Title: Christmas Countdown

Author: Claire

Rating: PG-13 for content, M for language

Status: Complete / Response -- of sorts -- to the Christmas challenge. Hey! There's 12 days... <g>

Archive: Yes

Key Words: Humour, fluff, Christmas

Feedback: Come on… In the spirit of Christmas?

Disclaimers: <sigh> Although it’s Christmas, Santa Claus *still* hasn’t heeded my pleas and I’m still merely borrowing from DWTV & Brian Clemens.

Thank you: To Jill… For sharing Tigger’s chat-up lines with me. <g>

Dedicated to: The organisers of ‘Back To Balmoral’. Better late than never I’d just like to say you did an unbelievably brilliant job and I had wonderful time… <slowly> How about next year you all come to Australia? <wistfully> Well, a girl can dream can't she...

Community Service Announcement: Just a casual word of warning, never do what I just did and get this bee in your bonnet to do ’12 days of Christmas’ in a time-frame of 8 days while attempting to deal with everything else Christmassy at the same time… <g> Relax? I’m sorry. I don’t know the meaning of the word…

<deep breath>

I think that’s all.

<pause> <thinks>

Oh!! Have a fabulous Christmas everyone and I wish you all the best in 2002! <g>

*
On the twelfth day of Christmas...
... I have an epiphany.
*

Oh my God!

Shit, fuck!

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

The horrendous implications of my realisation threatening to overwhelm me, I turn to Sam and try helplessly to find the words needed to share the horror with him. Unfortunately, too traumatised by what I now know to be the inescapable truth, no words are forthcoming. All I can do is stare, my expression no doubt one of mortification, at my partner as though he alone can save me from this Godforsaken awful fact of life.

My partner, who I think is half comatose from being stuck in this seemingly never ending traffic jam in the middle of Oxford Street for the past hour, raises an eyebrow and waits patiently for the cat to let go of my tongue. An aura of long suffering bemusement radiates from him and I can't help but wonder how he can remain so calm in such harried times. Here I am wanting to scream and rant at the unfairness of things and there he is sitting calmly. It's unnatural. Having lived here for close to a year now, I *know* the English are relatively reserved and unflappable, but come on! I mean, surely this is worthy of at least a microscopic display of emotion.

"Are you okay there Chris?" Sam murmurs politely, favouring me with a smirk. "You're looking a little... aaaah... pasty and, well, if you're going to throw up I'd really rather you did it *outside* of the car."

"I'm not going to throw up!" I mutter indignantly before, just for good measure and no other reason than I can, pouting.

"No? Could have fooled me. Not, mind you, that it would have surprised me after that meal of grease masquerading as a hamburger that you had for lunch," Sam replies smugly.

"No! I'm not bloody well going to throw up," I retort tetchily. Honestly, how he can joke in a time like this escapes me.

"Okay, so if you're not going to throw up, what on earth is making you look like that?" my partner queries. "Believe me Chris, you don't look so good."

"It's Christmas!" I exclaim breathlessly, wondering yet again how Sam can remain so calm.

"And?" he murmurs, a puzzled expression replacing the smirk.

"It's... It's *Christmas*!" I repeat, the agitation I'm feeling slowly creeping into my voice.

"Yes, it's Christmas. Ten points for observation," Sam states drily. "And the point you're trying, unsuccessfully I might add, to make is?"

Great. Confession time. Here goes nothing.

"I... I didn't know, okay. I didn't know it was Christmas and now I'm panicking," I mutter slowly as I can feel my cheeks burning with embarrassment. "Go ahead laugh. I bet you're just dying to."

Oh yeah. He laughs. Like I've never heard any English person laugh before no more and no less.

For two long minutes Sam can't even answer because he's too busy having hysterics at my stupidity. "You..." Chortle. "Oh my..." Guffaw. "How could you forget..." Snicker. "Never in my life..." Snort. "Unbelievable..." Chuckle. "Only you..."

I'm glad I'm the cause of such amusement. No. Really. I am.

Folding my arms querulously across my chest, I glower at Sam and wait none too patiently for him to get a grip. Given his great humour at my expense it's obvious that not only is he fully aware that we we're firmly entrenched in the festive season but that he's also completely organised for it. Bastard.

Eventually Sam calms down enough to string a sentence together and, looking at me through eyes bright with merriment, he splutters, "How on *earth* could you forget that it's Christmas? My God Chris, it's only been in all the shops since the beginning of October."

"Um... Er..."

While Sam's question is an excellent one, I don't answer him and turn my attention to the flashing lights above Oxford Street that, the ones that heralded my discovery in the first place. Needless to say the reason I don't answer my partner is because I simply don't know what to offer as an explanation. Seeing as though it's not like I exactly live life with my head buried in the sand, I have no idea whatsoever how I made it this far without being ran over by the Christmas vibe.

"You were saying?" Sam prompts, grinning broadly. "Come on Chris, put me out of my misery here."

"Er..." Think Keel, think. "Um... It's my first Christmas in London and you guys do things differently over here." There. It's not brilliant, and, looking at the garish decorations that until just now I'd been oblivious to in the shop windows, not exactly true, but it'll do.

Sam starts to laugh again. "Okay, uh-huh," he mutters between sniggers, "The only reason I'll even pretend to accept that theory is because I can't actually remember what my life was like before you became a part of it. So, yeah, whatever, fair enough then."

I sigh heavily. Sam might find my predicament highly amusing but I sure as fuck don't. A quick glance at my watch confirms both the date and that I'm in trouble. *Big* trouble. I have twelve days to get myself up-to-date in respect to all things Christmassy and no idea where to start.

Excellent. Just wonderful.

Bah humbug.

*
On the eleventh day of Christmas...
... things go from bad to worse.
*

I stare at my ever-increasing list of things to do with ever increasing frustration and dismay. There's no help for it, I should simply give up now. Honestly. While I'm not one for falling prey to pessimism, I seriously don't have a fucking hope. The way I see it I'd have more chance of convincing Malone to give me a month of fully paid leave than I do of getting my ass into gear. Things are *that* hopeless. Christmas is bad enough when you start getting ready for it in October without the added treat of having to stuff all your preparations into twelve... no, eleven now, days.

I'm screwed.

Well and truly screwed.

Okay, let's at least make an attempt to view things logically here.

I have eleven days in which I have to...

* Buy, write on, and send cards.

Which, in turn, means I have to write out a list of who I'm going to give cards to. Ack. Too hard. I think I'll take things slowly and settle on buying the cards first and taking it from there. I mean, how should I know who to give cards to. Do I give them to the people here? I don't even know half their names. Christ, that nice blonde in accounts smiles at me every time I see her but I wouldn't have the foggiest in respect to what she's called.

Next.

* Buy, wrap and send or give presents.

Eurgh. As with the whole card issue I think that's too much for my mind to come to terms with. Hmmm... I wonder if Amazon does gift vouchers. Something like that would cover just about everyone. Whoever everyone may end up being that is.

Fuck this is difficult.

* Decorate the apartment.

No. Screw that. I'll just spend as little time as is conceivably possible there.

* Work out what I'm going to do with myself Christmas day.

While I know that I don't want to spend the day alone, that's *all* I know.

Yep. Lovely. Not a problem. I can achieve all of this in eleven days. Oh yeah. *Easy*.

And Malone is a Morris dancer in his spare time...

Oh God... Ohgodohgodohgod... I'm going to have a panic attack. There's *no* fucking way I'm going to be able to get *any* of that done. Hell, I can't even work out who to give cards, let alone gifts to. If Malone wouldn't immediately throw me to the closest shrink I'd ask if he had any deep undercover, preferably deep in a jungle somewhere, assignments that he happened to want filled over the Christmas period. Just about anything would be preferable to being here.

My partner, I'm convinced, thinks I'm some sort of way out freak. He kept sneaking glances at me in the car yesterday as though he fully expected me to share with him the fact that I'm a close personal friend of The Cat In The Hat. Either that or I was simply going to confess that I'd been messing with his head and *of course* I knew it was Christmas.

Ha! This morning though, after obviously having resigned himself to the fact that I'm not quite all there, Sam made a point of ensuring that everyone who passed his way learnt of my stupidity. The ensuing shrieks of laughter are still ringing in my ears.

Okay. So there's actually a Christmas tree set up outside Malone's office that I'd never seen before. And, according to all and sundry, it's been there since the first of December. Fine. I'm happy for it. What can I say other than, for fear of catching his gaze and giving him the wrong idea that I want something constructive to do, I never pay any attention to Malone's office. As for all the tinsel hanging over the doorframes? Sheesh. So sue me for not looking closely at the doors.

Oh good. Here comes more fun and games in the form of my smirking partner carrying a handful of mail.

Wonderful.

"Seeing as it's obviously your week for learning new things," Sam states cheerfully, dumping the mail on my desk, "I just thought I'd share with you the exciting fact that you actually have your own pigeonhole... You know, for mail and important memos and the like."

"Oh," I grunt, looking at the little white envelopes spread out in front of me and deducing with a sinking heart that they contain Christmas cards. "How was I supposed to know I had a damn pigeonhole?" I add slowly as I grab a random envelope and open it.

"I pointed it out on your orientation," Sam replies lightly, perching himself on the edge of my desk.

"Oh..." Feigning interest in the card in my hand, I spend a few seconds admiring the garish design (psychedelic baubles... my... how positively Christmassy...) on the cover before opening it and reading who it's from. Yeah. Okay. Who the hell is Karen when she's at home?

"She's the blonde who smiles at you from accounts," my smart ass of a partner offers lightly, peering over the top of the card and, yet again, smirking at me.

"I know that," I lie airily, dropping the card back on the desk and favouring Sam with a cool gaze. "Now, surely you have better things to do with your time than take up space on my desk like bloody Endora from Bewitched," I continue querulously, hoping to be left in peace so I can go through the rest of the cards and start compiling my list.

"Endora?" Sam snorts, his grin slipping for an entire second before swiftly returning to full wattage.

"Yeah. You know. Endora," I retort, "She spent a lot of time sitting around on things looking snooty."

"I *know* who Endora is," he sighs patiently. "I just never thought I'd be compared to her."

"First time for everything," I mutter before sighing far less patiently. "Now, come on, surely you have better things to do with your time than harass me."

"Yes and no," Sam replies, reaching into his leather jacket and bringing out, with a flourish, another white envelope. "I just have to give this to you first."

Oh-oh... I now know what the Cheshire Cat would look like if he'd got the cream... And it scares me.

It scares me a *lot*.

Sam looks as though he's in danger of bursting from all the good cheer circling around in him and I *know* that I *don't* want to know whatever it is that he's going to share with me.

"Mmm?" I murmur cautiously. "What do you have to give me?"

"This," he states brightly, dropping the envelope in front of me, "Your Secret Santa."

"My *what*?" I query blandly, hoping to hell I don't look as confused as I feel.

"Your Secret Santa. It's tradition," Sam replies, looking vaguely shocked at my latest example of ignorance.

"I. Don't. Know. What. It. Is," I grind out, glancing at the envelope with trepidation.

"You get the name of someone who works here and you have to buy him or her a Christmas present," he explains. "Someone, unknown, of course, that's the point of it all, also has your name and they have to buy you something. The presents get placed under the tree and we give them out at the lunch on Christmas Eve."

I nod, mentally breathing a sigh of relief. "Okay. Got it. Whoever is in this envelope I buy a present for and they don't know it's from me," I mutter, hoping I've got someone whose name I at least recognise.

"Half the fun is trying to work out afterwards who had who," Sam shrugs, "But yeah, you've basically got it."

"Sounds fun," I comment, picking the envelope up and opening it.

Oh.

Famous last words.

Fuck!

Oh God why me.

Malone.

I've got fucking Malone!

Someone take pity on me and put me out of my misery.

What?

What's that? Sam's saying something and I suppose I really should listen to him.

"And don't forget the limit's ten pound..."

Aaaaarrrrgh!

Bah humbug doesn't even begin to cover it.

*
On the tenth day of Christmas...
... Shopping becomes my least favourite activity *ever*.
*

In hindsight, I should have known better.

Lunchtime + ten shopping days to Christmas + suburban shopping centre = hell on earth.

Not even being smack bang in the middle of a war zone comes close to the sheer unadulterated mind boggling terror that I'm currently experiencing. Survival of the fittest had *nothing* on it. No tactic is too low, no space too small. A Vauxhall Zafira in a space marked 'small car', not a problem. A Mini parked in a space designated for motorbikes, even better. Harried looking, long suffering men circle the car park aimlessly as they hope and pray that their wives break through the automatic sliding doors of consumerism while there's still some limit left on their credit cards. One in particular, his knuckles white against the black steering wheel of his Smart Car and his gaze vacant, looks as though he's nearing the end of his tether. I'm hoping if he snaps he does it at the other end of the car park from me, as I *seriously* don't want to be around to witness it.

For God's sake!

All I want is a fucking car park. Hell it's not even as if I want one right near the door. I'm young, I'm fit, and I'm prepared to walk. Although...

Hmm...

I have a laptop and a portable printer with me... I'm sure I could mock up a suitably official looking 'Disabled Parking' certificate in a few minutes. Let's face it; it's about the only way I'm going to get a park in this lifetime.

Oh!

On the off chance I needed a sign as to how desperate I am, I need look no further. Even thinking along those lines is wrong. Besides, there aren't any disabled parking spots free anyway. Well, on my last three trips past them there weren't any. Whether there's one free now is irrelevant thanks to the fact that I currently feel somewhat lost and have no idea where I actually am. I'm so far out that I can't even see the door to Debenhams.

What I'd like to know is where the fuck all these people have come from. It's bordering on the surreal. This is my local shopping centre. If I'm home I visit the place regularly. Not *once* have I had a problem getting a park. Right now however I swear that every single person from my suburb, not to mention the three neighbouring suburbs, are here in force. Where they shop during the rest of the year is beyond me. Why they think now is a good time to venture out also escapes me. It goes without saying that I wish the entire lot of them would go back to wherever it is they came from.

Come on! Don't these stupid people know how imperative it is that I get a park? If I don't manage to get Christmas cards today I might as well just go to bed and, after setting my alarm for mid January, stay there with the blankets over my head. Not only do I -- damn manners! -- have to give cards to three quarters of CI5 but I also have to send a heap to the family that I'd forgotten I had back in America.

I get home from work yesterday after unsuccessfully begging Sam to swap his Secret Santa for mine and very nearly couldn't get my front door open for the pile of Christmas cards on the other side of it. My loving family (I *have* that many relatives?), I swear, had all sent me cards. You now can't see my dining table for the damn things. Second cousins, third cousins twice removed, great aunts, you name it and they'd felt compelled to put me on their Christmas card list. If I had any idea whatsoever in respect to who the hell Joshua was then, yeah, I'm sure I *would* be delighted to learn that he's doing better. Unfortunately I wouldn't know Joshua if I fell over him. Or Katie, who misses me *lots*, for that matter.

Oh well. Not that it matters. I have their addresses now and *should* I ever manage to get cards I'll dutifully send on my token gesture greetings.

Is it?

Am I really seeing what I think I'm seeing?

Yes!

Brake lights!

Finally. Good things come to those who wait and finally a car is reversing out of a spot. Mentally calculating how many cards I need, I pull into the park with a huge sigh of relief. I've only just got a park and I've been away from the office for over two hours. Wonderful. Presents will have to wait for another day. I'll just sprint across the car park, bolt into Debenhams, buy my cards and get out again. I'll be back at HQ before they even miss me.

Or the again maybe not.

Fuck.

The sound of my mobile ringing makes me automatically grind my teeth. For a second I consider throwing it onto the passenger seat and simply locking it in the car. But no. I can't do it. My conscience, sticking its nose in where I don't want it, makes me answer it.

"Wherever you are Chris, Malone wants you back in the office ASAP. He's got something he wants us to do."

"But Sam..."

"But Sam nothing, get your arse back here pronto before Malone chooses to look more closely at how long you've been gone."

Not even the look of immense gratitude on the face of the frazzled looking woman who slips into my parking space helps to improve my mood. All I can say is that no-one had better step in front of me carrying Christmas cards or I may just run them over in spite.

Christmas? Pah. If I had my way I'd cancel the whole damn thing.

*
On the ninth day of Christmas
... I see a new side of my partner.
*

"You're coming aren't you Chris?"

"Of course he's coming."

"He has to. It's tradition. He can't not come."

Seeing as silence is too much to ask for, it looks as though I have no choice but to seek clarification instead.

"*What's* tradition, and *where* am I allegedly going?" I sigh, reluctantly looking up from my pathetic list of relatives who have email addresses. Nine days to go and I still don't have Christmas cards. In the past twenty-four hours I've been out of the office for an entire four. Long enough to grab a shower and an unsatisfying nap. The only thing I managed to buy during this time was a Big Mac on the way back in. Thankfully the great information collection, for the want of a better title, is over and
done with now and I can go back to worrying about Christmas.

Backup, Spencer and Richards all beam down at me as I sit hunched over my desk. My latest great idea is that I'll send my relatives, the few that have woken up to the benefits of the information superhighway, email Christmas cards. Hey, the way I see it it's better than nothing. Not that many of them appear to own computers. Aunt Betty, who I was on the phone to for an hour simply to get five addresses (count them, *five*... Out of a list of twenty-eight), says that she'll ask around and find out if anyone else has logged on without her knowledge. This, given the fact that my cousin in Australia (well, seeing as the card from him has a kangaroo wearing a Santa hat on it, I *assume* he's down under) can't so much as sneeze without her knowing about it, doesn't exactly fill me full of hope. Even if I have to make the fucking things myself, tonight is the night I start my cards. I'm *determined*.

"Don't tell me you've forgotten about it?" Backup queries, sounding puzzled.

"Remember, this is the man who'd forgot it was Christmas," Richards smirks, rolling his eyes for good measure.

"Laugh it up Richards," I interject sourly, wondering if I'll ever be able to live this momentary lapse of reason down.

"See?" Spencer states cheerfully as he shoots Richards a warning look. "He has to come. It'll improve his mood no end."

"Come *where*?" I snap, feeling my shoulders tense. Either someone tells me what it is they're going on about in the next few seconds or I'm simply going to get up and walk out of here.

"To Christmas drinks," Sam, who I hadn't even seen return, replies smoothly. "And of course you're coming. It..."

"I know," I mutter, cutting him off. "It's *tradition*." Christmas drinks. Wonderful. Just what I don't have time for.

"I was actually going to say it'll be fun, but yeah, you're right. It's also tradition," Sam murmurs. Placing a Harrods bag on my desk, he turns to the others and waves them towards the door. "We'll meet you there," he states easily. "Given the time I've just had in Harrods, make mine a large one."

Backup nods. "It'll be there waiting for you," she replies, linking arms with Spencer and Richards and leading them towards the exit. "Yours too Chris, so don't be long."

Once they've gone I look up at Sam and sigh. Seeing everyone's good humour I suddenly long to simply be able to go to the drinks. While I know that politeness now dictates that I at least have to put in an appearance, I honestly don't have the time to stay as long as I'd like to. "I don't have the time for this," I complain softly, rubbing my hands over my face before getting up and stretching. "I still have to get Christmas cards..."

"No you don't," Sam interrupts, pushing the olive green shopping bag towards me. "I've brought them for you."

"I..."

Damn cat's got my tongue again.

"It's okay Chris, it's only some Christmas cards, nothing exciting. You moaned so much yesterday about the things that I seriously couldn't stand it any more. It was either buy cards or gag you and I chose the option least likely to get me sectioned," Sam murmurs, trying to laugh his kindness off but ending up sounding more nervous than anything else.

I try to put my inability to talk down to heartfelt relief as opposed to the fact that I'm so touched by Sam's gesture that I simply don't know what to say. Sam's my best friend. All the merriment he's had at my expense over the past few days aside, we get on exceptionally well together and I have to admit to having already reached the point where I can't imagine my life without him. But still, this, going out and buying me cards, surprises me.

"I hope you realise that you're now my hero," I finally manage to whisper.

Sam shrugs and blushes. "A simple thank you would suffice," he mutters dismissively.

"Thank you," I state, smiling. "I tell you what though, what about a thank you *and* a drink... Do you think you can handle that?"

"I can force myself," he replies, avoiding my gaze and pretending to be fascinated by the edge of my desk. "But only if you promise to enjoy yourself and stop worrying yourself sick about getting everything organised. It's not Christmas day yet and you'll get there."

"Deal," I agree, picking up the Harrods bag and lightly tapping Sam on the arm. "Now, what do you say about getting the hell out of here..."

"I'd say it was about time," Sam responds, leading the way to the door. "Come on, after a few drinks everything will look different."

"Oh, trust me, I'm counting on it," I retort, clutching my cards to my chest and feeling as though a weight has been lifted off my shoulders.

All I can say is thank God for my partner. I don't even want to contemplate where I'd be without him.

*
On the eighth day of Christmas...
... a trip to the post office takes over from shopping as the worst activity on earth.
*

The sense of bonhomie that's graced me since last night takes one look at the queue in the post office and pisses off without so much as a backward glance. Willpower alone stops me from following it. The saga of the much lamented Christmas cards continuing, I'm not leaving here without having posted them. No way, no how. I don't care what it takes.

While I was beginning to think it'd never be the case, they're done -- woo-*hoo*! -- and all that is left for me to do now is send them. Again I have Sam to thank for this state of affairs. Not only did he buy the cards (and very tasteful they were too... Not one of Father Christmas' big fat ass stuck in a chimney amongst them), but he also helped me write on them. What a man. In the middle of the pub we set up our very own little production line. Sam addressed the envelopes and then I scribbled -- literally, good luck to my relatives if they can actually translate the ramblings -- on the cards. Didn't tell anyone anything, but there you go. They'll get a card with festive greetings on it and they'll be happy. I mean, what more could they positively want?

To celebrate the successful completion of the dreaded cards, I made it my duty to ensure that the drinks just kept on coming. Unfortunately though, the cards obviously having taken up a bigger chunk of the evening than I'd thought, I wasn't quite drunk enough by the time Spencer and Richards decided that the time had come for a spot of Karaoke. The fact that the pub didn't actually offer this was of no deterrent whatsoever. Oh no, CI5 always getting their... er... way, they simply commandeered the jukebox.

I don't know what disturbs me more... Spencer and Richards knowing the words to 'We Care A Lot' by Faith No More, or the actual *performance* itself, or Sam telling me this too was something of a tradition.

No.

I *do* know what I find most disturbing about the whole thing and that's the part where everyone -- and I mean *everyone* -- joined in on the chorus.

"And it's a dirty job but someone's got to do it!"

The first time it happened I very nearly dropped my glass in shock. Mind you... ahem... by the time the song was coming to an end I was bellowing along as enthusiastically as everyone else. The bar staff, a world weary lot if ever I've seen 'em, didn't even bat an eyelid at our goings on.

All in all, I had a great night. Free flowing alcohol, good company, and I got my cards done. It was really rather wonderful. What's more, right up until I walked in here, I honestly thought things were looking up. I even, and if this isn't amazing then I don't know what is, got a park right out the front of the post office.

And then it all has to go and disintegrate around my ears.

Shit. So much for thinking things were improving. Once more it doesn't pay me to think.

Yet again I find myself staring blankly into the welcoming arms of hell. It's like the failed trip to the shopping centre all over again. Tetchy looking people as far as the eye can see. Not wanting to depress myself *too* much, I stop counting the heads in front of me when I reach twenty. And that's not even including the feral looking children that are running riot around the place. Still, forcing myself to find a bright side to all of this, I suppose it's reassuring to see that game consoles haven't completely killed creativity and that postal tubes can, in an emergency, double as light sabers. The mother of the two Siths (no way are they on the good side of the force), who looks to be all of sixteen, fingers her packet of Silk Cut nervously and has a look of sheer desperation in her eyes. I hope she's not planning on holding the post office up as that would really take the cake.

Clutching my cards to my chest, I'm contemplating closing my eyes and attempting to daydream that I'm actually anywhere but here when I feel a hand tugging my elbow. Biting back a sigh, I reluctantly turn to face my mauler and find myself peering at a somewhat strange looking woman. She smiles, displaying the most perfectly yellow teeth I've ever seen and states in a way that I believe she thinks is coquettishly, "Hello. I was just wondering if I could take your photograph."

"Excuse me?" I murmur, taking a hesitant step away from her.

"Well, that way, if I had a photo of you I could show Santa Claus exactly what I want for Christmas," she replies, fluttering her eyelashes.

"Oh..." God help me, my mind's gone out on strike and I can't think of a single solitary thing to say.

"Mmm... I think you're..."

"Trixie! There you are," a tall man who I hazard a guess is her father declares with relief, interrupting her description of me that I'm really quite positive I'm better off not knowing. Grabbing her by the arm, he favours me with an embarrassed smile that doesn't reach his tired eyes and starts to pull her away. "Leave the nice man alone and come with me."

Um... Yeah... Okay. That was... different. To my relief, and Trixie's downright displeasure, if the pout on her face is anything to go by, the man succeeds in dragging her out of the post office. Turning around to reface the queue, and trying to ignore my brush with my newfound number one fan, I find a good half of the people in it staring at me with open curiosity. My mood going increasingly downhill, I stare back at them balefully. I'm so not in the health and temper for this. Thankfully they quickly get the message and turn around again.

Time seems to stop as I wait to be served. I can't recall ever having been this bored before. Not even people watching can hold my attention. Then again, the fact that I don't really want to make eye contact with any of the freaks in here might have something to do with it. One man, resplendent in head to toe Adidas, dances to music in his head that only he can hear. At
first I thought he had to have a Walkman on, but no, no Walkman. He just moves in time to the beat of his own drum. If it means that he's in a better place than I am then, hell, I'm envious of him.

Unless of course, in that place, he's listening to Christmas Carols...

What the fuck?

Unless I'm hallucinating I'm positive I can hear a tinny rendition of Jingle Bells.

Oh. Fuck me. It's a mobile phone ringing. How positively tacky. This just keeps getting better and better.

*Eventually*, after I've been hit twice in the knees by the postal tubes come light sabers and well and truly after I've come to the conclusion that the man in front of me hasn't had a shower or changed his clothes for the past decade, I make it to the counter.

And then, after I've all but pledged my soul, first born *and* inheritance over to the post office in exchange for them getting my cards to America before Christmas Day, I'm finally back outside in the fresh air. Even the pollution and questionable aroma coming out of the KFC next door smells delightful after having been trapped in close proximity to Mr Unhygienic.

To hell with getting back to the office late though, I need caffeine. Lots of it.

*
On the seventh day of Christmas...
... Mince pies cause me to lose an interesting bet.
*

"I really wouldn't if I were you," Sam states cautiously, slowly shaking his head.

"I don't know what you're on about," I reply, looking down at the mince pie in my hand and shrugging. "They look perfectly fine."

"Yes but some might say that Hitler looked perfectly fine too and he was rotten to the core," Sam mutters, wrinkling his nose and again shaking his head.

"Nice analogy," I snort. "I bet Kensall would love to hear you comparing his beloved leader to a mince pie."

Sam sighs. "All I'm trying to get through your thick skull is that you really don't want to put one of those things near your mouth. You'll only live to regret it."

"But I happen to *like* mince pies," I retort, rolling my eyes. "For God's sake Sam, what have you got against the damn things? Did you have a nasty experience with a mince pie once and now feel as though it's your duty to protect the world at large against the perils offered by them?"

Honestly! The way my partner's carrying on you could be forgiven for thinking I was about to take a mouthful of pure arsenic. I seriously don't know what his problem is. The pies, brought in by the little old granny (the only person in the office older than Malone) who manages the clerical staff, look as good as those from bakeries.

"If you must know, yeah, I did have a nasty experience with a mince pie. Last year in fact, most likely with the long lost great uncle of the one in your hand," Sam replies drily. "All I'm saying is that you'll regret it. If you don't want to listen to me then please, be my guest, go ahead and try to eat it."

You'd perhaps think by now that my partner's obvious dislike of the pies would have penetrated through my thick skull and I'd decide, just to err on the side of caution, to leave them alone...

Yeah, *right*. As if.

Nothing ventured nothing gained being my motto, I grin broadly at Sam and shove the pie into my mouth. My mind barely computes the fact that he's in the process of getting me a glass of water before I start to chew on the pie and...

And...

I think I now know what a combination of dog food and fly spray would taste like.

That's it! Mental note, Sam is *always* right and never again will I not listen to my partner. *Never*.

Not caring about anything other than clearing my mouth out, I bolt over to the bin and spit the pie into it. Sam smiles smugly as he hands me the glass of water. "Yummy, isn't it?" he queries cheerfully.

"I hate you," I gasp after I've finished the water and am in the process of desperately ferreting around in my pockets for a piece of chewing gum or a mint or *anything* to get the taste out of my mouth.

"Don't be like that," Sam smirks, reaching into his own pocket and offering me a Polo. "It's not like I didn't warn you."

"You could have warned me harder," I pout, grabbing the offered mint and popping it in my mouth. Aaaaahhh... Instant improvement. "They're... They are..." I search for a word descriptive enough and come up short.

"I think disgusting pretty much covers it," Sam interjects. "Trust me, having had the same experience that you're enjoying now last year, I know."

Mock shuddering, I mutter, "Why does she bother? It's not like anyone's going to eat them."

"Richards does," Sam replies calmly. "He loves them. In fact he'll eat the lot."

"You've got to be kidding me!" I exclaim. "No way. There's no way he could eat one of them let alone the lot."

"Wanna bet?" Sam murmurs, a gleam appearing in his eyes. "I bet you that Richards will have eaten all of the pies by the end of the day."

"What's with this sudden desire to be on the losing side of things?" I query brightly, knowing that there is seriously no way Sam could possibly win.

"Because I know I'm not going to lose," he states firmly, "Now, are you in or not?"

"What's the stakes?" I ask, nodding my acceptance.

Sam thinks for a moment or two before stating softly, "The winner gets to choose what the loser wears to the Met's Christmas party tomorrow night."

I raise an eyebrow. "Interesting stakes," I drawl. "Where'd you come up with them from?"

"Someone once used them on me," Sam murmurs, his tone suddenly wistful.

"And did you lose?" I query, curious as to how reflective my partner now looks.

"I did, yeah... It was his way of..." trailing off, Sam blinks and abruptly changes the subject. "Never mind, it was a long time ago. Now, are you in?"

"Yeah, I'm in," I confirm. "Any excuse to paw my way through your wardrobe."

"You're not going to win Chris," Sam states adamantly, "so my wardrobe's safe. Yours, on the other hand... Well... If there's anything you don't want me to see then you'd better hide it tonight."

"Yeah," I smirk, "In your dreams. Seeing as not even Richards will be able to stomach those things, my wardrobe will remain safely off limits."

Again...

*Again* -- I swear someone somewhere is laughing at me -- I wasted my energy on voicing famous last words.

Fucking Richards and his cast iron constitution! He dove on the pies as though he'd never seen food before and proceeded to stuff, with great delight I must say, two of them into his mouth at once. As I happened to be in the kitchen at the time (like I was letting the room out of my sight), I waited patiently for a look of abject horror to cross his face, but it never came. After he'd swallowed the first two he stuffed in another one for good measure, declared -- through a mouthful of pie -- that I really ought to have one as they were lovely, and swaggered out of the kitchen.

And, just as Sam prophesised, throughout the course of the day he managed to polish the rest of them off. I think I'm more shocked about the fact that Richards actually likes the fly spray laced mince pies than I am about losing the bet.

Let's face it, what's the worst thing Sam can make me wear? I have a pretty decent wardrobe of clothes, if I do say so myself, so I think I'm quite safe.

Unless...

Hang on...

He wouldn't try and make me dress up as an elf or something... Would he? I mean, surely not...

But...

Just to be on the safe side I think I'll remove anything green or red from my wardrobe tonight. It's not like I want to tempt fate or anything.

*
On the sixth day of Christmas...
... Yeah... Whatever.
*

"Come on! Lemme in!" I shout, banging on my closed bedroom door and stamping my foot with impatience. "Not that you care or anything, but I'm beginning to freeze to death out here." Okay, so it's not exactly Sam's fault that I didn't take anything into the bathroom with me to put on after my shower and am stuck wearing nothing but a towel around my waist, but still... The way I see it he's been going through my wardrobe with a fine tooth comb for long enough. He disappeared into my room when I went to shower and that was close to twenty minutes ago.

Oh well. If he's looking for something foolish to make me wear he's going to be sadly disappointed. Although it took me an hour last night, my drawers and cupboards are now *spotless*. Nothing in green (barring the camouflage and that doesn't really count anyway) or red remains in the room and, be it paranoid or not, I've even gone so far as to hide anything old or
overly bright as well. There is nothing in my room now, and I'm quite confident of this, that I would not wear.

Mind you, I'm also quite confident, seeing as we're going together, that Sam couldn't possibly be going out of his way to set me up. No way would his sense of pride allow him to be seen with some sort of weirdly dressed freak. What he *is* hoping to achieve escapes me however. Unless he harbours some peculiar fantasy for playing dress ups, I honestly don't know what he's
getting out of this bet What I do know though is that I'm rapidly being eaten alive by curiosity.

"For God's sake Sam! What are you doing in there?" I call out, folding my arms across my chest. "Reorganising my sock drawer or something retentive like that?"

"Patience is a virtue Chris," Sam replies calmly, his voice sounding low enough to tell me that he's nowhere near the door.

"I don't know the meaning of the word," I retort, reverting to hammering on the door again. "Come on, the stupid party's going to be over before we get there at this rate."

"I didn't know you were in such a rush to socialise with members of the Met," my partner states far too cheerfully for my liking. Hell, it's okay for him. He's dressed and ready to go. Looking damn fine he is too. Black trousers and a vibrant red shirt that on anyone else would look as though the wearer was trying too hard to be festive. On Sam it just looks good. *Real* good.

"I'm not," I mutter, scowling at the closed door. "I just want to get dressed. Is that too much to ask?"

"No, not at all. In fact, be my guest," Sam proclaims, opening the door and gesturing me in grandly. "Your clothes await," he adds, standing back as I stomp past him. "About bloody ti..." I start to say before trailing off as I take in the outfit laid out on the bed. Blinking in no way changes their appearance and I'm so shocked that I literally can't think of anything to say. Mentally berating myself for not having remembered I owned them doesn't help things in the slightest.

"Of course," Sam murmurs smugly in my ear, "If you can't fit into them I'll understand and will choose another pair for you to wear. Don't want to be responsible for chafing now, do I..."

"Of course I fit into them!" I state huffily, praying that this really is the case. I've never actually worn them but don't feel inclined to share this with Sam. Nor do I feel he needs to know that I only brought them because the sales assistant was too hot to say no to. And, yeah, for the five minutes I had them on in the change room they did feel pretty good. Sexy even. Then again, isn't that the whole purpose of leather trousers? Their entire point in life is to push home the prospect of sex. Which, given the sad and sorry state of my sex life the past few months is why they were still in their carrier bag and hidden at the back of the closest. Trust Sam, the only person I know who *could* find that needle in the haystack, to sniff them out. Again I have no idea what he hopes to get out of me wearing them but, well, whatever. Richards' questionable taste buds made me lose the bet fair and square and I have to deal with the outcome. For all I know making me look like this, and there's no way I'm exactly
going to blend in at the party, is how Sam's choosing to accept his victory. Malone's no doubt gonna *love* it. I can see his eyebrow rising in disapproval already.

If the black leather trousers on their own don't get a reaction then coupled with the shirt I can guarantee a result. Like the trousers, I'd forgotten all about this shirt and really have to hand it to Sam for digging them both out. I also have to commend his taste in combining them. The loose fitting metallic silver shirt, the fabric of which is as close to being sheer as is possible without actually being sheer, looks good against the leather even as they lie on the bed. To my distinct amazement my skin begins to tingle in anticipation of getting dressed. Suddenly I want to look good.

"Are you sure?" Sam queries lightly. "They look pretty tight to me."

"They'll fit, trust me," I mutter, wondering why it isn't only my skin that's feeling tingly. Something new and strange is in the air but I can't quite put my finger on what it might be. "Now, unless you want to give me a hand getting dressed, which I don't recall being part of the bet, if you'll just step out of the room I'll prove it to you."

Abruptly taking a step away from me, Sam stutters, "Uh... Sorry. I didn't mean to linger where I wasn't wanted. I'll... ah... wait for you in the living room," and then disappears through the door, pulling it shut after him.

"I didn't mean it like that," I whisper to the empty room, confused by the unknown emotions circling around in my mind. If I didn't know better I'd think that Sam was interested in me. But he can't be. It's a silly thought and not one worth the seconds I'm spending on it. Not a day goes by that I don't see Sam. If I meant anything more to him than a friend then I'd know it. I just would.

Sighing, I push the peculiar thoughts out of my head and quickly get dressed. The trousers -- thank God -- do fit and they feel as good as I remember them feeling. As expected the shirt complements the trousers perfectly. While I look as though I should be going out clubbing and not to a boring Christmas party held by the Metropolitan Police, I still have to admit to being impressed with my reflection as I check myself out in the mirror. Screw vanity, I look good.

And, as I walk into the living room, I know immediately that Sam thinks the same thing. Looking up from the magazine he'd been flicking through, his eyes light up and a lazy smile plays over his lips. "They look even better on than I'd imagined," he murmurs slowly. "What do you think, am I wasted in CI5 and should really be in the world of high fashion," he adds, his gaze
still travelling up and down my body.

"Without a doubt," I agree, pleased with his reaction. "Seeing as I had mental images of being made to dress up as an elf, I'm impressed."

"An elf?" Sam muses, looking puzzled. "Oh! Green tights!" Shaking his head and laughing, he then continues with a smirk, "Sorry Chris, but I don't even want to see you wearing green tights."

"Well, there's a weight off my mind," I retort. "Now, are we going to liven up this boring party or did you just get me dressed up like this for your own benefit."

Sam blushes as he throws the magazine down and rises from the couch. A strange expression flits over his face and once more I'm left with the impression that I mistakenly put my foot in it. "Of course we're going to the party," he mutters blandly, walking over to the door without even bothering to glance in my direction. "Malone himself presented us with the invitation remember. We *have* to be there. It's not like we have any choice."

With that Sam stalks towards the front door and again I'm left standing alone feeling confused. Not exactly sure what's going on, I grab my keys from the coffee table and set off after Sam. At first the atmosphere in the car is bordering on icy. Neither of us speaks and I'm contemplating apologising for whatever it is that I've apparently done when Sam breaks the silence by sighing heavily.

"So, have you brought your Secret Santa present yet?" he asks apropos of nothing. The tone of his voice is normal though and, for the sake of the peace, I decide to simply play along.

"Oh God no," I reply, shaking my head. "Are you *sure* you won't swap with me? Come on Sam! You've been at CI5 longer than I have. You'd know what to get far better than I would."

"In your dreams Keel," Sam responds easily, favouring me with a quick smile. "I have who I wanted to get and there's no way I'm swapping."

"Aaaaaaw!" I mock pout. "Spoilsport."

"That's me," Sam agrees, his good mood, for the time being at least, obviously fully restored. "I'm only here to thwart you at every turn."

We continue to banter for the rest of the journey. It's as reassuringly comfortable as it is inanely entertaining. By the time we reach the venue it's as though there'd never been a silence. I even manage to keep smiling right up until we clear the guards checking invitations and make it into the middle of the hall. Then the full implication of being surrounded by inbred members of law enforcement from all over the country hits me and, grabbing Sam by the arm, I steer him in the direction of the bar. "I need a drink," I declare firmly. "If I'm going to survive this without picking a fight I need to be drunk."

"Join the club," Sam sighs, staring with horror at the Moulin Rouge inspired floor show high kicking its way into action on the stage.

My only hope is that they keep the alcohol coming quick enough. If they don't... Well, if they don't I refuse to be held responsible for my actions.

*
On the fifth day of Christmas...
... I want desperately to forget the night before ever happened.
*

My head -- and I know this without even having to lift it from the pillow -- feels as though it's hosting its very own Can-Can festival. Even my teeth are aching from the pounding going on in there. Well, either that or from all the grinding and clenching I put them through last night. On the off chance Sam's true reason for picking the clothes that he did was for me to become a magnet for all the freaks and losers at the party then oh boy did he succeed. In fact he succeeded *big* time. If I wasn't desperately seeking an escape route from one weirdo another was bailing me up. They came at me from every angle. Male, female, it didn't matter.

Not, I have to admit, that *everyone* wanted to be my newfound best friend. One, a DC from somewhere in Scotland, gave every impression of breaking out in a cold sweat if I happened to get within 10 metres of him. Given his somewhat peculiar appearance (for God's sake, why didn't his parents get his ears pinned back... Dumbo had nothing on the poor bastard. And the less said about the hair the better) I can't say I was overly perturbed by the nervous reaction I installed in the man. Let's face it, it wasn't exactly as though I *wanted* to make a favourable impression on him. Not wanting to appear vapid or nasty or anything, but... well, no. Not in this lifetime. To put it another way, he made Spencer look like a prize catch.

I'll say one thing however for the strange looking man, and that's at least he didn't look down his nose and sneer at me like his DCI (who looked like some sort of born again Mormon) did. Without ever having ever stepped foot in the place I know now, for reasons well and truly unknown, that I'm already persona non grata in their particular part of Scotland. Go figure. It wasn't as though I made any lame jokes about what Scotsmen wear -- or don't wear for that matter -- under their kilts or anything like that. Christ, I didn't even speak to either of them. Perhaps I reminded them of somebody they didn't like very much, but, honestly, who knows. It was just strange.

As parties go, all in all it was... aaaah... interesting. I've had better, and I've had worse. I suppose, if want to look at things in a positive light, seeing as the hall was full of law enforcement officers from all over Britain, it wasn't *too* bad. To put it another way, I didn't hit anyone. There was one guy, a slimy DC from Sunhill, that I could have cheerfully wiped the dance floor with, but I didn't get a chance to. My mind had barely registered that his hand had slid into my back pocket before Sam arrived out of nowhere and had him up against the wall. DC Groper (short assed, smirking looking git that he was) didn't know what -- literally -- hit him. It was like having my very own personal bodyguard. I was so happy to see Sam (who I'd lost in the crowd hours ago) that I didn't even think twice about the fact that I was more than capable of looking after myself. Besides, yeah, okay, it was kinda nice knowing that I had someone watching out for me.

Sam brushed off my gratitude though by muttering that he'd only done his macho act out of reasons of pure selfishness. Apparently -- and going by the sighs of exasperation and agitated hand gestures that accompanied his tale, I find myself believing it with ease -- he'd spent the last thirty minutes being talked at by some mad as fuck PC from Sunhill (what is it with them down there? Are they all loopy or something?) about model trains and flowering shrubs. Idle curiosity made me ask whether the shrubs and the trains had anything in common and the reaction it caused in Sam was nothing short of astounding. He looked as though he was going to have a coronary. "Like I fucking know!" he ranted, "But, if your life would be more complete knowing, let me go and get him for you and he can tell you himself!" With that he disappeared back in the crowd, leaving me and the shaken looking DC staring blankly at each other. DC Cretin, obviously a firm believer in the triumph of hope over experience, then had the nerve to grin at me and murmur, "So, what about me and you..."

I left him mid offer and wandered off in the opposite direction to Sam. Not only did I want to get away from my admirer but there was also no way I wanted to be introduced to Sam's newest friend. Things were less than fascinating enough without being trapped with a trainspotter. Then, as I mooched around aimlessly, it happened. Like something from one of the Jurassic Park films, it loomed on the horizon. Big, old, features remarkably akin to a Bulldog, and simultaneously scratching his crotch while swigging from a glass of undiluted scotch - a Superintendent from the country. For seconds we just stared, unblinking at each other. Having heard rumours that such antiquated creatures still existed outside of metropolitan areas, I couldn't help myself, I was simply transfixed. He however did not return my fascination. Peering blearily at my name tag, and reading where I was from, he commented loud enough for half of the hall to hear, "Fookin' CI5. Always did like to employ poncy lookin' wankers," before smirking triumphantly and lumbering off.

Not surprisingly it was around this time that I really started to drink in earnest. Subsequently, and for this I'm immensely grateful, I remember very little about the passing parade of people that followed. They came, they blithered on, they wasted their energy practicing their pick up lines, they fluttered their eye lashes and then they eventually went away again. I can only hope that I wasn't overly rude to any of them. If I was it wasn't intentional. I simply wasn't interested, that's all. While the
opportunities were there for the taking, I didn't want any of them. Although I couldn't, and I still can't, put my finger on it, I felt far removed from the goings on around me and didn't want to participate in their games. In a way, and I don't understand how this can be the case, I felt -- feel -- that I was already unavailable.

Sam rescued me from myself mere seconds before I reached the conclusion that I wanted to dance. There I was trying to work out whether I liked the song that was playing or not or, failing actually having an opinion on the song, whether it was good enough to dance to, when Sam again just materialised and solved my problem for me. "I think the time has come to take you home," he said, taking my arm and leading me towards the exit before I could reply. Maybe I'm mis-remembering things here (and it's not like it would surprise me), but I think Backup shot a sour look at me as we passed her. If I'm right, and it *was* actually her, she didn't look impressed at all.

Oh well. Whatever I did to apparently piss her off I'm sure I'll hear all about it. And once I know I can apologise. Hopefully that will smooth things over and...

Urgh! Make it stop!

There should be a law against phones ringing at this time of the morning.

And does it *have* to be so Goddamn loud?

"Um... Er... Keel," I grunt once my addled brain has come to grips with which end of the phone it is that I have to speak into.

"Pleased to hear you still remember your name Chris," my partner replies far too brightly for a morning after the night before. "While I'm at it I'm also pleased to hear that you're still alive."

"Yeah, yeah," I sigh, stifling a yawn. "Now, can I help you or were you just checking on my vital signs?"

"Both actually. I was just wondering whether you were going to grace us with your presence in the office sometime this morning," Sam responds. "Malone's *really* missing you and can't wait to see you by the way."

Oh-oh. I don't like the sound of that and groan. "Oh God, what have I done?"

"Well it appears that you were such a hit at the party last night that half of the British police force now wants to work for CI5 and the phones are running hot with enquiry calls," Sam states in a way that leaves no doubt in my mind that he's smirking into the phone. "Needless to say Malone would like you to personally take each and every call yourself. Now, I'll tell him that you're on your way, shall I?"

"Yeah," I mutter, biting back another sigh. "Tell him I'm looking forward to it."

Coffee, Nurofen, shower -- in that order -- and watch out phones here I come. Given the way I'm feeling, and the week I've had so far, by the time I've finished with them CI5 will most likely never have a new recruit ever again.

*
On the fourth day of Christmas...
... Oh... just don't go there.
*

I don't want to be here.

Correction.

I *really* don't want to be here.

Father Christmas has just gone postal and oh God I so don't want to be here.

"That's it!" the supposed to be jolly one howls, brandishing what looks to be a Glock nine millimetre in the air. "I've fucking had enough of being pissed and cried on and if one more fucking brat bleats at me that they want a fucking Farmer Bob or Builder fucking Bob or whatever the fuck the bastard's called I'm going to lose my rag!"

Going to?

Methinks the insane glint in his eye and the fucking gun is enough to place that in the past tense.

I want to cry. Not because children all around me are in threat of being shot or that they're losing their innocence because some pissed off bloke in a Santa Claus suit has flipped out, but because I know what it is that I'll most likely have to do. And how, be it for the greater good or not, I'll probably never live it down.

This is all Malone's fault. There's no other way of looking at it. If I'd had someone easier as a Secret Santa I'd already have their present (because let's face it, even the little old granny -- she of the feral mince pies -- would be simpler to buy for) and I wouldn't be standing dumbstruck in the middle of a shopping centre watching Father Christmas lose the plot.

Oh great. Brilliant even.

Here come the cavalry in the form of a couple of members of Trigger Happy Failed Cops 'R' Us, the centre security firm. I love this lot. I really do. Not only are they all ex-cops who couldn't achieve their life long desire of getting into the Flying Squad by failing the psych evaluation, but this dumb ass firm allows them to go armed. It's incredible. You'd think after all the publicity they received last month over one of their guards shooting an unarmed -- unless you happen to count the magic marker he was holding as a weapon -- fifteen year old, who happened to be scribbling his tag over a wall in the carpark, that they'd rethink the gun issue, but no. Of course not. That would be too easy.

Spotting the guards, Father Christmas pauses his rant about how Barbie is a gold digging whore with silicon implants and scoops up a nearby child to use as a shield. "I'm not putting this brat down until you pack of thieving arseholes give me a huge fucking bonus for putting up with all this bullshit," he bellows, the red in his cheeks no longer merely courtesy of make-up.

Showtime.

With Santa's eyes glued firmly on the guards as they puff their chests up with self importance and unnecessarily draw their weapons, I pull my own gun from its holster and take stock of the situation. While the child is unperturbed by being held by Psycho Claus, his mother is going ballistic and is shouting at the guards to take the crazy bastard down. The guards, and I can tell this by their stance, think that this is indeed the way to go. Hell they look as though they are salivating at the bit.

So I have to get in there first.

Yay for me.

"Put the child down and no-one will get hurt," I state in my best commanding tone of voice. "Chris Keel, CI5. I'll take care of this."

'Like hell you will,' says the guards' facial expressions, their guns trained on the guy in the red suit and their fingers twitching on the trigger.

'Who the fuck are you,' says Santa's eyes, panic threatening to swamp him and putting the boy in more danger.

Fine.

We'll do it your way then.

Swiftly taking aim, I shoot Father Christmas.

I. Shoot. Santa. Claus.

... Oh God why me.

My bullet hits him square in the shoulder and he drops the child before going down himself. The boy scurries over to his hysterical mother as I sigh with heartfelt relief. Situation under control.

"How *dare* you!"

Or perhaps not.

Hesitantly turning around, I find myself face to face with an indignant looking woman in a really ugly floral dress. Beady eyes glare at me and I take a step back in self-preservation. "Just how dare you discharge a weapon in a crowded shopping centre," she huffs and puffs, grabbing what I can only assume is her unfortunate offspring by the collar of his Tupac t-shirt and shoving him at me. "My poor baby is going to be scarred for life because of your irresponsible actions!"

"Cool. Look at all that blood," whispers her poor baby in awe, pointing at the blood seeping out of Father Christmas' shoulder. "Man I can't wait to tell my posse about this. They'll be like so jealous that they missed it."

Yeah. Scarred for life. *Right*. Whatever you say love.

I try to be polite. Honest I do. But...

While my mind says 'excuse me madam', my mouth goes ahead and says, "Look lady, I did what I had to do to take charge..."

Unfortunately I don't get to share with her the rest of my explanation as, with a grunt of temper, she swings her Tesco's bag at me and hits me on the head with...

With a frozen turkey.

My last conscious thought is -- disbelief -- that I just got knocked out by a frozen turkey before my knees buckle and everything goes black.

*
On the third day of Christmas...
... Forget it. I lose.
*

Yet again I'm rendered speechless by my partner's kindness. Even though I've done little over the past twenty-four hours other than take up space in his apartment, he's *still* going out of his way to be nice to me.

Blinking slowly, I look up from the bag in my hands and beam at Sam. "Thank you," I declare. "It's perfect and never in a million years would I have thought of it."

"It's nothing," Sam murmurs dismissively, shrugging his shoulders and avoiding my gaze. "It was just like the cards all over again. Instead of watching you follow the lead of Father Christmas and losing it in a shopping centre I thought it was simply easier if I brought something instead."

"Yeah, but you still *knew* what to get," I reply firmly, leaving the bit out about him having gone out and got it as opposed to simply telling me what to get and where to get it. "It was very kind of you and I don't know how I can ever repay you."

"Don't worry about it Chris," Sam mutters, walking over to the Christmas tree and aimlessly moving around baubles. "It's just a bottle opener. Nothing expensive or what you'd exactly call special."

I sigh softly, not knowing how to impress on Sam that I really am very grateful. While, yeah, it may only be a not exactly special bottle opener it's still a very nice one and Sam brought it for me to give to Malone as his Secret Santa gift. In this instant it's seriously the thought that counts. No way had I expected him to take any notice of my concussion induced wallowing in self-pity ramblings last night. Simply moaning because I could (and because it was better than remembering the whole Santa Claus / frozen turkey incident), I hadn't meant for Sam to actually *listen* to me.

God no.

If I'd known I had his undivided attention I would have kept my mouth shut. I mean, it wasn't as though he hadn't already done enough for me without having to suffer my 'oh woe is me' lament as well. Not only did he present himself at the hospital with perfect timing -- right after I'd finished declaring blithely that there was no need whatsoever for me to stay in for observation and promptly shooting my assertion down in flames by turning around and walking smack into an orderly -- but he also promised the doctor, *without* sighing heavily or rolling his eyes, that he'd look after me. I think it has to be said that I don't think I'd ever been so pleased to see anyone before in my life. Seeing Sam take charge was, without a doubt, the highlight of my completely crappy day. I didn't even have to think twice about willingly handing control over to him and, ignoring the fact that my mind wasn't exactly up for much, was happy simply agreeing with everything he suggested.

Sam, for some reason that I've now forgotten, took me back to stay at his place. Even in my disorientated state (I swear the silly cow had the biggest frozen turkey in the whole of Britain) I was pleased to find myself there. Unlike me, my partner had made the effort with Christmas decorations and I was so delighted with the tree that if Sam hadn't led me away from it I probably would have stood in front of it for hours. What can I say other than small sparkly things amuse people with concussion...

Poor Sam. He invites me into his home and I chew his ear off. First he patiently put up with my snarled responses ('What do you bloody think my name is?' 'Do I *look* alive to you?' and the good old fallback of 'Fuck off and leave me alone!') everytime he woke me to check how I was. Then, after I'd slept most of the evening away only to wake up feeling all refreshed and ready to talk just as he was about to go to bed, he sat quietly and listened while I bemoaned the sad and sorry state of my life. Maudlin had nothing on it.

I'm disorganised... I can't even remember it's Christmas let alone get my ass into gear and do anything about it... I've got Malone as my Secret Santa... I'm going to be alone on Christmas Day... On and on and on I went.

Thinking back, I'm actually more embarrassed by my whinging than I am by the turkey caused concussion. The last thing I want is to dump my admittedly not overly important problems on Sam. Still, while I'd have preferred this to have come about some other way, my list of complaints did at least result in something to do Christmas Day. Sam, after having to repeat himself three or four times because I was so caught up in my own tales of misery that I wasn't even listening to him, invited me for lunch. Once I'd finally heard him I was so overwhelmed that, after enthusiastically accepting his offer, I clammed right up. Strangely Sam didn't sigh with relief at the silence and remained sitting with me until I ready to go back to bed.

The turkey (why look at it in any other way?) having earned me a day off, I haven't left Sam's all day. Although he went off to work this morning he wouldn't have a bar of me leaving (not, being too content and comfortable, that I put up too much of an argument) and insisted that I at least stay until evening. A headache making even thinking about going shopping a painful experience, I've lounged around and spent most of the day sleeping or watching television. Given the rest of the week, it's been relaxing rather than boring. By the time Sam arrived with the bottle opener I was feeling a lot better and even the headache was down to a dull roar.

I just wish I knew how to thank him for everything, that's all.

"I still want to know how I can..." I start to murmur only to have Sam cut me off. "Just forget it," he states quietly. "It wasn't as though I went looking for it or anything, it was just there and I thought Malone might like it. Nothing more. It's no big deal. Now, I think I'll have a cup of coffee. Do you want one?"

"Sam," I sigh, making an attempt to clarify things in my mind, "Why are you so nice to me?"

"It's *only* a bottle opener," Sam mutters stubbornly, deflecting my question.

"That's not what I meant and you know it," I reply firmly. "The cards, the coming to rescue me from the hospital..."

"You're my partner," Sam interrupts dully, a bauble slipping from his fingers and rolling under the base of the tree, "and perhaps I like to think that you'd do the same for me."

"Of course I'd do the same for you," I declare, surprised at how things are going... or aren't really going as the case may be. "I hope you know that I'd do anything in my power for you."

"And there's your answer," Sam murmurs, walking towards the door to the kitchen and leaving me alone in the living room.

Only it isn't. There's no answer there at all and I don't know what to think. Perhaps I'm looking too hard for things that aren't there, I just don't know.

And I wish that I did.

*
On the second day of Christmas...
... Secret Santa takes over the office.
*

Okay.

The first shock was Malone actually looking pleased at the bottle opener. At first I thought my eyes were deceiving me, but no, there was what passes for a smile on his face as he held it aloft and presented it to the assembled masses. Although all I had to do with it was wrapping it up, I have to confess to feeling slightly rapt with his reaction. Risking a glance at Sam, I found him smiling at me triumphantly and can only hope he felt as impressed as I did.

The second shock was that someone was actually pointed enough to give Maureen (the little old mince pie cooking granny) a cookbook. A Christmas cookbook no more and no less. While, yes, her pies are revolting I still think that that's just a tad uncalled for and wonder who it was that was rude enough to give it to her. She cooed appreciatively, but the look in her eyes told a different story. I've got to hand it to Richards though. He leapt immediately to her defence and heaped platitudes on her pies and made her promise not to change a thing in her recipe as he liked them just the way they were. Doing my good deed for the day, I chimed in and added my praise as well. Hey, it's Christmas and a little white lie never killed anyone.

Shock three was watching Backup watch Sam as he unwrapped his present. I swear she stopped breathing until he declared his satisfaction with his gift and then she came across all giggly and ditsy. "Oh Sam! Isn't that just *lovely*! The person who had you must know you *very* well," she purred. She carried on in such a way over the present -- a Dunoon fine bone china
mug imprinted with some arty design and a pack of tea bags that anyone could be forgiven for thinking were meant for the Queen and the Queen alone -- that I began to wonder if she'd been drinking. By the time she'd finished even Sam was looking at her a little strangely.

And shock four is the orange furry thing sitting in my lap. Voices rabbit on around me as I stare at the plush toy in bemusement.

"It's a Tigger! Isn't it adorable!"

"My youngest daughter has one just like it."

"Yeah, it's cute, but what's it got to do with Keel?"

"Um... I dunno. Maybe there's a connection with Christopher Robin or something..."

"I know. It's because Chris bounces just like Tigger does!"

I do? Well according to Karen I do. Wonderful. You learn a new thing every day. Perhaps Karen was my Secret Santa...

"I'm glad I didn't have him now as I never would have thought of such a cool gift."

Or not.

So who had me?

'I'm not eggsacticly sure if I'm sure, but surely you could ask me later!'

Oh my God! It talks and all... How the hell did I manage that?

'Don't start with the tricky questions, they're only fit for Heffalumps and Woozles.'

This is getting surreal.

'Absitively posolutely maybe!'

Help me.

'Ooo hoo hoo hoo! Aw, that's ridikerous!'

Everyone's staring at me and the harder I squeeze its paw -- 'Looks like a Tiggerific day for you!' -- the more it talks.

Oh.

It's okay. I get it. I'm not actually as slow as I'm giving every impression of being.

'I got a question for you, how do you spell Tigger? T I double ger E R, that spells Tigger. Now you try.'

I start to laugh. God alone knows why but I'm suddenly delighted with my peculiar orange talking tiger... Ooops. Tigger. It's useless, completely pointless and for reasons unknown it makes me feel good about things.

'Ohhhhhhh! I never heard of hearing such a thing!'

Indeed. I couldn't have put it better myself. Looking up, I grin at my audience and nod. "I love it," I confirm, snickering. "Whoever my Secret Santa was, I thank you. It's really cheered me up." Everyone then wants to have a go making him talk and I find myself possessively watching over my Tigger as he gets passed around. The only person not enchanted by the toy
is Backup and she looks distinctly pissed off. Having received a really nice silver frame as her gift, I don't know what it is she's got to feel aggrieved by. Nor do I like coming under the baleful stares she keeps shooting at me. Sam, on the other hand, smiles at me happily, his eyes twinkling with good humour. He looks so carefree that I can't help but beam back at him.

Deciding that I want to be next to my partner, I start to move towards him. Too busy keeping an eye on my Tigger, I'm not watching where I'm going and nearly walk straight into Backup. "Whoever had you to buy for must know you pretty well," she comments blandly. "They must also think a lot of you because those things cost more than ten pounds." Interestingly she sounds more weary, or resigned, than her words could otherwise imply.

"I wouldn't know," I reply, shrugging. "I don't know who had me and I don't know how much it cost. All I know is that it's cute and everyone seems to like it."

"And that's why I never stood a chance," Backup whispers cryptically, looking up and smiling softly. "Wake up to yourself Chris. The person who gave you that would give you anything. You just have to realise that and decide whether it's what you want or not. Leaving them waiting isn't fair."

"Huh?" I mutter, puzzled. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Think about it and you'll know," Backup replies, turning around and starting to walk away. "I'd just do it quickly if I were you as people can't wait for ever," she adds over her shoulder before, no doubt to stop me from following her, going over to Malone.

Not quite knowing what to think, I push Backup's strange comments out of my mind and continue over to Sam.

*
On the last day of Christmas...
... I finally wake up to myself.
*

I want...

I want the ground to open up and swallow me.

I want it to be November... or January. I don't care. I just want it to be any month other than December. Not wanting to be too picky or anything, I'd even settle on it simply not being Christmas day.

I want a brain in my head as opposed to the 'space for let' sign that's currently rattling around up there.

I want to comprehend the meaning of the word organised.

I want it to be yesterday.

I want to be standing in the middle of Harrods and actually knowing what it was I was doing there instead of suffering a mental block and leaving without having brought anything.

I really want to convince my mouth to shut before Sam manages to look even more mortified than he currently does.

More than anything I wish I'd remembered to buy my partner a present. Calling myself an idiot doesn't even begin to cover it. I *knew* there was something I had to do. I even managed to drag myself away from the festivities at work and made it to Harrods while they were still open. Unfortunately I was then so busy congratulating myself on this fact that I promptly forgot why I was there in the first place.

*Fuck*.

I remembered this morning -- big fucking whoop -- but by then it was too late. Far too late. Not even running around my apartment like a hung over headless chicken generated a suitable gift. I had nothing unopened or new in the entire place. The closest I got to something looking halfway decent was a bottle of Jack Daniels that'd had only just been opened and there was
no way known that I could have given that to Sam. Having had him peer down his nose at the drink before I knew it was simply easier to confess my stupidity than give him something *he* knows that *I* know he hates. Besides, I just couldn't do it to him.

God! I am like *so* pissed at myself. I swear this latest example of not thinking makes forgetting it was Christmas seem like *nothing*. My mood was so bad this morning that I almost called up Sam and begged off lunch. For all of a few minutes I thought it was easier than admitting that I'd forgot to get him something. But then I couldn't do that either. The only place I
wanted to be was with Sam. It didn't matter where. I just wanted to be with him.

And now, as I stare down at the gift in my hand, I feel as though I could be looking *up* at a sewer rat. *Again* Sam has excelled himself. While I've seen models of F-14s before, this one, and there's no two ways of looking at it, is perfect. Even the Tomcat decals are spot on. Running my fingers along the cool metal of the diecast wings, I can almost imagine myself in the cockpit. I don't think I've ever been quite so moved by a gift before. Both the model's execution and the sentiment behind it are just perfect.

Which makes my forgetting to buy Sam something even worse. If I felt ill on the drive over here then now I feel terminal.

"It's lovely," I finally manage to whisper, glancing up at Sam in time to see him bite back a sigh of relief. "Really, really perfect. You shouldn't have gone to so much trouble though..."

"It was no trouble," Sam murmurs, again launching effortlessly into his dismissive routine. "I just..."

"Don't tell me, let me guess," I interrupt with a sigh, "You were in a shop and you just happened to see it." Goddamn it! What's it going to take to get Sam to open up to me? All he does is brighten up my life and all I seem to do is offer him nothing in return.

"Something like that," my partner replies blandly, his gaze sliding away from mine. "It's just a model, nothing special."

"It's special," I declare firmly. "I don't care what you say Sam, to me it's very special. And..." Here goes nothing. The weight of my own guilt is going to drive me into the ground if I don't confess and offer to atone for my sins. "And I'm so touched by the obvious thought that went into it that it makes the fact that I was stupid enough to forget to buy you something even worse. I'm sorry! I really..."

"Don't worry about it Chris," Sam cuts me off. "You don't have to buy me anything. I brought you that because I saw it and thought of you. It doesn't matter."

"It matters," I reply. "It matters a lot. I wanted to get you something and I fucked up. I'm sorry and I want to make it up to you. Whatever you want. You tell me and I'll get it for you."

"There's nothing I want," Sam murmurs, turning around and heading in the direction of the kitchen. "I'd just better check on lunch. You stay there and I'll be right back."

Like hell I'm staying here. "There has to be something you want," I continue querulously, trailing after him.

"There isn't," he states tiredly, busying himself with banging pots around on the stove. It's clear that he doesn't want to be having this conversation but, determined now, I'm not about to back down.

"There *has* to be," I mutter, gently placing my Tomcat down on the bench and folding my arms across my chest. "Just tell me. Don't worry about the cost. I'm willing to spend whatever it takes to get you what you want."

"Money can't buy everything Chris," Sam replies softly. Unless I'm mistaken he now won't even look in my direction. I'm doing well. For my next trick I'll see if I can really manage to upset him.

"Those who say that just don't know where to shop," I state, attempting to make a joke. Needless to say I shouldn't have bothered and, unless you count a heavy sigh as a response, Sam ignores me. "Okay, fine," I push on, "Putting aside the monetary side of things, please, just think... Surely there has to be something, *anything*, that you want." Sam's given me so
much that I'm not letting this rest until I know how I can repay him.

"Just *leave* it. I'm fine. You don't have to give me something," Sam grinds out, unknowingly taking his frustrations out on a bag of frozen peas and causing the peas to spill on the floor. "Fuck!" he adds loudly, getting down on his knees in order to pick them up.

I get down next to him and start scooping up peas. "Please," I whisper, almost pleading now. "I want to give you something."

"There's nothing that I want that can be brought," Sam murmurs, his eyes catching mine for a split second and the raw emotion I see in them shocks me.

"But there's something you want?" I prompt, my nerve endings tingling as, handing him the peas, my fingers brush Sam's.

"Yes," Sam finally admits, his voice so low that I have to really strain my hearing to hear him. "There's something I want."

"And can I give it to you?" I murmur, keeping my voice as low as his. I suddenly feel as though I'm getting close now. And maybe, just maybe, I might know where this is leading. And, if I'm right, patience never being one of my strong points, I long to be there already.

"Only if you wanted to," my partner replies hesitantly, the peas forgotten now as, unconsciously, we lean closer together.

How can I have been so blind? All of a sudden the Tomcat is no longer the best present I've ever received. The second best, yeah, but the best one's kneeling on the floor opposite me.

And, now that I think about it, it's -- he's -- all that I want... All that I could ever ask for and more.

The kindness, the looks, Backup's words... Everything makes sense now.

Clarity finally descending on me, I brush my lips lightly across Sam's and whisper, "I want to."

The strong arms that immediately envelope me tell me that my response was the right one even before my amazed looking partner regains the ability to speak. "Really? You're not just say..."

"*Really*," I interrupt, backing my statement up with another fleeting kiss. "You know how slow, particularly this month, I am... and how I could never lie to you..."

Sam smiles, his whole face lighting up and holding me entranced. "Then you've already given me what I wanted," he murmurs happily, his arms pulling me close and warming me to the core.

"Two kisses and you've got all you wanted?" I snicker. "Wow. You're easy to keep satis..."

Moist lips settling over mine and kissing me passionately silence the rest of my comment. Giving myself over to the moment and concentrating on returning the kiss, the last twelve days blur into nothingness.

Against the odds this has turned out to be a simply perfect Christmas.