "We'll have to get more."

"From where, Jim? It's after six and everything is closing. No one's going to have eggnog at this hour."

"Someone's gotta have some." He grabbed two of the jugs. "Grab that one and we'll throw them out on our way."

The shorter man picked up the third jug and shook it lightly. The spoiled liquid splashed around like thin cottage cheese.

"Blech."

"Let's go, Chief. We're late for the party as it is."

~*~*~*~

"We'll try that smaller grocery down on Lincoln," Jim said as he climbed into the old Ford truck.

Blair hopped in the passenger seat and slammed the door. He reached over to the dash and cranked the heat on full-blast before Jim had a chance to start the engine.

"It's not that cold," Jim said.

"Then what's this?" Blair asked. He exhaled, his breath puffing in a gray cloud of condensation.

"Hot air?" Jim suggested, starting the engine. It turned and warm air spilled out of the vents. "You're lucky it's only been off for a few minutes."

"Yeah, yeah." Blair put his face to one of the vents.

Jim shook his head and pulled out of the parking space. They drove in silence, the warm airing heating quickly. Jim glanced over at Blair every few seconds, concerned about the younger man's lack of enthusiasm. They were on their way to a Christmas party, but Blair could have been on his way to a prison work detail for all the excitement he exuded.

"You're still thinking about Mary Burke, aren't you?" Jim asked.

Blair looked over, his eyes wide. The surprise softened into sadness. "That obvious, huh?" Blair said.

"Something like that can stick with you," Jim said. "We just went over to ask a few questions, we had no idea—"

"That some psycho had mailed Mrs. Burke her husband's ashes in a cigar box," Blair supplied, his voice low with anger.

"Yeah," Jim said.

Randall Burke had disappeared two days earlier. Mary thought it was a last minute business trip, but she had been unable to contact him. She called the police this morning. Jim and Blair had gone to question her. Minutes before they arrived, UPS had delivered a small box. Inside was a cigar box of ashes, a wedding ring and a videotape. A spent bullet was mixed in with the ashes. The tape had been shot poorly, but they could make out Randall being shot by someone off-screen.

Mary had collapsed in hysterics, unable to give a coherent reason for why anyone would want her husband dead.

It had been shocking to watch a man die like that and realize his remains were sitting on the coffee table.

"Think we'll ever find the guy that did it," Blair asked, turning the heater down to low.

"I don't know, Chief," Jim replied honestly. "There's no way to tell where it was filmed and I can't distinguish any sounds on the tape. All the crematories in Cascade have checked out so far. I really don't know."

"Yeah," Blair said.

Jim pulled up in front of Beckett's Grocery, a small store a few blocks from the loft. They often stopped in when they ran out of milk or bagels, in lieu of a trip to the market. Jim started to turn off the engine.

"Don't," Blair said. "I'll run in and get it. Keep the truck warm."

Jim chuckled as Blair hopped out of the truck and bolted into the warm store.

~*~*~*~

Blair stopped just inside the entrance. Two registers were directly in front of him. A tired clerk lounged behind one, blowing large bubbles with his gum. Blair walked past the registers, offering the clerk a smile that was barely acknowledged. He passed three aisles, turned down the third and made a beeline for the dairy case in the back of the store.

He browsed the case, passing cream cheese, yogurt, eggs, creamer, and milk. A large empty space separated the milk from the end of the case. A hand printed sign (Eggnog $1.89) advertised what had been there.

"Dammit," Blair muttered. They'd have to try somewhere else.

Blair made his way back to the front of the store, a bit slower now. He came out of an aisle and froze.

A skinny man in a ratty Santa Claus suit stood in front of the clerk, pointing an ancient revolver that threatened to fall to pieces in his hand. The clerk wasn't frightened. In fact, he appeared more annoyed than anything.

"Money," the Santa slurred. "In a bag."

Drunk, too, Blair observed. He took a step forward. The Santa swung the revolver toward Blair, his finger twitching by the trigger. Drunk or not, he meant business. Blair's hands shot into the air.

"S'okay, man," Blair said.

Santa shook his head. His eyes were red-rimmed and runny. "Not okay," he mumbled. "Can't buy presents. They need presents."

"I'm sure they do," Blair said. "But wouldn't they rather have presents that were bought honestly? Not with stolen money?"

The Santa stared at Blair like he'd grown a second head. "It's all stolen money. Dang government stole all my money, so I's stealin' it back. That's fair, ain't it?"

"But this isn't government money," Blair said. "So you aren't stealing back from the government."

"I ain't?" Santa appeared genuinely confused now.

"Uh uh," Blair said.

Taking advantage of the distraction, the clerk grabbed a wooden baseball bat from underneath his counter and swung out hard. The bat connected with the back of Santa's head, sending the old man sprawling forward. As he fell, Santa squeezed off an erratic shot that shattered a bottle of olive oil near Blair's head. Blair jumped back as the oil splattered his coat and hair.

"Wonderful," Blair said. He looked at the Santa unconscious on the floor. An instant later, Jim burst into the store, his gun drawn. Jim looked at Blair, the Santa, the clerk and Blair again.

Blair just shook his head. "I didn't do it, man."

~*~*~*~

Thirty-five minutes later, Jim parked in the lot of the Super Grocery. He checked his watch. The store closed in five minutes and the party started an hour ago. Jim often wondered if his life was hexed somehow.

"I'll run in this time," Jim said.

Blair nodded enthusiastically. "No arguments here."

Jim climbed out, leaving the motor running. He inhaled the fresh, crisp air. While Blair had managed to clean most of the olive oil off, he still smelled of it. The odor was made worse by the hot air blasting from the vents.

He's dry cleaning that jacket, Jim thought as he walked into the store. A clerk behind the only open register glared daggers at him.

"Two minutes," Jim said, jogging back toward the dairy section.

Ninety seconds later he walked back to the front of the store, empty-handed. Jim headed for the front doors as a pair of drunken men in Santa suits barreled inside. They passed a brown-bagged bottle between them. Jim eyed them and groaned.

"I told you," slurred the one without a beard. "Ain't nobody better'n the Duke."

"Man can't act outta wet bag," the bearded Santa said, waving the bottle like a sword. Brown liquid spilled out of the top and Jim smelled bourbon.

"Yer spillin' it, Dan," the first man said. He snatched the bottle back and took a long swig.

Jim stood by the automatic doors, watching the two men and debating. The clerk marched up to the pair and put his hands on his hips.

"We're closed, gentleman," the clerk said.

Dan stared at him, quite confused. "But the doors opened for us. Doesn't that mean we can shop?"

The clerk eyed the man's ragged appearance. "You have any money?"

Dan looked at his counterpart; the other man shrugged. Dan turned to the clerk and shook his head.

"Then you can't shop here," the clerk said.

"Oh," Dan said. He jacked a thumb at Jim. "What about him?"

"He was just leaving, too," the clerk replied. "Weren't you, sir?"

Jim nodded. The sour smell of the men's liquor breath made his nose itch.

But the first Santa wasn't having any of it. "Dis here's public property, ain't it? That means I ain't gotta leave."

"Actually," Jim said. "It's not public property and it is closing. So maybe you two would like to go outside with me-"

"You pickin' a fight?" the Santa asked, his face flushing.

"He ain't pickin' a fight, Billy," Dan said.

"Hell if he ain't!" Billy howled.

Jim barely had time to duck before Billy swung the bottle at his head. Billy lost his balance and crashed into Jim, sending them both careening backward into a gum ball machine. They toppled over in a heap, breaking the machine and sending Chicklets scattering across the linoleum. The back of Jim's head cracked hard against the floor.

The clerk managed to yank Billy up and off of Jim. "Look at the mess, you filthy drunk!" the clerk yelled.

Jim sat up, blinking colorful spots out of his vision. Gum crunched under his hand.

"Jim!" Sandburg called from somewhere to his left.

"This is not our night," Jim muttered.

~*~*~*~

No one pressed charges, but Jim called a patrol car and had the two Santas thrown in the drunk tank for the night. At least they'd have somewhere warm to sleep on Christmas Eve. It was seven-thirty and they still didn't have eggnog. Both men were ready to give up. The smell of olive oil did nothing to brighten their moods.

Jim double-parked in front of a medium-sized grocery store six blocks from the precinct. He started to shift the gear to park when he glanced inside. A man dressed in a Santa suit was wiping down the front windows.

Blair stared at Jim wide-eyed. Jim just shook his head and hit the gas.

There was no way.

~*~*~*~

It neared eight o'clock and three more stops proved fruitless. Jim finally found a convenience store with a sign advertising "Open 24/7." After a quick scout to check for drunk Santa Clauses, Blair hopped out and went inside.

Jim waited, keeping his eye on the front door. Less than two minutes later, Blair strode triumphantly out of the store with a plastic bag. As he did, a Santa-suited man turned the corner toward them. Blair gave the man a wide berth and scrambled into the truck.

"They had some," Jim said.

"Sort of," Blair replied as he placed the bag on the seat next to them.

"Sort of?" Jim echoed.

"All they had was soy-eggnog," he explained. "But add some rum and you can't tell the difference."

Jim stared blankly for a moment, then began laughing. "Figures," he muttered, backing the truck out of the parking space.

~*~*~*~

They arrived at Major Crime two hours late, but with the promised eggnog. As Blair predicted, rum was added and no one mentioned the slightly off taste. The bullpen was decorated with real and fake pine boughs, red bows and plastic snowflakes. A table of food was set up against the wall near the break room. Desks had been pushed back to create a quasi-dance floor. A piece of mistletoe was floating around somewhere, but its location kept changing.

"Jingle Bell Rock" blasted over the PA system. Rafe and Tracey danced amidst a group of a dozen or so others. Henri sat on top of a desk and egged them on, consistently amused his partner's attempts to keep up with his wife.

Jim decided to stay away from the soy-nog. He poured a plastic cup of Coke and settled down next to Simon. Daryl and Lucas Taggart were conspiring in a corner, laughing loudly over something.

"I gave in," Simon told Jim.

Jim rolled his eyes. "You're a softy, Simon."

Simon glared for a moment, then chuckled. "Well, he's not gonna get this chance again. Besides, he agreed to pull at least all B's this semester."

"Tickets to Miami for Spring Break," Jim said. "I wish my dad had given me a gift like that. The only big trip I ever got was into the Army."

"Why aren't you with your family tonight?" Simon asked.

"My dad flew out to Chicago to visit his cousin," Jim said. "Steven's spending Christmas with his girlfriend's family. Besides, I've got family here."

Simon grinned.

Across the room, someone shrieked amidst a rippled of laughter. Jim looked up in time to see Blair pretending to pummel someone wearing a Santa hat and beard. From the looks of it, his victim was Joel.

"What's that all about?" Simon asked.

Jim shook his head. "I'll tell you about it later."

Simon's cell phone chirped. He took it from his jacket and flipped it open. "Banks."

A slow grin spread over Simon's face. "Megan, Merry Christmas. You both on the line? You too, David."

Jim smiled. He hoped the pair was having a good time in Australia. No one was surprised when David had decided to go with her.

"Everyone's here," Simon said. "I'll tell them. Take care, you two. Bye." He hung up and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

"Short call," Jim said.

"They just wanted to check in," Simon said. "Said to wish everyone a Merry Christmas."

"It's already Christmas there, isn't it?" Jim asked.

"Come and gone," Simon said. "Another twenty-four hours and this Christmas will also be come and gone."

"Yep," Jim said. Come and gone.

~*~*~*~

Blair hadn't been so shy about the soy-nog and giggled softly to himself as Jim drove them home. Jim could only wonder what he found so amusing ten minutes after leaving the party.

They arrived at the loft twenty minutes after midnight. Jim unlocked the door and quickly switched on the lights before Blair could walk in. Jim immediately spotted the new arrival exactly where it was supposed to be.

Blair stumbled in the door, still chuckling. "Home at last," Blair muttered. "Bedtime."

"Don't you want to open your Christmas present first?" Jim asked.

"Huh?" Blair asked. He turned unfocused eyes on Jim.

Jim clamped his hands on Blair's shoulders and turned him around to face the living room. Against the wall between two of the large windows was a glass-front display case. It was eight by five feet, in solid oak. A giant red bow criss-crossed the doors.

Blair blinked. "How did that get here?"

"I left a key for the delivery man," Jim said. "I thought some of your artifacts could use a dust-free place to sit. Instead of the floor of your bedroom."

"Jim…" Blair walked over to the case. He ran his hand over the smooth sides, peeking in at the shelves. "I…wow. Thanks, Jim."

"Merry Christmas, Blair," Jim said.

Blair bolted across the living room, stumbling on the edge of the carpet.

"Where—?" Jim started to ask.

"Gotta get yours," Blair said as he disappeared into his room. Jim heard things being shoved aside, a drawer being opened. Blair reappeared moments later holding a flat, rectangular wrapped object.

He handed the package to Jim, then stepped back as if he expected it to blow up. Jim examined the gift, but it seemed harmless. He tore off the paper. Underneath was a plain white box. Blair backed up another step. That was making Jim nervous.

Jim gently lifted the lid of the box. Underneath a layer of tissue was a hardcover book. Upside-down. Jim took it out and turned it over. On the cover was the picture of the Watchman from Burton's book. Above it, stamped in an ancient font, was "The Sentinel by Blair Sandburg."

He stared at it a moment. Then he opened it, gently turning each page. Just past the title page was the dedication.

"To Jim, who made believing in this dream possible and taught me it wasn't about a degree. It was always about friendship."

The words blurred and Jim couldn't figure out why. He blinked and it cleared. Jim closed the book and looked up. Blair stared at him wide-eyed.

"I had a friend publish it," Blair said. "Just one copy. And I threatened him with bodily harm if he read it."

Jim didn't—couldn't—speak. Which seemed to alarm Blair.

"Jim?" Blair said tentatively.

In two steps, Jim covered the distance between them. He wrapped his arms around Blair in a tight bear hug. Blair hugged back immediately.

"Thanks, Blair," Jim whispered.

"Merry Christmas, Jim."

~END~

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