Christmas Spirit
A series of drabbles by jessebee & Cassatt
The usual disclaimers apply about how we don't own these people. These drabbles are all gen, and they're rated no higher than G.
Author's note from Cassatt: much thanks for certain ideas to both my wife, and to jessebee. And to jbee for letting me take her original "Promises Kept" and add to it.
Author's note from jessebee: thanks to Cassatt and her wife for ideas about jokes and roses, and for liking the original drabble enough to want to play in the sandbox. The final drabble is a CI crossover.
Copyright December 2005, jessebee & Cassatt
Promises Kept by jessebee
The voice over the intercom sent Rey charging for the building door. Yanking it open, he nearly shouted, but he knew, somehow, that the figure vanishing into the blowing snow wouldn't, couldn't, turn back. His head said a flesh and blood messenger, but his heart insisted on a more
unearthly, impossible reality.
He looked back at the packages sitting in the foyer, a happy riot of color against the dull floor – red and green, gold, silver, blue. The writing on the tags was painfully familiar: To my nieces, no matter what. Love always, Uncle Lennie.
"Merry Christmas," someone whispered.
Collared
~ *~
When Ed keyed his apartment a cold draft tickled his face. More than odd; windows were firmly shut. Locked. Arming himself, neck tingling, adrenaline surging, he glanced down, seeing no Buster. He always greeted Ed.
All he found, searching, was a furry mound huddled in a dark closet, eyes bright, wide. Windows were still locked. Twice more he had felt the draft.
Ed crooned, "Come'on out...," instincts still firing. The cat approached, wearing an unfamiliar red collar. "What the--" Ed read the attached tag.
Merry Christmas, partner. Len.
His heart stopped. "Im...impossible." Eyes filling, he hugged Buster gently. "Yeah, Merry Christmas, partner."
Last Laugh
~ *~
They'd made a bet, the two of them, one night on a late murder consultation. Didn't it ever bug her, Lennie'd asked, working around all these dead people? "Why should it?" Elizabeth Rodgers replied, shrugging. "It's not like one of 'em's gonna sit up and tell jokes." So Lennie promised he'd find a way to tell her jokes from the Great Beyond. And they'd both laughed.
She looked up now from the joke book she held, and the fresh red rose tied onto it with bright silver ribbon. "You win, Lennie," she said, smiling through the tears. "You win."
Honored
~ *~
Anita, missing lunch, stormed to her desk. The smell hit immediately. "Oh yeah." She sighed, lifting an aluminum carry-out of hot fries. She ate two together, walking back into the squadroom.
"Who do I owe?" she called.
Relative silence descended; blank faces responded. Hubbub resumed.
She sat, eating, considering secret Santas, interrupted eventually by her phone.
"Honey," Donny said, his voice higher than normal. "Somethin's...."
She prompted three times before he'd continue. A wrapped present was left on their porch, for her, as "Lieu," but the signature? Her stomach dropped; blood curdled. She looked at her snack. A long moment later, she slowly saluted.
Tempted
~ *~
There was no one there when Mike got to the door, only a brush of cold air, a suggestion of cologne, and a long, narrow object wrapped in festive paper, leaning against the doorframe. The writing on the tag induced a shiver of disbelief and a wave of longing: Congrats on getting home, but you're damn right I never taught you that move. So try not to break this one, huh? Or we might have to talk. Miss you, partner.
"Would you?" Mike whispered. "Talk to me?" The paper squeaked mournfully as Mike tightened his grip, testing the pool cue's flex.
~ *~
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