BLUE CHRISTMAS
follows "Icons"

                                   ***December 11, 2024***

Robert Goren had survived eight years of self-imposed exile, fueled by guilt, pride, and unacknowledged fear, to allow Alexandra Eames freedom to achieve her life goals. When they lost contact at the end of 2020, he had accepted the emotional blow. Alex had nothing to gain by hitching herself to his possibly ill-starred future, and he quietly applauded each step she had taken up the NYPD's promotional ladder.

But Sidney Jacobs, the one staunch friend he had left at the Federal Bureau of Investigation back in 2012, had performed a miracle: he'd found Penelope Saltonstall for him. With patience nearly as strong as Alex's, she had made certain he had direction and support.

Nine years later, nine years of phone calls and e-mails and things left unsaid, a stroke of luck, initiated by a worried sister and scheming cousin, had brought Alex back to him, and, like dominos, things had fallen into place: their marriage, the release of their books, the guardianship and adoption of Olivia, the book tour, the inheritance of Bruno Volpe's home, and finally their fostering of Randall Shaw. It had completed every facet he had ever wanted in his future.

But when he turned on the news that morning, the lead story suggested that luck was about to turn against him.

The library was his favorite place in the new house—next to being in bed spooned with Alex—where he sat in the comfortable office chair between a pair of desks, the aged metal one he used for work and the newer wooden one used for writing and editing and other pleasant tasks. He was almost finished annotating Bruno Volpe's Korean War diary on the latter and putting the finishing touches on the accompanying PowerPoint slides for his scheduled January lecture on the former. It was a calming haven on a bleak rainy day despite the temporary early spring temperatures.

When his phone buzzed for a video call, he was half worried, yet half pleased to see who was calling: Marcus Thuringer, SAC of the Boston field office of the FBI. Marc was a personal friend as well as his nominal supervisor, and he reminded himself that Alex was right; he automatically borrowed trouble, and the call was probably an update of the remainder of his lecture schedule for the new year.

But even a person untrained as a criminal profiler would have known this conversation would be an ill-fated event. There was no customary smile of greeting or businesslike briskness on Thuringer's face; he looked thoroughly unhappy, even grim.

"Hi, Bobby. We need to talk."

Bobby Goren flashed back to a day in 2012 when he had asked his squad captain, an old friend, about Alex's chances of promotion now that they had both been reinstated to the Major Case squad and responded dryly, "Hi, Marc. I take it this call has something to do with the Director's resignation this morning? Captain Hannah said to me what seems like a century ago, 'Do you want that slow and easy, or do you want it with both barrels?' I told him to give it to me between the eyes. Same goes now."

Thuringer nodded, then tempered himself. "I thought about this a long time before calling. In fact...ah...I called Penny Hogarth before contacting you. I figured that, except for Alex, she knew you best."

Bobby's stomach knotted as Thuringer turned his glance away for a second before speaking earnestly. "That's why this is a video call. Man, I am–"

"Marc. Spill it."

"Your January lecture is a done deal because it's scheduled before the 20th." He took a deep breath. "But that's it. Due to 'the current political climate,' all other...'nonessential instruction' has been suspended. The Bureau thinks it wise...well, we don't know how things will shake out."

The chill, then, was not just from the cold rain falling outside.

"You can say the word, Bob, and I'll stop the process...but I thought it prudent to put in your final retirement papers this morning once the announcement came down."

Bobby began to speak, but Marc continued, "Hear me out. This is why I called Penelope. Aside from Alex, I don't think there's a single adult who knows you as well. She told me she didn't think you could handle the political bullshit that's about to erupt. You're apolitical and incensed by pretentious crap, and what's coming out of DC already smells.

"We were letting you skate anyway, and without the lectures, they'll bump you back to field office work, desk duty most probably due to your age, before they push you out. And it could be anywhere. I won't do that to Alex and the kids."

"No," Bobby said numbly, then collected himself. "No, you did the logical thing. Send the paperwork through."

"Alex not there?" Thuringer inquired.

"She...uh...took some time away from her BLE work this afternoon to help Viola and Abbi with a f-fundraising project at Big Brothers/Big Sisters. I'm surprised she did, as she said there was some critical work she had to finish. But Viola asked for help, so she spared them a few hours. You know Alex."

Marc nodded soberly. "Bobby, I'm sorry."

"It's all right. I'm grateful that you gave me the chance after Penelope retired."

"I'm pissed over this, dammit. You turned out to be a better lecturer than I'd imagined. I've received almost nothing but praise for your presentations. Most agents lapped it up, and even the cynical ones enjoyed your style. You will be missed."

"Thanks," Bobby said mechanically, glancing at his notes. The final notes. He'd been so apprehensive about reinventing himself one more time the previous year, yet it had gone well. Alex had had faith in him, and so had Olivia. He smiled to himself, remembering the ten-year-old at his first presentation, baffling all the neophyte agents filing into the lecture hall.

"Bobby?" Thuringer's voice seemed to come from far away, and he had to drag himself back to the present. "If you need anything..."

"It's all right," Bobby repeated. "But I need to get back to my lecture. It needs amending."

Thuringer noted the shortness of his tone. "Check your e-mail. I'm sending you a batch of documents to be read and confirmed, and most require electronic signatures. A couple require the real thing. Process them quickly, okay—and backdate them a couple days? Print out everything, sign it as well, and file it. Hell, get it notarized if you have to."

"Our neighbor Nate is a notary public. I will. Marc–" Bobby paused, then said with a smile, "Don't be a stranger. At least for Olivia's sake. She wants Randall to have a ride in your plane."

"Ah, but does Randall want a ride in my plane? I know he's opinionated." Marc said jokingly, referring to his Cessna 180, which he kept at Hanscom Field.

"Min talked him into riding horseback last month, and it turns out he loved it. We considered taking him to Stony Ridge riding therapy class as a Christmas surprise, but I guess that's tabled now."

"If you need anything," Marc reiterated with emphasis.

"We have a good financial advisor these days," Bobby said more naturally. "It'll work out. Thanks for giving me the heads up."

"You take care," Thuringer said with a last, regretful look. "Goodbye."

"Bye."

Bobby had stared at his desk for only a few minutes when a soft voice came from between the open pocket panel doors. "Hey. Just got off the phone with Marc, huh?"

Alex. Beautiful, almost endlessly patient Alex. A few more wrinkles, tiny crow's feet, silver in her hair, but still the strong personality within a petite body, the elfin smile and crinkled eyes when she was pleased, unafraid to be stern with him and tell him what for, and conversely when to hold him and tell him all was well. Her face was sober, even a little tired, her mouth twitching to keep herself silent.

"Called you first, Eames?"

"Yeah." She had hung her wet jacket and hat in the foyer but laid her purse down in the high-backed armchair by the library door, looking warm and infinitely appealing in a Fair Isle knockoff sweater and trim jeans with smart black, heeled boots. "Told Abbi and Viola I had an emergency and peeled rubber out of the parking lot. Russ will probably scold me for showing the older boys a bad example."

Bobby rose from his chair, moving as stiffly as an old man, and they met in the middle of the room, his arms wrapping around her and hers around him, and he buried his nose in her warm, apple shampoo-scented hair. "Eames..."

"Thank goodness we didn't go overboard for Christmas," she said practically. "Everything's paid for and paid up. Lizzie and Jack are bringing the food for Christmas dinner. We'll talk to Sister Rosamund and see if we can set up a payment plan for Randall. He's doing so well; we can't pull him from St. Greg's."

She tipped her face up to him. "I'm sorry you'll have to retire for keeps this time. You've always been fulfilled by your work, no matter how dark the cases became. I remember three Christmases ago...saving Scotty Gibson from child traffickers."

Bobby scoffed, "That was more Donny, and then Ana and Carlos than me. I just put things together."

"Have it your way—don't give yourself the credit you're due. But this is your chance, too. You've said you wanted to spend more time at Big Brothers with the older boys now that Rafe and his cousins have moved up a group. And take Sam to the Veterans Hospital more than once a week. With you editing Bruno's book, you haven't had as much time lately."

He had, in fact, expressed regret about the latter, and it was like her to think of it.

"Well, I don't have time to sit and lick my wounds," he responded thickly. "As I told Marc, certain alterations are now required in January's presentation." He snorted. "The last lecture, almost a year to the day from the first. Besides, I know you need to get back to work—you had something due soon," referring to Alex's advisory position on the NYPD's Better Law Enforcement task force, one she'd held since last May.

To his surprise, Alex pulled back, bowed her head with a sigh, then lifted her chin to face him. "No, see...I don't. That...'current political climate' has hit at a city level as well as a Federal one. I had a call from Ms. Masondo before I went to meet Abbi and Viola. Our activities are suspended immediately until further notice. She said they need to see how things 'shake out.'" She smiled despite troubled eyes. "I certainly will not miss Mr. Wilmot."

He pulled her back into his arms, and they rocked silently for a moment.

An unexpected young male voice came from the doorway. "D-Does this m-mean we'll be poor like the five little P-Peppers?"

Thunderstruck, they glanced in that direction to find Olivia and Randall, side by side, staring at them uncertainly, still in wet jackets, both wide-eyed, damp backpacks dangling from their arms.

"How long have you two been home?" Bobby asked, dazed.

"Since Mama mentioned that Christmas was paid up. The power went out at school at lunchtime," Olivia said in a small voice. "After an hour someone talked to the power company and they didn't know when it would be back on. So Sister Mark Anthony called the buses and wanted to text you to pick us up. I knew you were both busy today, and you had given permission for us to take the bus if needed, so I asked if Randall and I could take the bus, too. I texted you from the bus, but I s'pose you were on the phone with Mr. Thuringer." She held out a form. "The Sisters gave everyone a note saying what happened."

Randall finally stammered as he did when overwhelmed, "W-Will we h-have to s-sell all our b-books like M-Mommy and I h-had to after she got fired?"

Alex immediately released her hold on Bobby to turn to him. "No! I have my NYPD pension, Bobby has his severance money, and he'll get a Federal pension, too. I still have most of my insurance claim from 2020, and Bobby can always get a job with Mr. Fornell—Olivia remembers Tobias."

"He's brill," Olivia said instantly. "He and Ms. Heller helped protect Papa from Mr. Cavanaugh, except Papa and Mr. Cavanaugh talked, and now they're friends–"

"Well," Bobby amended with a chuckle, "we don't quarrel anymore, at least."

"Well, he was nice enough to attend my adoption ceremony last year," Olivia defended. "Anyway, Randall and I will do our best to help. After Christmas, no more new books, Randall. We'll reread what we have or go to the Book Barn for used ones or use the library. Right?"

Under the mop of always untidy dark hair Alex loved so dearly, Randall looked a bit shellshocked at the pronouncement, since both children were as bookish as Bobby. He queried nervously, "Can we...tell everyone we want bookstore gift cards for Christmas?"

"That wouldn't be very polite," Bobby said, suppressing a smile.

"Could Randall and I earn money? What if during the daytime, when school's out, we had a food delivery like Doordash for the neighbors? We could walk the four blocks to La Taverna or the Dark Crystal, pick up their food, and charge a delivery fee."

"Walking would take forever. It would go faster if we had bicycles," Randall complained, then looked gloomy. "I wish I still had my bike, the one Mommy had to pawn. We could deliver stuff real fast. Mrs. Krentz loves the food at La Taverna..."

Bobby cleared his throat, and Alex bit back a smile. "I don't think you'll have to become bicycle messengers just yet. You can do little things that add up to big ones," he said.

Alex added, "Your job is to save energy. Shut the faucets off properly, don't linger in the shower. Keep the basement door and the outside doors closed. Turn out the lights when you leave an empty room. Keep your laptops off unless you're using them. Little bits of electricity add up fast."

Olivia nodded vigorously. "I'll finish my old cross-stitch kits before starting new ones. And get my drawing paper from the dollar store unless it's for a good drawing."

"We can turn down the heat and wear warmer clothes," Randall offered.

Olivia protested, "Not too much, or Bandit will get sick!"

"Why don't you each make a list of ten things we can do to economize?" Alex said, knowing neither child would let this go now—they were both as tenacious as Bobby, not to mention herself, and it was wisest to occupy them—and Randall's penchant for lists. "You can use the scrap paper and pencils in the guest room."

"Yeah, a list," Randall enthused.

"Put your things up first," Alex called as they bolted for the stairs. "And you have to do your homework!" She blinked, then breathed, "Oh, God. I opened my mouth, and my mother came out again."

Bobby laughed as the pair hung coats and hats in the foyer to a chorus of "Yes, Mama!" "Yes, Mom!" Then, as they thundered up the wooden steps, Bobby asked very loudly, "Do we have two children or a herd of elephants?"

Olivia responded by making a sound as close as she could approximate to an elephant, only to hear Randall scoff, "That doesn't sound like an elephant!"

"So let's hear you do an elephant," were Olivia's final audible words.

"I'm glad she's comfortable enough to tease him," Alex said wistfully.

"Even better, he's allowing her to tease him without being upset. That means he trusts her."

"I hope he trusts us." Then Alex continued in more businesslike tones, "First thing tomorrow, one of us needs to call–"

"–Julian and tell him what's going on," Bobby finished the sentence automatically, something they had done with each other for years, even before their marriage. "He'll let us know if there's some move we need to make."

"We need to assure DCS that we can care for Randall properly," Alex fretted. "We can't risk them taking him away."

Bobby shook his head, thinking about the events following their neighbor Bruno's death that had brought them into loggerheads with Bruno's eldest, Julian (originally Giacomo), who had become a successful insurance executive and married a banker's daughter. But when Julian and his son, initially boastful and sarcastic Leo, had turned up on their moving day and happily pitched in, they sensed something had changed.

Julian later suggested a few safe investments that were doing well in the stock market. He assured them of slow but steady growth, and they had taken cautious risks.

Olivia called from the head of the stairs, "Can we do our homework in the kitchen? Randall's still helping me with algebra."

"How about in the dining room? More room to spread out and we'll get a little use out of it."

The children plunked themselves at the table for eight, spreading out laptops, at least one book apiece, and paper, pencils, and pens. The furnishing had been Julian Volpe's doing: when occasional business took him to Hartford, he usually stopped to visit. In August he had noted the still almost-empty dining room and helped them find a plain, inexpensive mahogany-finish table and matching splat-back chairs, one which, if not Queen Anne style, fit well with Frances Goren's highboy dresser, which held pride of place in the room holding holiday tablecloths and napkins, placemats, napkin rings, carving sets, and miscellaneous kitchen items. From long experience with parents whose hobby was collecting antiques, Julian negotiated a lower price because it was 1950s vintage rather than 1920s.

This purchase completed the room, the only other furniture having been provided by Henry Cattaneo, the antiques aficionado they had not reported for unlawful possession of a Revolutionary War-era sword two years earlier. Cattaneo had returned the item anonymously a few days later, then repaid them gratefully after they'd moved by presenting as a gift a sleek, narrow Queen Anne side table from his collection, in the same finish as the highboy, on which Alex set family photos and also hung some above.

Randall was well into his American history unit, and Olivia was concentrating on fossils when Alex appeared in the doorway with her laptop, a notebook of ledger paper, and black and red pens, with Bobby and Sam, their stocky tricolor collie, behind her and Bandit clinging to Bobby's shoulder. As soon as the white-and-grey budgerigar saw the children's papers, he fluttered to the table, cheeping with excitement. Olivia pushed her algebra assignment at him—Sister Bridget was old-fashioned enough to insist on them doing problems "properly" on paper—and said vindictively, "Go ahead, Bandit. Show Sister what I think of equations." And she grinned as Bandit began happily gnawing on the paper.

"What are you doing, Mom?" Randall asked, seeing the intriguingly lined pale-green paper with vertical columns in red and black.

"Our homework," she replied wryly. "Budgeting."

"There's a course with that in the upper school," Olivia announced. "Mx. Brion teaches it. I'm taking it when I get there. It has a long name, but the instructors all call it 'Adulting.'"

Alex had intended to do her work in QuickBooks, but it appeared to be a teaching moment, so she began writing things in black pen on the ledger paper. After a few minutes, she saw Randall save his work and Olivia put the algebra problems out of Bandit's reach. The bird scolded and decamped to Bobby's shoulder, where he craned his neck to gnaw on hair.

"Whatcha writing?" Randall ventured.

"First I've done a summary page. Income is in black ink. I've written all that in a column. Pensions, salaries, investments, bank interest, and the stipend from DCS."

"What's a stipend?"

It was a tricky question; Alex didn't want Randall to get the wrong idea. "DCS wants to make sure we have enough money to care for you properly, so they give us a stipend each month."

He sighed. "You mean they pay you for caring for me."

Bobby laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Yes. But I can follow your line of thought. No, we didn't take you home to get money."

"Some people do. I think the stinky people did," Randall said resentfully, referring to one of the foster parents he'd lived with for thirteen days.

"I know. It's barbaric," Alex said with snapping eyes. "Liv called us because she knew we'd care for you, not for cash."

Randall ducked his head and sniffled, earning a hug from Alex. Finally, Bobby said lightly, "You didn't know economics was so lachrymose, did you, Min?"

Olivia sniffled and giggled at the same time.

"Now," Alex continued in businesslike tones, "in red ink, we have our expenses. There's the mortgage on next door," referring to their former residence, which they rented to Abril Diaz and her grandchildren, "and this is what we need to save every month for the quarterly property taxes on both homes, although we'll get a lower rate on this house once your father retires. That's called an exemption. Here's what we pay in home insurance per month for both homes. This is the monthly payment on the SUV."

Olivia gulped when Alex wrote the figure, although Bobby's friend Lewis had found the used vehicle for them, polished out some dents and dings, and tinkered with the engine to make it almost like new, as well as found a buyer at a decent price for Alex's well-maintained Honda CR-V. "Then," and she consulted their joint account, with several moments of silence in which Bandit fluttered down from Bobby's shoulder to gnaw on the accounting sheets.

The silence made Sam anxious, and he thrust his nose under Bobby's hand for reassurance.

Finally, Alex said, "And this is the average we pay for food each month. Your stipend goes mainly for this, Randall: your share of meals and your clothes."

"Then there's car insurance, Randall's tuition," Bobby put in, "and the utilities. Gas, electricity, Internet, water. And finally the ubiquitous 'miscellaneous.'"

"Maybe we should see if Shard can use help in the kitchen on trivia nights," said Olivia apprehensively.

"Child labor is illegal, mon petit," Bobby reminded lightly. "Don't worry. Just turn out the lights behind you."

"What's 'miscellaneous'?" Randall inquired.

"You're growing children," explained Alex, "and that means new clothes and shoes."

"I guess there's no way for us to stop growing," sighed Olivia.

Bobby reached over to pat her arm. "As much as I would love to keep you at eleven forever."

"You said that about nine, too, Papa," she reminded, then shrugged her shoulders. "Time for another trip to see DonJohn, I guess."

Randall was still staring at Alex's neat columns with a ferocious expression. "I don't want to be a grown-up if I have to worry about all that!" he declared passionately.

"What did you come up with on your lists?" Alex asked to divert them, seeing that the scrap papers were just about full.

Olivia handed hers over sheepishly. "I don't think the first one will help much."

Alex was amused at "No more green beans." "We don't even make you eat them, Min."

Bobby mused, "Now here's an idea, but it will mean extra work. 'Plant a garden like Aunt Abbi.'"

"That will indeed save money, and you will have better food," said a severe voice behind them, and Sam wuffed and pranced to meet Abril Diaz and Viola Perrino.

Abbi continued, "What has happened, mi hermano?"

During their move in July, Bobby had teased Abbi about adopting her as a sister. Abbi had taken it completely seriously, as she had her pride and only for a family member would she have swallowed it and occupied their little house at a reduced rental price. They were ohana, family, the Gorens had insisted.

Bobby said naturally, "I'm taking my retirement, Abbi. They've been looking the other way, but technically I should have retired in June."

Abbi, only a few years older than him, tilted her oval face, her dark eyes reading everything. "This is your choice? I don't believe it."

Viola Perrino said quietly, "Let me guess; it's the 'current political climate'? The same excuse my apartment complex gave me for raising my rent one hundred dollars?" She scowled, blue eyes angry. "I'm at least ten years older than all of you, and this has all happened before."

Bobby gave them a fond smile. "As much as we want to lay blame on certain people...um...remember that an incoming administration is always about replacing the old with th-that of the new. It was inevitable, as was my retirement."

Alex took a deep breath. "And Ms. Masando told me activities were 'suspended,' not ended. Once the spring comes, I could be working again."

Bobby eyed her speculatively as if to ask if she truly believed what she had said. A flicker of a glance retorted: Did you?

"I am willing to wait and see," Abbi returned skeptically, "while the ninos and I return the kindness you did for us in the summer–"

When they started to protest, Abbi slashed her hand downward. "Do you remember what I said, around the kitchen table last May? If we are family, we help each other. In the spring, Carlos will borrow Alvin's little plow and we will each have a garden. Carlito will help you and so will Ana." Bobby raised a hand as if to interrupt, and Abbi finished gently, "Roberto, you gave Ana a precious gift this summer. She is no longer afraid to come home for fear of meeting that boy Mateo and his...gang. Now she wishes to give back, and you must let her. The gifts...they are part of Christmas, no?"

"Sí, mi hermana," Bobby agreed, his eyes softening.

Alex parried, "But all four of you must come to supper tonight. No arguments. Randall, please pull two packets of ground beef from the refrigerator."

"Ooooh, spaghetti!" he exclaimed, and ran.

Alex couldn't sleep, Keyla Masando's call still simmering within her. She lay on her side, stewing over the things she should have said, things she shouldn't have said and didn't, things she'd wished she said—instead of a calm "I see," in response to the woman's crisp tones. "I understand."

No, she didn't understand.

When she turned over in bed, she realized she must have dozed at some point, because Bobby's side of the bed was empty. There was no light under the bathroom door, but the low-wattage dusk-to-dawn nightlight inside supplied sufficient illumination to pee.

Clad in slippers and a robe, she discovered the bathroom was empty.

Alex had expected this.

The children were asleep (or feigning it well), and she padded downstairs by the light of her cell phone to find Sam in front of the library, his tail down, pawing at the closed doors. There was a slit of light between the pocket-panel doors—and then a muffled growl of frustration and the sound of multiple items striking the hardwood floor.

"Stay," she bade Sam and quietly slid one door open.

In the stark light of the green-shaded banker's lamp on his wooden desk, Bobby was bent over the metal one, head down, breathing hard, braced on his arms. Everything that had been on his work desk lay in disorder on the floor.

"Could you be angry a little more quietly?" she whispered. "You don't want to wake the kids."

Bobby's head snapped up, and she saw tears of humiliation and fury in his eyes. Then he straightened self-consciously and seemed to realize the mess he'd made.

"I was headed downstairs for a few rounds with the punching bag," he said awkwardly, "and I saw I'd left the light on, and after all that fuss we made about shutting off lights, and when I came in, I saw all my work...all that damn work...up in smoke...and–"

"It's okay," she said soothingly, padding into the room. "I'm angry, too. No, not angry. Furious."

He had his arms around her now. "Dammit, Alex, there's so much left for me–"

"I know."

He continued as if not hearing her, "I'm not being an egotist. I know in my lifetime I'll never be able to solve every crime. One more lecture, two or three more—they won't wipe out crime, but even one more serial killer apprehended, one less, two less...three...no dead bodies, no one in therapy, no one permanently crippled...no families in mourning–"

Alex interrupted passionately, "One more cop educated on low blood sugar behaviors, one less diabetic liable to collapse in the drunk tank. One more detective who can spot schizophrenic behavior, one fewer homeless person who gets shot for ranting and brandishing a broken bottle...it's what BLE was begun for. I get it, Bobby."

"Jesus, Eames, I'm sorry."

Finally, his breathing slowed. "Guess I'll go take it out on the speed bag downstairs. I'll clean this mess tomorrow."

"Let me join you," she said grimly.

Alex deftly pulled her hair back, fastening it with a soft scrunchie, then smiled as Bobby stepped behind her.

"I know you wrote out all those figures last night to mollify the kids, but it hit when I saw it all down in black and white...or black and red as the case may be," he said thoughtfully. "Now I'm wondering if I need to hire on at the Dark Crystal as a bouncer."

She looked at his sober face reflected in the mirror before her. "The Crystal needs a bouncer? Here of all places? In Milbury?"

"Unfortunately, every community has assholes."

She sighed as she leaned back on him.

There was a soft rap on the bedroom door. "Mom? Dad?"

Bobby freed her as she turned away reluctantly. "Come in, Randall."

He padded in, clad in plaid pajama pants and a white T-shirt, rocking back and forth on bare feet.

"What is it, buddy?" Bobby asked.

"I couldn't sleep..."

"That's obvious," Alex said with gentle amusement, hugging him. "Something you need to talk about?"

Randall shrugged within her embrace. "I fibbed," he finally said almost inaudibly.

"When was that?" was Alex's soft question.

"Before yesterday, to you and to Captain Benson, too. Yesterday I told the truth. About my mom. She wasn't laid off. She...didn't do her job right after my dad went to jail."

They had both noticed what he'd said the afternoon before about Rosalind. "Did she ask you not to say anything? About being fired?"

Randall leaned her head against her. "Yes."

"Then it was a confidence that you kept. It's okay."

"Maybe you shouldn't adopt me."

Bobby said softly, "Because you kept a promise? We understand promises."

"But it's expensive."

"Let us worry about that. Please? Things will work out."

Randall swallowed and nodded.

"Can one of us tuck you back in?"

Randall looked up apologetically at Alex, and Bobby nodded. "'Night, buddy."

"G'night," Randall murmured.

When Alex returned a few minutes later, Bobby was already in bed, reading glasses perched on his nose, deep in a book about the real Mobile Army Surgical Hospitals in Korea, part of his research for his notes on Bruno's book.

"You look very studious, Oscar Diggs," she joked, using his trivia Wizard nickname instead of her usual teasing "Agent Goren." Perhaps in the future, she could use it again, but at the moment the wound was too fresh.

"What did Randall say to put that look on your face, Princess Ozma?" he responded, closing the book and setting it on his night table.

"Randall told me that he and Olivia think you should write a book," Alex said, slipping into bed and reaching for her hand lotion.

Bobby tilted his head at her, puzzled. "But they've both read The Refuge. And know I'm editing Bruno's diary."

Alex said, stifling a laugh as she rubbed the lotion deep into the fingers and backs of her hands. "He says 'a proper book, like Sherlock Holmes.'"

His deep guffaw was her reward. "That will whittle my ego down to size. No wonder Conan Doyle got into a snit and killed Holmes off."

"What's that out on the sun porch?" Alex asked as she returned from taking the children to school on Friday.

Bobby cocked his head toward her as he finished cleaning the stove. "Well, I was just loading the dishwasher when…"

On a steamy summer day in 2020, he'd found himself in Home Depot, to find a washer for a faucet that incessantly drip-drip-dripped. Due to the pandemic, the landlord in the suburban New Haven apartment he had sublet had informed the tenants that anything nonessential to health and safety in their apartments would not be fixed, and strict safety instructions would be followed for any essential repairs—no exceptions. The faucet was driving Bobby mad, and, after watching a few YouTube videos, he figured it was a job he could tackle.

Home Depot was still permitting only ten people at a time into the store. Bobby came "armed for bear," with an N-95 mask, a face shield, and hands slathered copiously with hand sanitizer at the door. The employee who helped him was similarly clad and directed him to the plumbing aisle. He'd done his homework and knew exactly for which brand of faucet he needed a washer.

From the next aisle, a familiar-sounding voice protested vehemently. "Nope, nope, Teej...open metal shelving, I tell you. We're starting this on a shoestring, and open is cheaper—and we'll show the health inspectors we've got nothing to hide! This guy Farouk I interviewed–"

"You don't have to tell the whole store," a second male voice protested.

Ron Carver? Bobby was confused as well as intrigued. Why would he be here in Connecticut talking about shoestring budgets and open shelving? He plucked the correct package of washers from a peg and then hurried to the next aisle.

Here he was further puzzled because, under the harsh fluorescent lights, he saw not an old friend but two blue-masked young men, African-Americans, one a "tall drink of water," as his father might have said, his brushed-up hair tinted with purple and silver hair dye, and a shorter young man with wire-framed glasses.

"Excuse me," he said, abashed. "I thought you...um...were s-someone I knew. Sorry–" Bobby started to turn away, then pivoted sharply to ask, "Look, I hate to sound nosy...but you aren't r-related to a Ronald Carver, are you? A district attorney for the City of New York? You...um...sound almost like him."

The taller man grinned under the paper mask, detectable by the laugh lines around his eyes. "I am indeed. He's my dad. You know him..."

"I was one of the thorns in his side," Bobby had admitted. "Detective, Major Case."

"Wait...if you didn't have the mask, it would be easier. But I think I remember you. Loren, was it?"

"Goren," Bobby corrected.

"Goren, that's it. Your partner was Eames. Dad took me and my brother Dean around 1PP when I was thirteen." He chuckled. "I'd shake hands, but...you know..."

And that was how he'd found Shard and TJ. And the domino effect: he'd helped them clean out the defunct restaurant that had become the Dark Crystal. His stories had spurred Shard to start a trivia contest. Shard had persuaded him to write the questions and then—just temporarily, mind you!—emcee. And slowly he'd grown to love it. In return, Shard and TJ—indeed all the staff—had taken care of him and coaxed him out of his rut.

It was Shard, ultimately, who had brought Alex back to him. Bobby would never forget.

Nor would Shard and TJ forget. The "tall drink of water" and his partner were still looking out for him.

"...he said he and TJ were buying themselves a larger model as a Christmas gift, and did we want it, as he knew you always worked the grocery sales."

Still in her parka, Alex retreated to the sun porch and inspected the item, a four-foot-tall appliance that looked like a small refrigerator but was an upright freezer. Bobby had already plugged it in, and it was humming and scrubbed.

"I can clean up on manager's specials with this. I've had to leave stuff behind because there wasn't room in the freezer," she admitted as she returned to the kitchen. "You know, Bess Atherton called me just as I was about to leave St. Greg's. I pulled up past the drop-off line, and Sister Mark Anthony still glared at me." She smiled, looking mischievous. "Bess says the new BJs in Naugatuck has a military discount and excellent prices on beef and pork, plus multipacks of bread for kids' sandwiches."

"I sense a conspiracy here," Bobby said, amused. "How'd word get around so fast?" and then they said in tandem as if they were New York teens again, "Telephone, telegraph, and tell Shard!"

"So when were you gonna tell me you got fired?" Mike Logan demanded on Monday morning.

He was in a grey sweatshirt and gave the impression of having just finished a workout, his glowering eyes dark with disappointment in his lined and bearded face.

Bobby wished he hadn't answered the FaceTime call. It was raining again, but this time cold, a bone-chilling dampness that seeped into one's psyche. "I wasn't fired. I've just decided I don't want to put up with the upcoming bullshit. I've put in my retirement papers."

"Lie. Thuringer put them in for you."

"At my request, Mike! I don't have to listen to this." But his curiosity got the better of him. "How'd you find out?"

"I've still got my sources. This one was a buddy whose daughter's doing volunteer time with the BLE. She told him about the...um, what they called 'layoffs'...ha! Good one!...and complained about the competent people they were losing, including that 'former captain who can put up with that jerkoff Larry Wilmot.' Had to be Eames.

"When I heard why, I immediately contacted that lady forensics expert I know at the Bureau. You know, Jane Wanamaker. She told me they were shutting down all non-essentials until they found out which way the wind was blowing from that swamp the big boss was gonna drain last time. She didn't sound happy."

"Michael Logan, the guy with the connections."

"Hey, somebody's gotta keep up with you. I don't get this, man. Aren't you pissed?"

Bobby snapped, "Christ, of course, I am. I spent a half hour beating the fuck out of a punching bag at midnight two days ago, after clearing the top of my desk in one fucking tantrum." He expelled a breath. "What am I going to do? Throw another in public? You saw where that got me last time, and most unforgivable of all, I dragged Alex through the mud with me." He swallowed and added, "I turned into my fucking father, Mike. I abused Alex's patience and friendship the way my dad took advantage of my mother. Not again. Never again. And I won't do to Olivia and Randall what was done to Frank and me."

He stopped because Logan's face was pale and stark. Bobby knew he was thinking of his stern police officer father, his alcoholic mother.

"Sorry, Bobby," Mike finally said, his mouth dry. He added quietly, "Anything I can do?"

"Just show up for Christmas," Bobby said with a chuckle. "The ‘midget,' as you call her, is looking forward to seeing both of you."

Ruth Dunbar, Olivia had promised Randall, was "brill."

But on her first visit after Marc Thuringer's call, exactly a week before Christmas, Randall, seated in the overstuffed armchair in the library where they would have privacy, greeted the woman with eyes down and his mouth set in a sullen line, and she was puzzled. He'd been fearful the first few visits until they had talked and he'd relaxed, but now he was emanating resentment.

A middle-aged Black woman with a serious but open face, Dunbar smiled at Randall and said gently, "You're usually happy to see me, Randall."

He looked up hopefully at her friendly face, then she saw his lower lip tremble and his eyes harden, and when he began to stammer she knew he was upset. "I w-won't go anywhere else. I'll r-run away again. I'll become a ch-chore b-boy like Ben P-Pepper. He's eleven, t-too."

She asked gently, "Who is that who's a 'chore boy'?"

"Ben Pepper. He's in the b-book Dad is reading to Olivia, The Five Little P-Peppers. Livia likes old-fashioned books. I got her one for Christmas. Anyway, Ben's sister is Polly. She ten and stays home and cooks on a stove that burns things while her m-mother sews to earn money. Ben goes to work. I'll go to w-work, too, if it means st-staying here."

Dunbar set a cool, dry hand on Randall's clenched hands in front of him. "Randall, Mr. and Mrs. Goren told me about his retirement. They showed me the budget they've worked out and their financial statements." She smiled at him. "We have lots of retired people who are foster parents. It's okay."

Randall still looked suspicious. "You sure?"

"I'm sure," Dunbar said, rolling Bobby's office chair up to the armchair. "I wouldn't say so if I wasn't." She paused. "Otherwise from being worried about my visit, what have you been up to?"

Once you won Randall's trust, getting him to talk was no problem. "Olivia and I are saving money. We shut off the lights in empty rooms and put our laptops to sleep or shut them down, and we don't leave doors open," he said importantly.

Dunbar said, "Energy saving is something we all should do, even if wealthy. I like the idea."

"It's good for the Earth," Randall offered. "Ms. Marielle, my science teacher says so. Oh, and I bought a present for my father. My bio father. The one in p-prison."

"That was nice," Dunbar prompted.

"I was very proper, as 'Livia would say. I contacted Mr. Mackensie, who's the senior guard on my dad's cellblock to ask what was okay. He said money was best, to put in his account. But I wanted to get him a real present, too. He said my father and his cellmate Mr. Gibson like to play chess together and have 'a dinky little chess set.' He said nothing fancy, or the other prisoners would get jealous. So I just got a kids' chess and checker set, but it's bigger than the one they have now, and it's got a game called backgammon on the back. I don't know if my father plays backgammon, but he can play if he wants. D-Do you th-think that's okay?"

The last was anxious, and Dunbar assured him it was fine.

"Oh! You haven't seen me since before Thanksgiving! You have to hear what Kenny Shepherd did! I've told you about Kenny, right? He doesn't speak, he signs. You see, I had this turkey I made in kindergarten..."

                                   ***December 25, 2024***

"'Livia..."

She looked down sleepily from her bed. Randall was bunked on a fold-out foam pallet on her floor because cousins Sophie and Eleanor shared Randall's bed. Aunt Lizzie and Uncle Steve were in the Murphy bed in the spare bedroom/Alex's office, and Uncle Jack and Aunt Patty were cozied up on the inflatable queen-size bed in the fixed-up attic room, with cousin Eddie on Bruno Volpe's old futon (refreshed with a new mattress), at the other end.

He whispered, "Isn't it time to go downstairs yet?"

Olivia looked over her shoulder at the Belle alarm clock her biological mother had bought her so long ago. ("She reads," Nicole Wallace had whispered to her five-year-old lovingly. "She's one of us, darling.") "It's only just past seven. I hate to bother them. They're older, so they need their sleep."

Randall sounded tragic. "But that curtain..."

Olivia could see his point. They'd had the Christmas tree up since St. Nicholas Day, when Bobby, with a fine sense of mischief, had borrowed a shoe from each of their closets, sat them on the stone hearth of the front parlor, and left wrapped candy in them. On St. Lucy's Day, they had woken to Alex with a battery-powered string of seed lights nestled in her hair bringing them each a Drake's coffee cake and a mug of coffee milk ("Rhode Island coffee syrup is as far as I go for authenticity," she'd joked).

But Christmas Eve afternoon Ana and Carlos had summoned them next door to sample their abuela's treats for that evening's Nochebuena party, and when they came back the doors to the front parlor were locked, and they had been forbidden to go past the checkered fabric curtain Bobby had mounted on a tension rod between the bookcases that separated the front and back parlors.

He had made them promise, and that was even more sacrosanct than a Donna Hastings pronouncement.

Olivia smiled to herself. Aunt Agnes Fry and cousins Sandy, Paul, and Molly would be there later this morning from the Hampton Inn in Southbury, as would Shard and TJ from their apartment on Main Street, where cousin Donny Carlson was also sleeping, his truck cab parked behind the Dark Crystal, Skunk the cat curled up in his seat. "Uncle" Mike Logan and "Aunt" Carla and the Hogarth-Hastings clan were holed up at the Springfield Suites in Waterbury. Her half-brother Laurent Pepin and his wife Noémie would arrive by lunchtime. Everyone would be here, except...except Maman and Papa Marcel, and Rosalind Shaw...

"'Livia?" whispered Randall.

And then from outside the door they heard Elizabeth Hogan hiss, "Just what kind of paragons of childhood are you two trying to raise, Allie? We would have been up at six making so much noise…"

"And Dad would be complaining how a poor, hardworking police officer could get no sleep on his hard-bartered day off," Jack Eames continued in a low voice, and Patty could be heard laughing.

"And Mom would be saying, 'Johnny, Johnny, they're only children once," Alex chuckled sotto voce.

Bobby snorted. "My dad's line was, 'If you guys don't keep it down, I'm calling Santa Claus and telling him to come take back your presents.'"

"Ouch," said Steven Hogan.

Eddie Hogan hugged his "Other Mother," but otherwise kept silent. Instead he wore an irrepressible expression as if he were hiding something—or were they all hiding something? There had been something almost tangible in the air on December 22 when the Hogans and the Eameses had arrived with bags, baggage, and Christmas food to help them celebrate Olivia's adoption day that night at supper.

Eleanor Eames said, horrified, "They aren't up yet?"

"They have to be awake," Sophia added.

Olivia called out, "Oui! How can we sleep with all the racket you're making?" and Randall snickered.

Bandit began chirping loudly as Christmas music drifted from downstairs, and everyone, whether they were in pajamas and robes or already dressed, trooped downstairs to discover Abbi and the children had already let themselves into the kitchen, and Abbi was making coffee, while Mike and Carla had stopped at the local Dunkin Donuts and had lugged in five dozen. Donna Hastings was sitting at the dining room table nursing seven-month-old Penny, and her mother was gazing at her with such a beatific expression that Bobby dared to whisper, "Hi, Grandmama," in his former supervisor's ear.

"You say that like I would find it insulting," Penelope Saltonstall Hogarth joked.

When Alex opened the door to the back parlor, Aunt Agnes and the family were already there, and it was Molly who had put the Christmas carols on, one of Bobby's jazz Yuletide albums.

"When I shut this door, take the curtain down, please, Sandy or Paul," Alex instructed. "We're taking them in through the front."

"Yes'm," Paul replied smartly, and Alex whisked the excited children away before they could see anything.

Bobby led them back to the pocket panel doors where everyone lined up behind the family.

"Messdams and messurs," Bobby said, deliberately exaggerating the words into something funny, "we now present to you the latest stupendous event in the history of Christmas, which began–"

"Please, Papa, no annotations now!" Olivia begged.

Laughing, Bobby slid open one door and Alex the other. The tree was lit in splendor with all its familiar ornaments—the specialty ones that represented places and memorable things in their lives, the Ojos de Dios made by Ana and Carlos three years earlier, Olivia's cross-stitched ornaments (the newest, Randall's, had a magnifying glass on it), the hobby store reproduction vintage ornaments, and the aged Shiny Brites that Bruno had left behind—and dripping with silver tinsel icicles, the kind, Alex teased, that Bobby put on one at a time.

Under the tree were gifts: all the Three Investigators and Hardy Boys books Rosalind Shaw had been required to pawn purchased from various used book stores, a starter telescope kit and a ticket to the observatory, and a PetPalz "Sherlock Bones" bloodhound Randall could use online to play with his sister and her unicorn Donna. Olivia received a half-dozen books, a large art set with colored pencils and watercolors, two kitsune pins, and a stuffed kitsune she promptly named Joyce Kaori after the Japanese-American girl she'd met in Los Angeles.

But neither saw these at first, because on either side of the tree was a bicycle: blue for Randall and lilac and silver for Olivia.

Randall was stunned. "Dad, that...looks just like my bike that my mom had to pawn so we could eat. Even the mirror."

"You told me your mother marked your bike as yours in a hidden place, in case it was stolen. Why don't you check that spot?" Bobby advised him.

Everyone fell silent as Randall craned his neck under the front fender of the bicycle, only to see a faded but recognizable holographic heart sticker on the underside. He looked up with mouth ajar.

"I called the owner of the pawn shop," Bobby said, "and he called the woman who bought the bike and set up a meeting with her. She'd bought it for her son, but her ex-husband had also bought him a bike that the son liked much better, and it was just gathering dust in their shed. She sold it back to me, and Carlos and I cleaned it up." He paused. "I wanted you to have one last gift from your mother."

"It's been sitting in our basement since October," Carlos said with a grin, then protested, "Oh, hermanito..."

Randall's eyes filled and he buried his face in Bobby's shirt. Olivia finally whispered something in his ear, and he perked up immediately, scrubbed his eyes dry, and the pair opened the rest of their gifts.

"Now you and Mama must sit down," Olivia instructed almost pompously and led them to the sofa that fronted the fireplace. The previous night Andy and Nate Berkowitz had brought a cord of applewood kindling and logs, and now some burned fragrantly, the snap and crackle adding to the holiday mood, "and we'll bring you your gifts."

There were books for Bobby, of course. Olivia and Randall had bought him The Annotated Wizard of Oz and a true-crime volume called The Book of Murder. For Alex, they had found a lilac body wash and lilac-scented powder, and also the newest Longmire novel.

Most of the remainder of the packages for them under the tree were small. Some were flat, some were in jewelry-sized boxes, and many were paperback book-sized. Only the one from Jack and Patty Eames was larger, and Jack was grinning so broadly that Alex was afraid to open it. She chose the one on top, a jewelry-type box that Mike and Carla had brought with them, along with over a dozen other small packages.

"It's from Jimmy and Angie Deakins," she said, noting the tag.

Inside the box was a bright blue Visa gift card.

"Well, we can certainly use that," Bobby said with a grin, setting it on the end table, which had been cleared, in its box so they could write thank-you notes. "Here's one from 'Judge Carver' and family." This one was in a kind of flatpack envelope. Shard, leaning against the fireplace mantel, conspicuous in a purple suit with black lapels, wore a huge smile.

"Another Visa gift card!" Alex said, waving the blue bit of plastic aloft.

Olivia handed her the next small, square package, decked with an oversized red-and-white bow. "This peppermint one is from Captain Benson, Mama."

Not only did this package contain a blue gift card, labeled, "Love from Olivia and Noah," but there was a second blue card inside a Lilo and Stitch Christmas card that said, "Happy Christmas from the Rollins/Carisi clan. Ohana forever!" A third gift card had a scribbled note on the back: "Happy New Year. Fin." A money card enclosed a fourth one signed simply "Elliot Stabler."

Randall handed him a book-sized gold package. "This one is from an Elizabeth Rodgers."

Inside was Sue Black's forensic text, Written in Bone. The bookmark was a blue Visa gift card.

"Eames, I note a theme here," Bobby said dryly.

When they finished, every single package had included a Visa gift card: one from the Hogarths, another from the Hastings, one from Charles Saltonstall Senior. One from Ari and Kaye in Virginia. One from Karin and Jennifer out in California, another from Ben Siler in Chicago. Veronica Heller and Grace Chadwick had sent one together. The Gibson family had included one with a wooden ornament made by Scotty; Henry Cattaneo's was paired with four tickets to Gillette Castle in the spring. There were blue cards from the neighbors, the Dark Crystal staff, Russ Jenkins at Big Brothers/Big Sisters, the staff at the current Major Case Squad, Joe Hannah and his wife, Carolyn Barak and Megan Wheeler and Zach Nichols...

"Did you tell the entire NYPD?" Alex demanded of Mike.

Logan looked sober in return. "Too often the old ‘buddy boy' system protects the wrong people. But sometimes they do the right thing."

There were a few outliers. Bobby's friend Lewis sent a canceled check from NutmegState Finance Company. "This is your January car payment. I made sure it went on your account." Marc Thuringer's gift was in a plain white envelope. Inside was a certificate that stated, "Good for four sessions for two children twelve and under at Stony Ridge Equestrian Center." The accompanying note read, "Thanks for everything."

The package from Jack and Patty contained a smaller box. Which contained a smaller box. Which contained a smaller box.

The tiniest box held a blue Visa card.

When Jack Eames stopped laughing, he realized that his sister, calm, cool, collected Alex, was in tears.

The early darkness of late December had fallen. Alex walked through the house, peeking in each of the rooms. A small crowd, including Olivia, Laurent, and Noémie, were in the back parlor watching Miracle on 34th Street. Olivia waved at her and blew a kiss. In the front parlor, members of her family were talking, and Jack hugged her as she came by. Bobby was in the library talking shop with Mike and Penelope, with Randall, Carlos, and Donny listening raptly. Shard, TJ, and a couple of the neighbors were in the dining room, noshing on sandwiches from the leftovers and chatting somberly about the future. Abbi and Manny Escarra from La Taverna were making sandwiches in the kitchen, and through the etched glass at the top of the swinging door, Alex saw when he leaned sideways to kiss Abbi's hair. She stopped in the downstairs hall and took a deep breath; the house smelled of freshly brewed coffee, leftover turkey and dressing, bourbon, chocolate, and peppermint. She knew Donna had taken Penny upstairs for another feed, and neither had returned; she had offered their bedroom as a place for a nap and assumed Donna had taken her up on it.

The house seemed to glow of its own accord, from the tree to the window candoliers to Alex's favorite jadeite reindeer on the front parlor mantel surrounded by the pesky branches of bittersweet from the backyard that they fought year-round to keep away from Lena Krentz's beloved trees. They had relied on the bittersweet, along with thin gold-edged rolls of red and green ribbon and wintry floral picks now discounted at Joelle, arranged in miniature faux steel buckets glittered copiously by Olivia to eke out their meager holiday decor, and it had worked beautifully.

When she arrived in the upstairs hall, she could hear Eleanor, Sophie, and Ana whispering and giggling from her office. They were probably talking about boys, as she and her girlfriends had done "back in the dark ages" of her teen years. Indeed, she heard Ana say dreamily, "I wish I could have gotten Jaime Estevez under some mistletoe!" as she passed.

She found herself at the hall window overlooking the street. She pushed the curtains aside and could see Christmas lights twinkling in both directions, especially from the Massey extravaganza on Main Street: a full Santa and reindeer done in blow molds and colored lights outlining the house, fence, and sidewalks.

This was the point in movies, Alex smiled to herself, when it usually began to snow.

Instead, her cell phone, on silent, buzzed.

"Hi, Alex. Merry Christmas," came Olivia Benson's throaty voice.

"Merry Christmas, Liv!"

"Sounds very quiet there," Benson replied with a smile in her voice, "for someone with a houseful of people. You taking a time out?"

"Just me and the upstairs window right now," Alex agreed, then, as she heard voices behind Benson, then a squeal of a child, she added teasingly, "Sounds very loud there for someone who told me she was 'spending a quiet Christmas with her son.'"

"Oh," Benson replied a little abashed, "Eh...the Stablers...Bernadette Stabler invited Noah and me to the family 'do.' Given Bernie's health, I didn't want to turn her down. Everyone's here, even Eli and his wife and the new baby."

"Liv, want me to top off that Chardonnay?" came Elliot Stabler's voice in the background. "Oh, sorry—didn't know you were on the phone."

"No, no, I'm good." A pause. "I'm talking to Alex."

"Eames?" Benson must have nodded, because Stabler said a little louder, "Merry Christmas, Alex! My best to Bobby and the kids. Hey, Mike Logan passed on my gift, right?"

"He did," Alex said a little severely. "It was too generous."

"Bull. We're...what did Carisi call it? Ohana? We all take care of each another. Something it took a butthead like me too long to learn. Happy New Year!"

Alex laughed, then heard Benson clear her throat self-consciously. She added sternly, "By all rights, Liv, I should return your gift."

"Why is that?" Benson challenged.

"Because you already gave us one. Back in August."

Benson could tell from her voice that Alex was blinking back tears. "But I did that for Randall, not for you."

"Two weeks ago I might have labeled this the worst Christmas ever," Alex said, thinking also of the stark one following her mother's death, and Bobby's story about his mother destroying a Christmas tree with a baseball bat, "but now maybe it's the best."

In the background chatter from Benson's phone, Alex heard a woman's voice call, "Come on, Grandma wants us to sing carols!"

"Happy carols," she said to Benson. "Give Noah a hug for us."

"I will," and then Benson chuckled. "Wait till they get a load of me singing. Good night."

A hand fell on her shoulder as she said goodbye. "Yuletide greetings?"

Alex smiled up at Bobby. "Liv. She and Noah are with the whole Stabler clan."

"With friends is the best place to be."

Bobby curved his arm around her, and she asked, "What happened to your confab in the library?"

"I left Mike telling Lennie Briscoe stories. Ones suitable for Randall's ears, anyway. Downstairs bathroom's occupied, so I came up here."

"Happy?" she asked. "You got your wish. The whole family and then some."

He nodded, his face illuminated in rainbow colors from the candolier in the window. "Happy. Maybe even hopeful. Fornell just sent a text asking if I'd consider doing consulting work for him."

"To which I'm sure you said yes. I suppose we'll have to break it to Olivia that it's a no-go on cooking on a broken stove like Polly Pepper," Alex said with a grin, then turned to stand on tiptoe to kiss him.

"Check it out," they heard Ana say from down the hall. "That's what I want someday. They never need mistletoe."

"We make our own," Alex said for Bobby's ears only.

Bobby finished quietly, "Just like our future."

Notes:

* I already had this written when Christopher Wray resigned and added to the verisimilitude.

* "...deep in a book about the real Mobile Army Surgical Hospitals..." - MASH: An Army Surgeon in Korea by Otto F. Apel.

* Soundtrack to this story: "Hard Candy Christmas."