Jack McCoy cinched his plaid bathrobe tighter around the waist, looking out the living room windows at the snow-blanketed street below. The sun hadn't yet risen; the streetlights were still washing the snow banks with a pale orange tint, giving the scene the surreality of a Monet study of haystacks in winter. But the Monets he saw as a young man imparted a sense of peace and tranquility, of a day not yet begun, of possibilities there for the taking. He used to bring dates to the Art Institute; on cold Saturday afternoons it was a free space of seemingly endless corridors and quiet corners in which to sit and talk. An inexpensive coffee shop across the street for food afterwards, and by the end of the day he would know if this was a woman he wanted to see again. Maybe take to bed, if he could get his roommate to leave for the night. Jack sighed as he watched a couple walking hand in hand, could not summon a smile as they tossed snow at each other.

In the next room was a woman, sleeping quietly, he assumed, from satiation and post-coital satisfaction. Her conquest realized. She could be everything he had ever wished for; she was sharp-witted, attractive, and interested in him. He thought that maybe her interest was the problem. She was too interested. Too quick to laugh widely at his feeble jokes. Too willing, and maybe too eager. He had never thought of himself as an ass, but maybe he was, for he had taken her to bed as expected by both of them. The natural outcome of their few dates. He had performed admirably, and attained a pinnacle of relief, a breathing space between hell and more hell. But sleep had not come his way, and the breathing space was brief, and upon reflection of no more than two minutes, wholly and entirely unfulfilling.

Looking out the window, seeing himself in the glass, he knew what the problem was without much more dissection. She was too soft, too round, with the wrong skin hue and wrong color hair, even if he had never found blondes unattractive. Quite the contrary. It was very likely that he was an ass, much more of an ass than he could have believed, because the woman in his bed was not the person he wanted there. Not by a long stretch. Exactly the opposite, as a matter of fact.

Jack sighed from a deeper place in his gut, glancing over his shoulder to the desk in the corner. On it sat an envelope he hadn't yet tossed, containing a card he couldn't yet display, as if this was his own private gift that he didn't want anyone else to see, not even those few people who ever did or would cross his threshold. The pull to walk over and take it out for the umpteenth time, to read it, and interpret it, and imbue it with layers of meaning which probably had never entered the mind of the sender was overwhelming. Too strong to resist and in his hands now, he slid out the card and smiled, as he did each time, at the Santa in Ray-bans slouching on a bench next to a beach, in red shorts, sandals, and a red and white tank top almost hidden by the flowing beard. He opened it. The handwriting had not been entirely familiar, since police reports were typed and the man's signature was a scrawl at best.

"Wouldn't this be the greatest Christmas? Wishing you one, Ed."

The meaning he wanted to believe existed in those nine words was so astonishingly impossible, he sometimes laughed out loud at himself. That didn't stop him from the wanting. Or spending an hour at the card store looking for exactly the right reply. Composing his own nine, ten or twenty words.

Ed Green keyed the front door to his building, knocked the snow off his shoes by stomping on the well-worn mat and entered, careful to ease the door shut behind him so as not to disturb the pre dawn sleep of his first floor neighbors. Just because they couldn't afford apartments further away from the front door didn't mean they had to be harassed at all hours. Not everyone had a cop's schedule of twenty-four seven. Ed had been working since ten o'clock the night before due to a body found in the alleyway behind Macy's. What had been assumed to be a homeless man dying from the blizzard surrounding him was a stabbing and sexual assault. Precisely what Ed had been in the mood for when he got the call, lounging on his couch, feet on the coffee table, remote by his side, a smooth expensive brandy and a good movie he had TiVo'd off of Logo. Seven hours later, he was exhausted, hungry, cold, and ready to wave a big bowl of oatmeal and fall into bed.

He glanced at the bank of mailboxes on the way to the elevator, stopping when he noticed a red envelope sticking out of the side of his box. Someone must have received his mail by mistake. He pulled it out, smiling to see a holiday stamp and a handwritten address; handwriting he didn't recognize though it looked familiar. The return address made his heart skip a beat, the handwriting now placed in its proper context of notes occasionally sent on stickies asking for clarification of a police report. He headed for the elevator, carefully opening the envelope and removing the card, knowing it was only four days since he had mailed his, and wondering if this was sent as some kind of reaction, even if it was only a social do-the-right-thing one. A different kind of reaction was what his mind wanted to imagine, fighting the urge to do so with every step. It was irrational. He couldn't stop it; he saw Jack McCoy searching to pick exactly the right card to send him, pausing over each one as if the decision was that important.

The card was an aerial photo of Manhattan in the dead of winter, in early evening, the white of Central Park glistening, the moon barely rising. A beautiful city when viewed from this height and quieted in snow. Ed opened the card, speed-reading the printed message in favor of the written one.

"Beaches are nice at Christmas, when you're not alone. So is NY. I hope yours is everything you want, Jack."

Ed must have hit the button for his floor because the elevator was moving, but his attention was held by twenty words, wondering again. What they meant; if they meant anything at all. They certainly didn't hold the meaning Ed would have liked, or wished; after all, Joe told him that he had seen the blond out with McCoy a couple of weeks after he and Ed had seen them. Joe was pretty up front about how it looked to him; even through his vaguely snarky tone, Ed got it. Jack was dating. Jack wasn't alone, and wouldn't spend Christmas alone, but would have-- experiences Ed absolutely refused to imagine. This time he stopped his mind without any effort. No fucking way was he goin' there, thank you very much.

It was while Ed and Joe were working an angle on their homeless Macy's vic that Ed's attention strayed from the person they were questioning to the drugstore behind him, and as soon as Joe handed the man their number Ed went inside. As he assumed, the store had one long aisle of cards; he found the holiday sections and scanned the first one, row by row, looking for the kind of card he had thought of in the shower that morning. It would be a good rejoinder to Jack's, a rejoinder that would be not only appropriate, but somewhat of a clarification of his original card. Besides, Jack might like it on its own merits, too, if Ed could find exactly what he had in mind.

"What're you doin'?" Joe was walking toward him with one palm up and his eyebrows scrunched tight, across his forehead.

Ed spared him a glance. "Looking for something. It'll only take a sec." He moved down one section, seeing cards that looked promising.

"A sec is what we don't have. I'm freezin' my nuts off out there and my partner's in here looking at Christmas cards?"

This collection was perfect, and Ed pulled the first one out of its slot, but it wasn't quite the right photo. "Why don't you go make a date with the woman behind the counter?" he said, without lifting his attention.

Joe muttered, "Fine." He turned on his heel and started off, saying, "Why I never see you doin' that seems to be the eternal question...."

As if Ed would ever answer it directly, when vague explanations about being too busy to date, or never finding the right person, or implications that he was dating everyone in the phone book had worked up to this point. As if Joe would be able to deal with a gay man so close to him, much less trust one to watch his back. Ed kept searching through the cards for another minute, until he found what he had been looking for, and, toning down his grin as much as humanly possible, he carried it to the cashier, ignoring Joe Fontana putting on the charm so thick it made Ed's teeth hurt. He pulled out a five from his wallet.

"Merry Christmas," Alex said, walking up to his desk with a smile, holding out an envelope.

"Thank you," Jack said, taking it. "You've got your cards done early."

"No, it's not from me; Linda tossed it at me when I walked by her desk. I think she mouthed 'NYPD,' at the same time, but she was also eating a piece of chocolate--" She shrugged. "--and answering the phones...."

He recognized the handwriting without trying, aided by the tiny butterflies reacting in his stomach. Making more small talk with Alex was not easy, but he managed with grace, he thought, when in actuality he wanted to see her receding back instead of her cheerful, lovely countenance. She left; he gently lifted the envelope's flap and pulled out the card. It was a black and white photo of Rockefeller Center in winter with parts of it brightly colorized: Christmas decorations, the distinctive sculpture, and the ubiquitous lights. Jack smiled, opening the card, skipping past the generic message to what Ed had written.

"One of my favorite spots to hang out with someone ~ can't skate at all, but fun to have a drink and watch others. Agree? Ed"

Jack could easily picture standing next to Ed, hot, spiced sake in hand, their breath seen as puffs of fog as they talked and watched skaters. The other man's solid presence six inches away, or less, maybe shoulders rubbing, sending waves of warm desire down his spine. It was a picture Jack could sink into. Readily. He closed the card after reading the message one more time. So Ed had hand-delivered this one, within days of Jack mailing his. He must have gone out to find a card fairly quickly, unless he had these sitting around his apartment, like leftover cards from years past. Jack turned it over; the photo's copyright was no help. Still, he had hand delivered it, and against his better judgment, Jack chose to believe that Ed had made a special trip somewhere to deliberately pick out this card. Standing in front of rows of cards, searching. For exactly the right one.

Jack checked his watch. He had a few hours before the nearest card store closed. He rolled down his cuffs, buttoned them, grabbed his coat and left.

After a half hour of looking, Jack thought he had found the right card. There were two, and he almost bought them both just in case, but decided on one instead. Next to the card store was a small coffee place; he bought himself a short au lait, topped it with cinnamon in the spirit of the season, and luckily found a table near the window where he sat, to write out his message.

"I agree, Rockefeller Center can be great fun, particularly if it's not me on the ice. This is another of my favorite places to go with someone during the holidays. I confess, I can be a sucker for the Spectacular. You? Jack"

He couldn't imagine what kind of reaction this would get out of the very cool Detective Green, but he had already come to the conclusion that this was one of those nothing ventured, nothing gained situations. The worst that could happen would be Jack falling from some position of authority in Ed's eyes, or he could be seen as uncool. On the other hand, the best that could happen would be for Ed to see Jack as a man who knew how to have some fun, irrelevant of age. Besides, he wasn't telling anything but the truth. He honestly did enjoy going to Radio City Music Hall every few years, depending upon the status of his love life, and reveling in the party atmosphere of the show. Walking around the city afterwards, or to a club for a drink, or to his apartment.

With the very sweet, and completely unimaginable, vision of Ed standing in the door to Jack's bedroom, about to be kissed to within an inch of his life, Jack slid the card into the envelope and licked the flap. He pressed it closed and contemplated delivery.

Ed was on the short walk from Lieu's office to his desk when he saw one of his coworkers pointing him out to a boy, just inside the squad room doorway. The kid was wearing a noticeably too-big scarf that encircled his head and neck like O'Toole in Lawrence of Arabia. Just a helluva lot colder.

"You Detective Green?" the boy asked, when Ed reached him. Ed admitted it. "This is for you," he said, handing over an envelope, the size of which Ed recognized with a stutter in his chest.

"Thank you," he said, pulling out his wallet to tip him, maybe get himself a burger; he looked thin.

"Nah, I'm cool, the old man's covering it when I get back down there with proof. You got one of those little cards with your name on it?" He sniffed, wiping the back of his wool glove across his nose.

Unaccountably, the stutter in Ed's chest increased a notch. Jack was downstairs. He could simply go down there and be physical proof, in the flesh, but-- This semi-clandestine thing was starting to be quite enjoyable, and maybe a little too enjoyable, but what the hell. Life had been handing Ed enough lemons to bottle and sell his own brand of lemonade for months, and so what if he was having fun? He opened the top drawer of his desk and retrieved a business card, scribbling a quick "He did good ~ Ed" on the back and giving it to the kid. He stopped him from tearing out of the squad room by shoving the bowl of holiday chocolate kisses under his nose; the boy grabbed a handful and stuffed them in his pocket with a grin and a 'thanks,' then trotted toward the stairs.

Before he was asked anything by Joe, now taking the same walk from Lieu's office looking at him over the top of his glasses, Ed left the bullpen for the nearest men's room. Privacy was not easy to come by at the two-seven, but he needed it, and if reading Jack's card inside a stall was what it took, he would do his best to ignore the surroundings.

He opened the envelope and, seeing the photo, was forced to stifle a chuckle so the man at the urinals wouldn't hear him. He read the message and smiled widely. Surprised, and not so, at the same time, given the glimpses Ed had had, over the years, behind Jack's serious lawyer image. The idea of attending the Spectacular with Jack by his side? The campiest show in town? Way too much fun. He closed his eyes for a long moment and thought about how to respond.

Six days later, each man had a collection of cards he guarded jealously, kept away from perceived prying eyes of his fellow human beings at work or at home. The hours Ed had spent following through on what he thought was a fantastic idea -- finally using a small digital camera his brother had given him the previous Christmas, wandering the streets of the city taking photos of all of his favorite places -- had not gone unnoticed by the recipient of the self-made cards. Once Jack had realized what Ed was doing, he not only displayed them in the most private place he could -- over his dresser -- he did his best during whatever available hours he had to find the classiest, most-perfect cards possible. Ed had carefully hung his gifts on the wall above his dresser, too, seeing them as a whole as he put on his holster each morning and took it off each night. Reading the inscriptions when the mood hit, more often than not at least twice a day.

A second snowstorm hit the city, with wind driving the snow deep into the crevices of Central Park's landscape, filling the alleyways, snarling traffic, covering the Christmas tree outside the Met, making more work for the crews charged with cleaning the courthouse steps.

"I hope they've got some good booze," Joe said, stepping onto the elevator.

Lieutenant Van Buren pushed the "10" and unbuttoned her wool coat. "They usually do. And since Branch came on board there's been less... adherence, shall we say, to the end time of the party."

Ed studiously ignored the conversation, because he was finding it hard to banter given what was in his jacket pocket, and was too tired to try, anyway. He and Joe had been trudging through the snow for two days, with nothing to show for it but salt stains on his best shoes.

Joe let out a noise. "Wouldn't have pegged him as a party goin' man, or a guy to ease up on his staff to quite that extent. Not that I'm gonna complain no matter what happens." He grinned.

"Maybe he was just trying to make friends when he got here," Lieu said with a dry tone. The elevator reached its destination. "Not that he tried so hard with us."

The three of them walked onto the tenth floor of One Hogan Place, and while Ed's partner clearly wanted more from his boss on the topic of the two-seven's relationship with DA Branch, and while Ed could have imparted any number of stories to Joe, who had missed the prior year's party, he was planning and considering moves and ways to find at least five minutes alone with Jack to whom he hadn't spoken directly since their card sending flurry had begun. Not spoken with personally, alone, but always with other people around, and though he didn't entirely understand why -- after all, he could have called the man at any time -- he clearly understood why the impending communication was so bone-deep important to him. His body was reminding him with each step they took toward party central, heart thudding away, pulse skipping, drawn to the right place by more raucous voices than usual, never-heard music in the background, and loud laughter. Apparently, lawyers knew how to let go.

Jack stood far away from the doorway, Scotch in hand, chatting with Walter about how hard it was to believe that their respective children were as old as they were, with one eye on the only entrance. Knowing this was almost too perfect of an opportunity to find some casual yet deliberate minutes to speak to Ed, alone, even amongst a crowd, or in his office, was one thing. Given his seemingly eons of experience in the dating arena, he thought it should be easy for him to arrange said minutes, to keep it off-the-cuff without it seeming irrelevant. Yet, each time he came up with a scenario, it felt so hokey and contrived that his brain stalled, only to start all over again. Honestly, it was getting ridiculous. Walter began talking about his grandchildren; Jack smiled and nodded, when a tall, familiar form filled the doorway. His heart slammed into his ribs. He took a swig of his drink.

Ed walked in, dark overcoat still on, and looked directly at him, finding his glance in the fairly crowded room. He smiled a small smile, but enough for Jack, who smiled and nodded in return. So, far, this was going well. Ed was with Fontana and Anita, and it was Fontana who was talking in his ear, and it was Fontana who might be the problem, to Jack's thinking. How to get Ed away from his partner without the partner noticing too much, like the two of them heading to Jack's office. Alone.

Jack was about to pull himself away from Walter when he saw Mina, an attorney with an office a few doors away from Alex's, come right up to Ed and clutch his forearm. She said something to him, pointing over their heads. Fontana laughed and punched Ed in the shoulder. Jack looked at the ceiling; there was a sprig of mistletoe hanging down with a large, red ribbon. Ed said something in response, but Mina tugged hard on his coat's lapels. Then Ed looked across the room, directly at Jack, again, and their eyes locked together, tightly. Jack's pulse started to pound; he thought he understood what Ed was thinking, clearly, and it made him feel lightheaded and almost giddy. In his wildest imaginings, he had hoped--

Fontana punched Ed again, and Ed broke the eye lock, giving in to what was likely an already soused Mina, pecking her lightly, hesitantly, on the mouth, to the raucous cheers of those near the door. Ed's smile was forced. Fontana's was wide. Jack glanced at Anita; she looked like she wanted to pull her detective far away from Mina and to a safe corner; if Mina should ever cross Anita's path, Jack feared for his fellow ADA. At the same time, Anita's reaction gave him personal pause.

The show over, the three cops took off their coats, Ed's glance darting in Jack's direction every other second. Walter was talking again; Jack made up his mind to cut the conversation and work his way to Ed's side.

Ed draped his coat over Joe's on a nearby chair, wanting to wipe off his mouth with any available kleenex he could get his hands on. Ugh.

"Hey," Joe said in a low voice, "you could use some lessons on how to sweep a girl off her feet."

Ed gave him what he hoped was enough of a dirty look to make his point.

"What?" Joe said. "You think that kind of kiss is gonna do it?"

Lieu physically turned Fontana away from Ed. "Joe, why don't you find us some drinks?" Joe muttered a response but left; Lieu raised her eyebrows at Ed and waved in his partner's direction. "You're gonna have to tell him at some point."

Ed shook his head and ignored her, like he was ignoring Joe. His mind was still on Jack; he was still slightly reeling from what he thought had just happened between them, which was much more crucially important. He was also a little embarrassed at being so bold in such a public forum, but kissing plus mistletoe plus where his mind had been for the past week equaled Jack, so he had naturally looked to him, to see whether he was noticing the stupid scene. He couldn't have been more shocked. Ed was certain that Jack's stare was a charged one; he was almost certain he could feel untold emotions flying across the room, directly down into his chest, and lower.

Maybe Jack had taken the time to understand one particular card Ed sent. Sent with nervous energy, but knowing it was okay, and the right thing to do. But.... Maybe the last five minutes was only a vivid, personal fantasy of what he wanted, not any kind of reality. This whole situation was about to drive him round the bend; he wanted nothing more than to shout an expletive at the top of his lungs. Now that would get a rise out of Joe.

He checked to see if Jack was still talking to the coworker. Borgia was telling Jack something, thumbing toward the door. Jack nodded and, as Ed watched, walked out as purposefully as possible, given the crowded room. He glanced Ed's way, once, but didn't smile, didn't acknowledge the eye contact. Ed's heart began to pound, hard.

Jack walked into his office with a sincere sense of dread, and almost shame, if he would let himself go there. Which he never did. Charlene was sitting on his couch, relaxed, long legs crossed, skirt riding up her thighs, a warm smile on her face. She rose, pulling off a hat and ruffling her short blond hair as he closed the door behind him.

"Jack," she said, dropping the hat on the couch, "you know I would consider you a hateful man if you were anyone else."

She reached for his hands; he gave them to her. She leaned in and kissed him; he did his best to respond with the same warmth. His stomach turned over. He stopped the kiss from progressing any further. "How have you been?" he said. "Have you finished your Christmas shopping?" He knew it was inane the moment it was out of his mouth.

She stepped back, studying him for a long minute, then sighed, and crossed her arms. "So," she said quietly, "I suppose I should consider you hateful, then. I just never expected this from you, though I can't say I'm completely surprised. I mean, it's been at least a week since you've called. Still...."

This was going to be worse than he had thought, walking here from the party. If only she would be the angry kind -- the kind of person who would tell him to go to hell in a hand basket and any other expletive phrase she could design -- at least then he might feel vaguely vindicated for treating her so disrespectfully. But she was a nice woman. He took her hands again and made them both sit down on the couch, face to face, trying to figure out what to say to her to salvage some sort of dignity for them both. He could see tears welling in her eyes, and his stomach turned over anew, but out of disgust with himself rather than at the feel of her lips against his own.

He rubbed the back of her hands with his thumbs. She closed her eyes. There was a gentle knock on his door; it opened and Ed put a foot over the threshold, took one look at him, at Charlene; his mouth opened, then pressed tightly together; he said simply, "Sorry," and closed the door. Not two seconds had passed. Jack's heart careened inside of his chest. His pulse pounded inside of his head. He stared at his door.

"Jack?" Charlene tugged on his hands.

He looked at her, but could find no words.

Okay, Ed thought, walking quickly back to the conference room, okay, no problem. He grabbed his coat, yanking it on as he stalked to the elevator. Answer received. The elevator was not arriving fast enough, so he looked around for the stairway, and hit the ten flights of cement steps. Answer received loud and clear. By the time he was at the bottom and shoving open the street access door, he was almost dizzy from circling the stairwell twenty times. The cold air slapped him with a hard jolt, but an amazingly welcome one, like the clarity that comes after being lost inside a puzzle for too long. He started down the sidewalk, pulling on his leather gloves and buttoning up his coat. Two blocks later, his legs began to give out along with his lungs; he leaned against the nearest wall, bending over with hands on his knees, and tried to breathe. He took great gulps of frigid air, his rubber soled shoes gripping the frozen snow, crunching slightly with every heaving breath he took.

Why he was so damned stupid, time after time, was the question that continued to reverberate inside of him. So. Damned. Stupid.

What had been a black night filled with stars and a bright moon at five o'clock was a cloudy night filled with dense, murky gray by seven, no stars to be seen and the moon long hidden. The city lights reflected up into the cloud cover, shining onto the first flakes of snow that fell slowly, turning them into tiny crystals by the time they landed on parked cars, and streetlights, and mailboxes. The pace of the snowfall gradually increased. There was no wind for this storm; there was no white wall. It was more a lace curtain, dropping an inch by eight o'clock, covering the dirty snow with clean. Pristine, and soft. Still falling.

Jack stood at his dresser, tall enough for him to rest elbows on it easily, studying the Christmas cards arrayed across his wall. He twisted his class ring as he worked on a decision. Believing himself a man who, when pressed, was never a wimp, even if frightened, but was a man who took action. Sure, and decisive. Believing that, and understanding what was at stake here, and therefore what the potential risks were, kept stalling him from doing anything. He could easily decide that waiting was the best thing. Give the situation a day to reach perspective through time alone. It had only been a couple of hours, if that, and he had spent part of that appeasing his conscience with regard to Charlene's feelings, and expectations.

In front of him was one aspect of Ed Green. A man who obviously loved the city in which he served. A man who had been honest with Jack, and shown him a level of trust that had encouraged him and made Jack believe that he could have what he wanted. Jack picked up the phone for the third time, but this time dialed, his emotions somewhere up near his throat. Ed's cell phone rang twice before it was answered. Jack heard the noises of a loud, public place, with music, and voices, some very near to Ed, to whom Jack was trying to make himself heard. Once Ed understood who was calling, he answered in one syllable words, not precisely encouraging, not entirely off-putting, but not willing to agree to meet that night, or impart the details of where he was. Jack ended the pseudo-conversation by telling him that they needed to talk.

Jack looked at the most significant card in the grouping. One of Ed's personal ones, and the one that had opened the door to the real Detective Green. The photo was of a bar called Ty's, not a place Jack knew, but as soon as he had looked it up and saw the address on Christopher Street, he recognized the famous Stonewall neighborhood and understood Ed's message. He also knew that Ed had counted on him doing that small bit of research, of participating in his coming out, as if Jack was invited to walk through the door of his own accord. Did Jack care enough to find out more?

He turned away from the dresser, decision made.

Ed drained the last drops of beer from the bottle in front of him and decided one more would be good. There was a guy leaning up against the bar who was a pure prospect; he'd been giving Ed the eye for the past thirty minutes, at least, and while Ed went back and forth about approaching him, the guy stayed. Eyeing Ed. The forth, for Ed, was getting laid, forgetting his day, evening, and maybe past week and a half; the back was getting laid by someone he didn't know, not being able to forget his day, evening, etcetera, and the risk that the guy was a hanger-on, or worse, an asshole. Add to that the noise level which usually didn't bother Ed, but tonight felt oppressive as hell, and all in all? This experience wasn't meeting Ed's expectations.

But Ed could blame nobody but himself, since he had been sitting at a table, drinking beer instead of making a move, any move. He heaved a sigh, stood, and took his empty to the bar to exchange for another. The flirt zeroed in, and aside from a slight reaction in the groin to his proximity, Ed felt nothing but a little queasiness. He thought it might have something to do with the blond hair, which he knew was not fair; this guy couldn't help it if he had chosen to dye his hair such an unnatural shade of yellow which nobody actually had on their head in a true and honest state. The guy introduced himself while Ed wondered why people dyed their hair at all. A promising start. He was fucked, and that wasn't in a good way, and bottom line: he was forced to admit it, at least to himself. Ed made a vague apology for nothing but disinterest, and with a sinking heart, worked his way back to the table of friends to pick up his coat and go home.

His pathetic-ness was second only to his self-pity, and all because what he had known from the very beginning -- that Jack was completely and totally unobtainable -- had been shoved into his stupid face. That the man felt some sort of need to talk was nothing but the icing on the fucked cake. Maybe Ed would let that happen in a few weeks, after the holidays and the burning of the present he had bought Jack, but not before then. In fact, now that he thought about it, burning the gift tonight, before he crashed, might do him the most good. Close this highly humiliating, tiny chapter of his life once and for all.

He shrugged on his coat, lifting a hand to the other men at the table. They were saying good nights, but their collective attention was drawn somewhere past Ed's right shoulder. The flirt, making a second move, and with a deep sigh Ed turned around.

"Ed," Jack said, reaching for his forearm, "I'm glad I caught you before you left."

Momentarily stunned, his pulse reacted slowly, but within a few seconds was flying. The man's cheeks were flushed, his thick gray hair was damp on top, the shoulders of his coat were damp as well, and all of the feelings Ed had been working to stifle came flooding back, simply because of pink cheeks and eyes shining from the cold. A hand, heavy on his arm.

Jack leaned in. "Can we go somewhere? More private?"

His brain engaged. He shook his head. "I don't think so. Don't worry, I'm cool." It was the only assurance he could falsify and still force out of his newly thickening throat.

"We really need to ta--"

"We don't," Ed said. "I'm cool. Really."

Jack leaned in further. "Bullshit, and besides, I hope you're not cool, because you don't understand the situation."

Ed took a step back, his pulse reacting in a new way. "It's not bullshit, okay, I am totally fine and not some little chickie that you have to worry your ass over...." He stopped, because Jack was looking at him funny, with hands on his hips. "What?!" he asked, despite resolving to end this now.

Jack shook his head, glancing down briefly. He met Ed's eyes, and pointed at him. "I forgot. What a stubborn sonuvabitch you can be." He smiled, showing his palms. "Fine. You're cool. I'm cool." His smile faded and his hands landed back on his hips. "What I'm not, is involved with that woman. What I want to be, is involved with you." He pointed again. "Just so you get it, okay? Merry Christmas," he said with a touch of force, before turning on his heels and making his way toward the door, shouldering past people at a fairly good pace.

"What?" Ed said, mostly to himself.

A friend of his was at his elbow and gently shoving him forward. When Ed looked at him, the man waved his arm in the direction of the entrance and shoved him between the shoulder blades again, with a wide smile. It was enough to get his feet in gear. He followed Jack, catching up with him on the sidewalk just outside the bar, grabbing his arm. Jack turned. Snow was falling steadily, disappearing in the white-grey of his hair, melting on his nose, starting to cover his shoulders. He looked good enough to kiss soundly, and decidedly, Ed thought, hordes of butterflies dancing in his stomach.

"I get it," Ed said, his heart beating strongly, all traces of alcohol vanishing from his brain.

"Do you?" Jack said, because he wanted to be absolutely sure; there could be no room for any more misunderstandings. Besides, Ed was looking so damned gorgeous in that black leather jacket and snow dusting his curly hair with white that Jack was having trouble staying still. He cocked his head at Ed, waiting, smiling at him with what he hoped would be interpreted as encouragement.

"Yeah. I do." Ed smiled too, and that was just about impossible to resist.

Jack made the first move, cupping Ed's face, accepting that it would be up to him to break the barrier between them since he was the wild card here, but that simple move did more than break down a barrier. They came together simultaneously, mouths meeting, breath merging for the first time, and Jack's eons of experience assured him that this was how a real, passion-filled kiss should feel. Knees weak. Blood surging. Throat tightening.

All of their pent-up emotions poured into that first kiss, that first embrace, that first contact. A first kiss became a second, and a third, and by the time the tenth ended, snow covered them; Jack and Ed were grinning at each other; Ed's friends were cheering from the other side of the windows though neither man would have noticed to save his life; and people on the sidewalk were smiling behind their backs.

Hours and hours later, in the warmth of Jack's bed, they exchanged their first presents, and within minutes held in their possession four tickets to Radio City Music Hall's Christmas Spectacular. Their combined laughter was long, and loud, and gentle, and loving. Their first tradition born, they settled in for a leisurely morning of breakfast under the quilt, for New York had been brought to a near-standstill during a night of soft but steady snowfall. A white blanket covered the isle of Manhattan, glittering in the morning sun, sticking to the trees in Central Park, obliterating the giant snowflake on 57th. The snow was pushed aside by lumbering plows. Tossed in the air by children. And adored by lovers.

End.

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