By Genevieve and JayBee

Part Three

Eight Days

Pausing in the middle of Munitions Walter discreetly checked the immediate area, then checked his watch. 1:05 p.m. The sun was definitely over the yardarm � time to test the results of his latest experiment. He slipped behind the large storage shelf out the back, the one that housed various pieces of equipment either waiting for repair or modification. For the last twelve months, the shelves had also housed a certain little something that was definitely not standard Section issue.

Crouching down in a seldom-used corner, Walter pushed aside the empty metal boxes he�d put in place almost a year ago, revealing a slightly battered wooden crate. His mouth almost watering in anticipation, he pulled the crate toward him, and reverently opened the lid. A dozen bottles, their contents darkly gleaming, lay on an elderly but clean blanket that had been folded several times over. Walter grinned at the sight of all his babies still completely intact. �Splendido,� he breathed.

He�d brewed his first batch on a whim ten years ago, and had been experimenting with the formula ever since. He had high hopes for this vintage. Walter ran a hand over one of the bottles, the glass smooth and cool beneath his fingertips. Time for a taste test, he thought happily.

�Walter, are you in here?�

The intrusion of Davenport�s voice had Walter swearing under his breath and hastily closing the lid of the wooden crate. �With you in a minute,� he called out loudly. Casting a longing look at his secret stash, he hurried out to the main work area. �What can I do for you?�

As usual, Davenport was dressed as though he was going on a camping trip � duffel coat, hiking boots and woollen beanie. He regarded Walter with solemn brown eyes, as he placed a weapon onto the workbench. �I need you to take a look at this for me.�

�What�s the problem?� Walter asked as he reached for the gun, all thoughts of shiny bottles temporarily forgotten.

�The sight�s still way off.�

Walter grinned reassuringly. �Leave it with me. I�ll have her up and running in no time.� Davenport gave him a quick nod and left without another word. What was it with Level Five Ops and the strong silent act, Walter mused with vague amusement. Do they all read the same manual?

As he turned, intending to pick up where he left off, he caught sight of a familiar figure loping despondently through Comm. For the second time in as many minutes, Walter pushed aside the planned taste-test, anticipating instead a visit from his favourite girl. He�d seen her moping about over an hour ago. Not that he was one to brag, but with Michael out of the country, he was usually the next batter up when it came to a shoulder to cry on. By his calculations, she should be walking into his work area right about�

�Hi, Walter,� Nikita said brightly as she wandered into Munitions. For a moment, the cheeriness of her greeting had him fooled, then he saw the sadness in her eyes. She was still wearing her mission blacks, which was unlike her. She normally liked to get back into her own skin � as she�d once put it � as soon as she could, and the team had returned from Hanoi over two hours ago.

�Hiya, Sugar,� he replied casually, discreetly scanning the immediate area. �You�re back early.�

Lounging against his main workbench, Nikita shrugged. �There was a problem with the target.�

Walter eyed her for a moment, studying the tight set of her mouth. �What happened?�

�He died,� she replied flatly. �The idiot got himself tanked up on Christmas cheer a little early and walked in front of a bus.�

Walter pursed his lips. Given the distant look in Nikita�s eyes, it probably wasn�t the best time to make a wisecrack. �Well, at least you got to come home ahead of schedule.�

Nikita drummed her fingers on the barrel of the gun Davenport had left on the workbench. �Home sweet home,� she muttered under her breath. �Home for the holidays,� she went on in a softly mocking singsong voice, twirling the gun in circles.

�Uh, Sugar?� Walter walked over to her side, and gently removed the weapon from harm�s way. �Wanna tell me about that bee you�ve got in your bonnet?�

She bit her bottom lip, staring down at her hands where they rested on the top of the workbench. �You know, I never paid much attention to Christmas before I came to Section,� she said quietly. �Didn�t really care about it one way or the other.� When her gaze flicked up to meet his, the misery in her bright blue eyes made his heart ache. �But now that I�m in here�� She shrugged, looking back down at her hands. �I guess I wish I hadn�t wasted all those Christmases in the real world.�

Walter reached out and tapped her nose with his finger. �Your life is as real as you make it, Sugar.�

�Oh, god.� Lifting her eyes to his, she managed a shaky smile. �You�re not going to give me the speech about the journey and the destination again, are you?�

He grinned and put his hand over his heart. �Would I do that to you? Besides, I try not to repeat my lectures, kiddo.�

She was silent for a moment, then looked at him almost shyly. �You�ve got the right idea, you know, celebrating the Winter Solstice instead of Christmas. No gifts, no turkey, no pressure, no silly rituals.�

�Oh, there�s rituals, Sugar,� he said with a wicked smile.

Nikita�s eyes widened. �We�re not talking about dancing naked around Stonehenge, are we?�

Walter chuckled, pleased to see the sparkle had returned to her eyes. �Not quite, Sugar. But most Christmas traditions have pagan origins, you know. Christmas trees, holly.� He waggled his eyebrows at her. �Even mistletoe.�

She laughed, then leaned forward to brush his cheek with a kiss. �You don�t need mistletoe to get a kiss from me, Walter.�

Walter felt his eyes mist over and cleared his throat hastily. Must be getting sentimental in my old age. He checked his watch. �You going out again?�

�No, I�m down for the rest of the day.� She patted him on the forearm. �Thanks for listening to my drivel,� she said with a faintly embarrassed smile. �You�re a saint.�

He looked over her shoulder, scanning the main floor of Section. There was hardly a soul in sight. �Wait right here,� he told her, then hurried back to the wooden crate Davenport�s arrival had forced him to abandon.

�Where are you?� he muttered under his breath, rummaging in a wire basket on the top shelf. Aha! Now we�re getting somewhere. Errant corkscrew in hand, he gingerly lifted one of the bottles out of the crate, and very carefully proceeded to open it. You never could tell how homemade liqueur would react, but steady fingers from too many years of making and diffusing bombs stood him in good stead. The cork came out with a satisfyingly wet pop, and he lifted the bottle to his nose. Oh, this is a good one, he thought as he inhaled the scent of cranberries and lime, overlaid with cinnamon and allspice.

�Glasses, glasses,� he murmured, scanning the metal shelf above his head, searching for the collection of shot glasses he�d lifted from various biker bars. He was a sucker for a souvenir.

A few minutes later, he approached Nikita with two shot glasses filled to the brim with the dark red liquid. �A little Christmas cheer for you, Sugar.� Her eyes widened as he handed her a glass. �Just don�t go walking in front of any buses on your way home, okay?�

Nikita eyed the glass warily. �Not that cranberry stuff again?� she asked in mock horror.

Walter winced inwardly at her description of his carefully nurtured liqueur, then reluctantly admitted she had a point. Some vintages had been better than others. �Trust me � I tweaked the recipe a little,� he told her proudly. �This one�s the one.� He held up his glass in a toast. �Here�s mud in your eye, Sugar.�

Grinning, Nikita looked him in the eye and clinked her glass against his. �Here�s to my favourite guy in Section.�

Walter sighed loudly, then gave her a wink. �Now we both know that�s not true.�

By silent agreement, they tossed back their drinks in one gulp. Walter closed his eyes, savouring the rich, fruity darkness of the liqueur as it burned a trail down to the pit of his stomach. When he heard a gasp, he opened his eyes to see Nikita spluttering, her bright blue eyes glittering with tears. �Good God!� She coughed a few times, then produced a watery smile. �Actually, it�s not too bad.�

Walter licked his lips, feeling very pleased with himself. �I�m glad you like it. I used some of that killer vodka you gave me last year.�

Nikita inspected her glass, a doubtful expression suddenly crossing her face. �The vodka I brought back from Poland?�

�That�s the stuff � hits the spot, don�t it?� He took the glass from her hand. �One for the road?�

She shook her head hastily. �No, thanks. I�ve had enough vodka this week, I think,� she replied cryptically. �I�d better push off.� With a final squeeze of his hand, she was gone, striding through Section as though she owned the place. Walter smiled at the sight, then considered the empty glass in each hand.

Damn, that�s a good brew. I wonder if that cute little tech in DRV would like a quick snort?

Seven Days

As he watched the grainy video feed on the screen embedded in the wall of the Perch, Operations began to smile broadly. McDaniel's team had retrieved the target without incident, and had managed to destroy a toxin supply in the process. Amazing. For once, a mission that went strictly by the numbers, with no screwups or unanticipated contingencies. Would miracles never cease?

Tapping a key, he switched the view to the feed from the White Room. There, a perspiration-drenched captive sat, stumbling over his words as he recited the membership roll of his organization to a nodding, encouraging Madeline. How long had she had with him? Twenty minutes, at most. Beautiful. At the rate the man was talking, she might even be free for lunch.

Content with what he saw, he turned away from the screen and strolled over to the window. Below him, everything looked in order: a disciplined army, working steadily, diligently, quietly. There were no flashing lights or pulsing tones, no frantic operatives running back and forth, no emergencies or incoming wounded.

Every so often, on those oh-so-rare occasions, all was right with the world.

Instinctively, he slipped a hand into his jacket pocket. As his fingers touched the metal surface of his cigarette case, he frowned, hesitating.

I really need to cut down on these things.

That little nagging voice kept cropping up more and more frequently, and to make matters worse, he knew it was right. Damn it. Couldn't a man indulge in any vices without feeling guilty?

Oh, the hell with it. They haven't killed me yet.

He grasped the case and started to pull it out, but stopped when he heard a shrill beeping from his other pocket. His phone. Only two people called that number regularly, and one of them was presently occupied in the White Room.

It figured George would call just when everything seemed to be going well. The sullen-faced SOB couldn't just let him have a good day.

Releasing his grip on the cigarette case, he fished in his other pocket and withdrew the telephone instead.

"Yes?" he grunted.

"Good afternoon, Paul."

Hearing George's voice -- simultaneously smug and dour -- was like touching something putrid: you couldn't help but shudder, no matter how much you prepared yourself.

"George," Operations replied. He forced himself to remain civil, despite the fact that just saying the man's name made his gut turn somersaults. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. Crimson Fist. I hear they're becoming active in Southern Europe."

If "becoming active" meant spray painting hyperbolic graffiti on a few highway overpasses and torching a handful of parked police cars, sure, they were becoming active. In reality, they were a penny-ante imitation of Red Cell who couldn't drum up a dozen members for a meeting if they gave away door prizes.

"We're monitoring them carefully," Operations said dryly.

"Well, that's very gratifying," George said, his tone equally dry. "But I'd still like a full report so I can fill in the other Sections. Do you think you can manage that?"

Oh, for God's sake. Couldn't George come up with better ways to waste their time?

Operations sighed in exasperation, not caring if the noise were audible over the telephone. "You'll have it in a week."

George snorted. "It had better be sooner than that. I don't intend to spend Christmas reading reports from One, you know. I want it no later than five days from now."

Shit. Christmas was a week from today. How could he have forgotten?

"Fine," he replied, momentarily disconcerted. "Five days."

"Good." George drew in a long, rasping breath. "By the way," he added, his voice lowering to a gravelly drawl, "if you call me on the 24th or 25th, I expect it to be an emergency. Otherwise, I'll remove certain portions of your anatomy that I'm sure you'd rather not do without."

"Don't worry, George," Operations said acidly, "the last thing I want to do is disturb your holiday."

George chuckled. "Then we understand each other. Goodbye, Paul. And Happy Christmas."

After he heard the line click off, Operations snapped the telephone shut and dropped it back into his pocket. Leaning against the ledge, he stared morosely out the window; outside, the operatives continued to work as before, but their quiet industriousness no longer pleased him. Every so often, one of them glanced up nervously: it was as if they could sense his plummeting mood, as if the temperature within Section were literally dropping. When even Birkoff attempted to sneak a covert look upwards, Operations scowled and turned away.

So George was taking the holiday off. How nice. In contrast, he would be putting in eighteen-hour days from now until well past New Year's. Despite what George might wish, the rest of the world didn't drop what they were doing just because Western countries were celebrating Christmas. Even in the West, terrorist groups saw the season as an opportunity, with police and security forces distracted and short-staffed.

It would be, as always, Section One's most hectic time of year. And there wasn't anything jolly about it. No carving of the Christmas ham; no aroma of fresh-baked gingerbread men wafting from the kitchen; no chopping down the tree and getting covered with pine needles hauling it home; no moonlit sleigh rides around the lake; no singing carols around the piano with Great-Aunt Betty while Grandma dozed off by the fire; no red and white-striped candy canes poking temptingly out the top of the stockings Christmas morning. Just stress-filled days and nights trying to make sure that everyone else got to enjoy those things.

Then again, he wasn't sure he would still enjoy them, even given the opportunity. Or if he ever really had.

As nostalgically appealing as his childhood Christmas might seem in retrospect, the experience at the time had been dramatically different. His arthritic grandfather always butchered the ham, cursing under his breath while he did so, but refused to relinquish the honor of carving to anyone else; helping his father wrestle the Christmas tree indoors made him sweaty and irritable, while the jabbing of the pine needles caused him to break out in welts; and he once got a frostbitten toe while on one of those idyllic moonlit sleigh rides. Besides, he hated singing carols: standing prim and proper by the piano for so long made him restless and fidgety, and Great-Aunt Betty was painfully tone-deaf. As for the gingerbread men, he and his cousin Pete usually bit off their heads and fed the rest to the dogs, sending the poor animals scrambling for their water bowls afterwards. And candy canes? They were such a boring candy, although he enjoyed licking them to turn his tongue funny colors, then sticking it out at prissy cousin Rachel.

Frankly, he could happily do without any of it.

Was there anything he really missed about Christmas? Of course. The excitement of receiving presents, most definitely. Baseball gloves, shiny new bikes, train sets, toy guns: all of those had given him a thrill on Christmas mornings. But his fondest childhood Christmas memory was the year he got the camouflage outfit, complete with helmet and face paint. He spent the rest of the day skulking around the house, leaping around corners and gleefully ambushing the "enemy" -- otherwise known as his younger cousins -- until they ran crying to the grownups for protection. Now that had been fun.

You know, maybe he was spending this Christmas doing the thing he liked best, after all.

Ho, ho, ho, he thought, smirking and reaching back into his pocket. Time for that cigarette. He could always cut back after New Year's.