Aloha Emporium, Manhattan, NY. December 20, 2003. Saturday morning.

Clinton Jones stepped into the shop, expecting to be assailed by bland Christmas music and the scents of pine and cinnamon. It was a shock and a relief to hear Hawaiian music, muted by the sound of waves, and to smell exotic flowers.

"Over here!" Neal waved from a table in a small cafe space.

Jones walked by racks of brightly patterned shirts and couldn't help smiling at the cheerful chaos. He preferred order, and recognized that the chaos here was actually carefully organized to give a sense of abundance without overwhelming the senses.

"Got time for a cup of Hawaiian coffee?" Neal asked.

Jones glanced at the wall of baked goods and other foods, and the sight of the pineapple syrup had him wincing.

Neal followed his gaze. "Don't worry. That's for the shaved ice. The coffee's pure Kona."

Jones sat down. "You're not conning me, are you? Kona in New York?"

A woman placed a mug in front of him. "We have family in Hawaii, and I went to college there. We wouldn't dream of serving anything else."

The taste brought to mind blissful memories of shore leave in Honolulu. Jones didn't groan with pleasure, but it was tempting. "Do you sell this? I mean, to make at home?"

"We have one-pound bags. Do you want it gift-wrapped?"

"Yes, please. I've been telling my brother and his wife about Kona coffee for years. They're going to love it."

The woman grinned at Neal. "I like your friend."

He stage-whispered, "He told me he isn't dating anyone." Then in his normal voice he said, "Jones, this is Maggie Feng. She's single."

Maggie swatted Neal gently on the shoulder. "Stop that."

Neal shrugged. "I wonder if I should get a bag of the Kona for Henry."

Jones tried not to react. Right before the party yesterday, Peter had asked him to look into the Henry Winslow that Neal kept mentioning.

"We have plenty in stock," Maggie said.

Neal shook his head. "Nah, he'd ruin it with a mound of sugar."

"Give him some of the cookies," she suggested. "You can pick up a fresh batch right before Christmas."

"That could work." Neal stood up. "I'll be right back. I just need to grab my stuff from upstairs."

Maggie returned with the gift-wrapped Kona while Neal was gone, and Jones had to ask, "Do you know Henry?"

"Only through the stories Neal tells about him."

Before Jones could ask more, Neal walked up with a duffel bag. "Ready to get started?"

"That's all?" Jones asked. He'd expected several boxes of belongings.

"I've only been staying here a couple of weeks. Everything else is stashed with other friends."

"Thus the need for a car. Got it." But a few hours later, Jones realized he hadn't gotten it. Not at first. Being on the run from the law meant traveling light. First they stopped at the Chelsea Fencing Club for a box Neal had stashed in a locker under the alias Gary Rydell. From there they drove to a bistro for art supplies. Next they visited a building where Neal had lived under the alias Nick Halden; the superintendent there had kept a box of kitchen supplies for Neal in her own apartment. Last they headed to a place Neal called "the Temple of Thought."

"You'll need to stay in the car," Neal said at that stop. "My friend would freak out if I brought an FBI agent into what he thinks of as a sacred space."

"This friend have a problem with the law?"

"The law, the government, corporations, authority in general. He's a conspiracy theorist."

"I'm surprised you brought me here."

Neal grinned. "Well, it's actually a half-mile's walk from here. Of course it's the heaviest box, too. This is where I keep my books."

"You expect me to wait in the car?"

"I could blindfold you. He'd probably accept that."

"Not happening," Jones said.

"Didn't think so." Neal gestured down the street, to where someone was already eyeing the car. "If you want to keep your hubcaps, not to mention the car, your best bet is to stay here and look menacing."

Jones put the full force of his military training into his frown.

"Impressive," Neal said. "Now say, 'I'll be back.'"

"Like the Terminator?"

Neal grinned. "Exactly."

"Stupid thing to say, since I'm the one staying with the car. Get out of here."

Neal gave a mocking salute and fetched the final box.

On the drive to Neal's new place, Jones said, "That felt more like a scavenger hunt than a move."

"As my friend at the Temple of Thought would say, 'Life is more manageable when thought of as a scavenger hunt as opposed to a surprise party.'"

Jones chuckled. "Jimmy Buffet."

Neal raised a brow. "My friend might decide to make an exception for you."

"Does that mean..." Jones trailed off. "This... This is a mansion."

"Yeah. You researched the Ellingtons, remember. You told me they're loaded."

Jones pulled into an open parking spot. "But there aren't stand-alone mansions in Manhattan." He gestured toward the skyscrapers that surrounded them.

"It's the only one left," Neal said. "Nearly a century old."

"We just transitioned from scavenger hunt to surprise party."

"Welcome to my life." Neal opened the passenger door and climbed out of the SUV.

Jones walked around to open the back and picked up a couple of boxes. "What d'you mean?"

"I was looking to escape the FBI, not work for them." Neal saw a break in traffic and ran across the street with his duffel bag and a box.

Jones jogged after him. A maid opened the door to the mansion, and then it was up a couple of flights of stairs to drop off the first load of Neal's stuff. One more round trip and they were done.

Neal was reluctant to open the boxes in front of Jones, and looked in the refrigerator sheepishly. "I would offer you lunch, or at least a drink, but the cupboard is literally bare. I should have asked you to stop for groceries on our way here."

"Don't worry about it. I'm not..." Jones paused when he heard footsteps in the hallway leading to the loft.

A moment later June stood in the open doorway. "Welcome home, Neal. It's good to see you again, Clinton." She shook their hands. "My chef is preparing lunch. I hope you'll join us. He wants to ask about your food preferences, Neal."

She wouldn't take no for an answer, and they followed her to a formal dining room on the first floor. Byron was already at the table in his wheelchair, talking to a man with a soft Haitian accent who wore a chef's apron. The chef stood and introduced himself as Emil; then he brought such a variety of items from the kitchen that the only word that seemed an appropriate description was cornucopia.

Jones nearly objected, wanting to say it was too much for his relatively minor effort in helping Neal move, but Byron and June were so obviously thrilled to have guests that he simply thanked them for the food and dug in.

"Will you be with us on Christmas?" Emil asked Neal.

He shook his head. "I'm catching a flight to D.C. right after I leave work on the 24th."

"Tell me your holiday favorites," the chef insisted. "I can make them before you leave."

For a moment Neal looked reluctant. He seemed to measure what he was willing to share, and finally said, "I remember making shortbread cookies with my mom. And profiteroles."

"Profiteroles, yes. That would be good to practice." Emil's smile lit up his whole face. "I'm planning to start a catering business. I welcome any excuse to make something beautiful and photograph it. Someday I'll post the pictures on a website."

And with that, Neal went from guarded to open. He chatted about the tradition of portraying food in art, and his favorite still-life paintings. He mentioned someone named Jacques, who apparently owned the bistro where Neal had stashed his art supplies, and then described favorite meals he'd had in his travels abroad.

Neal and Emil asked Byron's opinions, and Jones caught a look of sadness on June's face. It hit him, suddenly, that Emil was using the conversation to fish for ideas for what would be Byron's last Christmas.

It also hit him that the mansion was nearly devoid of holiday decor. All he'd seen was a spruce tree, and it wasn't decorated. Putting together the evidence, Jones concluded that the lack of decor was caused by two factors. First, Byron couldn't stand up for long, and their normal decorating routine likely depended on him reaching the high spots. Second, they were both exhausted from dealing with his illness. They had other priorities, and Jones fully understood.

However, he wondered if June would look back at her husband's final Christmas with regret in years to come. He'd lost friends in the Navy whose families subsequently obsessed about things they hadn't done with or for their loved one. Often they tossed out reason and logic in the process. Someday June might ignore the challenges they'd faced and blame herself for not having provided enough holiday cheer for her husband.

Wanting to help, and expecting resistance, Jones eased into it. He waited until they were finishing dessert and said, "I don't feel like I deserved such an amazing meal. The move was a lot easier than I expected. I definitely consumed more calories than I worked off." He looked at June. "Do you have any heavy lifting I could do while I'm here?"

"That's kind of you to offer."

"The thing is, when we walked through the music room, I noticed the pathway's kind of tight for a wheelchair with that Christmas tree in the middle of the room. If you point to where you want things to go, Neal and I can move stuff around for you."

Neal glanced at the music room, and then at Byron's wheelchair. "I have to confess, I've been wanting to get my hands on that beautiful piano. I'm happy to start with moving it."

After they moved the piano and some chairs, Jones casually offered to fetch the ornaments for the tree from wherever they were stored. "I didn't put up a tree myself this year," he said before June could protest. "Didn't seem worth it, since I'm spending the holidays with my brother's family. I didn't think I'd miss it, but turns out I'm more nostalgic than I realized." He smiled gently. "It's not like I have anything planned this afternoon. I honestly didn't expect Neal's move to go so fast."

Several trips to the attic followed. June pointed out which boxes to bring downstairs, although they were clearly marked so that wasn't really necessary. Emil, Neal, and Jones did the work while June and Byron supervised. The couple shared memories of past holidays, including a Christmas early in their marriage when they'd been apart because Byron was in prison. They were matter-of-fact about it, and how it had influenced Byron's choices when he was released.

"That's when I decided to give up the life," Byron explained. "Backslid a few times. It wasn't easy, but it was the right thing to do. My girls needed their father."

A few hours later the entryway, music room, and dining room had been transformed into a wonderland of green, blue, purple, silver, and gold decorations.

Neal looked a bit out of his element at first, as if hanging garlands and glittering snowflakes from the ceiling wasn't something he'd done before. Fortunately he took orders well and had absolutely no fear of heights.

The last step was stacking the empty boxes together for a trip back up to the attic. When they returned to the main level, Byron had gone to his room to take a nap, and June hugged each of them. "Thank you," she said to Jones, her voice husky with tears. "You've dissolved all my doubts about whether I could trust an FBI agent."

"It was my pleasure. Byron's a great guy, and I'm happy to help anytime you need. Just let me know when you want me to come by to take everything back down again. I'm staying in town for the holidays, so I'll be available whenever's convenient for you."

"I can't thank you enough."

"Let me eat some of Emil's cooking again, and we'll call it even."

Neal's loft, Manhattan, NY. Saturday evening.

Emil suggested an excellent shop where Neal could pick up groceries, including a few bottles of wine, of course. It was a pleasure to fix his first meal in the loft, and he thought the Chicken Kiev turned out well. Now that he had the hang of the appliances, he looked forward to preparing more ambitious meals.

Tonight was too cold to eat on the balcony, but he enjoyed the view of the New York skyline from the warmth of his kitchen, and imagined dining al fresco in the spring, assuming he stayed here that long. You never knew what twists fate had in mind.

The trill of his phone brought him back to the here and now. "Mozz," he answered, recognizing the number. "How are things in Quebec?"

"Cold and beautiful," Mozzie said. He'd traveled there on Friday and would stay for a week, masterminding a heist. "You should join us."

"Not this again, Mozz. I told you, I want the FBI deal to work out, and I can't risk taking side jobs."

"Such a waste of your talents. At least tell me you're gathering information about how they work, for when you come to your senses."

"I've learned a lot, and there's more training I'm supposed to take next week."

"Classroom training or online?"

"Online."

"Exercise caution. There could be subliminal messages embedded in the videos. This could be the first step toward mind control. You need to pause the videos every five minutes — three would be better — and clear your mind with at least twenty seconds of stretching and meditation. If you feel any urges to rat out your friends or to sublimate your personality, stop the video and call me. I'm sure I can hack their system to make it look like you completed the training and you can fool them into believing the indoctrination was successful."

"I'll be careful," Neal said.

"Speaking of careful, is the Temple of Thought compromised?"

The Temple of Thought was the name of Mozzie's favorite safe house, and when Mozz was away he monitored it through cameras and other means. The moment Neal entered the building, Mozzie would have received a notification, and would have watched real time if possible, or viewed the video later. Neal had made a point of waving to one of the cameras and giving a pre-designated safe signal. "I made sure no one followed me," Neal promised.

"You took your box of books, but not your bottles of wine."

"It was a tough choice, but I thought it was wisest to make one trip, so my companion would be less tempted to get out of his car and follow me."

"Indeed. However, it would seem I overlooked an important element in the reading I recommended when we first met."

"Yeah, I hadn't heard of Terry Pratchett. According to Billy, there's a turtle I could learn from in the stories. I take it you're familiar with them?"

Mozzie let out a gusty sigh. "You need to pay more attention to the best-seller lists, Neal. Terry Pratchett is a publishing icon in the U.K., and his works provide a biting satire of government and society."

Neal frowned. "Maggie said they were fantasy novels."

"Epic fantasies have long been a vehicle for commentary on society. The Lord of the Rings, for instance — "

"Please," Neal interrupted, because he knew this lecture could go on all night, "can we stick to the turtle?"

"The turtle is the Great A'Tuin."

Half an hour later, Neal knew that the novels were about a flat world known as Discworld, which traveled through space on the backs of four elephants, who stood on the back of a giant turtle. The lessons to be gained from the turtle included sharing the load with a reliable crew, patience in reaching its destination, and most importantly (according to Mozzie) not bowing to pressures to conform to a boring, conventional view of what is normal or accepted as a mode of transporting worlds through space.

"Does the turtle have a choice?" Neal wondered. "Or is it just doing what it was born to do?"

"An interesting question. Are you asking in light of your own situation?"

"Yeah. When I look at the big picture, at everything that led Peter and me to be at the same place at the same time, it feels like we were destined to meet and make this deal. I told Tricia it was fate, and she doesn't agree. She sees a logical set of steps following to a natural conclusion. To me, that sounds like another way of describing fate."

"Fate implies a greater power at work, whereas her alternate theory removes that element and instead relies on logic. And yet both preclude free will, if one can assume that you're driven by logic rather than desire." The line went silent.

"Mozz, are you still there?"

"Sorry, I was lost in thought, imagining John Calvin debating on the side of predestination versus Spock on the side of logic. Fascinating. If you think about it, the concept of fate brings the implication of an entity of some sort manipulating circumstances to bring about a specific result, and is at heart a universal conspiracy theory."

"Which appeals to you."

"Naturally, and yet I also believe that awareness of the conspiracies around me is what makes me the master of my own fate. It's an interesting conundrum. Going back to the topic of epic fantasies, take the story of Beowulf. In the classic theme of heroes versus monsters, are they destined to clash? Do they logically encounter each other because by definition heroes will try to stop monsters? Can either of them even perceive other options, such as joining forces?"

"Is that what I did?" Neal asked. "Take an alternate path?"

"Certainly it isn't the normal course of events in a cops versus robbers story. Does that mean you defied fate, or that you followed a natural, logical path given your circumstances? I must ponder this further."

"With wine," Neal said.

"Naturally. In vino veritas."

"I'll leave you to seek your truth, then."

A/N: I wanted to keep in mind those who don't celebrate Christmas and/or find it overwhelming, with Jones' relief at the lack of a holiday theme at the start of the chapter.

I had fun with canon references in this chapter, including Neal's aliases. You may remember in the first season Neal jokingly told Peter to say, "I'll be back." In canon it was Mozzie who used the "surprise party" quote in a conversation with Peter.

If you're a Discworld fan, I've published a story in that fandom. The title is Dragon's Egg Blue.