Georgetown

Washington, DC

Oakwood Apartments

December 25th, 2015

0800 hours

Alexander POV

Two weeks ago, all I wanted was a white Christmas with my family. And then Murphy's Law struck. Now, I was still having that, but with five kids in tow because... that's what we needed to do. Mission complete, right?

I wasn't sure. The fact of the matter was that there were too many thoughts swirling in my head for me to appreciate the moment. I was sitting on the doorstep outside, a mug of coffee in hand. It was cold, like every other Washington winter, with dull skies and a blanket of snow. A typical morning, one that almost certainly helped to boost the Christmas spirit. But all that ran through my mind were the memories.

Memories of the tensions during this trip, the struggles of Ben, the suffering in Mexico. In the one-and-a-half years since, I had been keeping tabs on the kids. As expected, all—from the fresh Mike to the hardened Chip—were scarred by the incident. But what concerned me were the wounds we couldn't see.

From what my contacts told me, all showed signs of insufficient sleep, paranoia, and anxiety. They may have ultimately cleared their psychological evaluations, but I had my concerns. Though, they adapted and overcame, except for Ben—who only seemed to do so. How we failed to notice, I still don't know. But the night of his attempted suicide will be with me til the day I die.

Speaking of, you may be wondering why I'm still alive, especially after my ranting and raving in Mexico. Well, there is a simple explanation.

And her name is Erica Hale.

ONE-AND-A-QUARTER YEARS AGO...

I sat in the park at a bench, sipping my black coffee. It was bitter, far from my usual two creams-two sugars combination, but for some odd reason, I was drinking it. Grounding was a weird description, and yet it fit.

It had been three months since Operation Fox Hunt. Adrien Dubois was extradited to the UK, the captured SPYDER persons had been shipped off to Gitmo, and the IC had worked their way through the intel we gathered, enabling the DOD and DOJ to carry out missions against SPYDER targets. The FBI and USMS had dispatched threats internally, while JSOC (occasionally with HRT tag-alongs) struck out against external threats. They were still at work mopping up, with some units even discovering intel against other threats.

For instance, in Azerbaijan (because SPYDER apparently had a safehouse there), a team of CAG and ISA operators discovered links to al-Qaeda in Afghanistan—primarily in regards to intel and arms to use against Coalition forces. The info was sent up the chain and decisions were made. What decisions, I have no idea, apart from the fact that an SAS-led operation put a high-ranking AQ operative in the ground a few days ago.

Speaking of Brits, Catherine had left around nine weeks ago to assist with the Dubois trial in the UK. Upon conclusion of the trial, he had been sentenced to life without parole in a maximum security penitentiary... cliche, I know. Meanwhile, Interpol and Europol were cracking down on his network and, based on recent reports, law enforcement entities worldwide had successfully killed or captured a good chunk of the major players.

Interestingly, she didn't leave with the commandos, who departed with Dubois and a security team earlier. Over the course of two weeks, she and I had several talks... there may or may not have been some "activities" in between, so to speak. She wanted to start over, and I did too.

Very cliche, for sure. It was nice, though, but our duties eventually arose. I hated to see her go so soon, but we both agreed that, for the sake of Erica and each other, we'd be careful about how we went about things.

Speaking of the devil, she came into view from my right. She was walking slowly, her gait and face betraying a hint of nervousness, before wordlessly sitting down beside me.

"You got my message."

"Yeah, Dad."

The silence that followed was nothing short of awkward as we tried to figure out where to go from here. We had some moments of cooperation in the past, but Mexico was undoubtedly a tipping point. Our relationship had changed, but we weren't quite sure what to do about it.

"So... I talked to Mom last night," she began after a few minutes.

"Really?"

"Yeah, she's apparently coming to Langley in a few weeks for work and a bit of family time."

"Interesting."

"So, what's the deal on your end?"

"Whole lotta paperwork, believe it or not," I groaned as I rubbed my eyes, shivering at the mental pictures of the stacks of paper on my desk and the numerous reports on my computer. "But it's the same shit, different day. The Agency's 99% paperwork, after all."

"If the Academy said that while recruiting, there'd be a damn small pool."

"You'd be surprised just how many people like paper-pushing. Not many, but there are some."

"Seriously?"

"Oh yeah. No joke. Actually, that reminds me... when your mother talked about coming for work, did she mention anything else?"

"Well... she sends her love. Guess your divorce wasn't that bad..."

"Erica... we're still divorced, but..." I trailed off before realizing it was probably best just to leave out the sugarcoating. "Your mother and I are seeing each other."

"What do you—oh. I... I see."

"We're taking things slowly, but we are working on... well, us."

"Oh... why?"

"Honestly... there's a lot to unpack. But long story short, it's 'cause we don't want to screw up a second time."

"Ah."

And with that, we fell into awkward silence once more as we tried to determine the next step. I knew what her question would be, but she couldn't articulate it.

"Before you ask... I said some things in Mexico that I now regret. Hell, there's a lot of crap I regret now. But the coward's way out isn't gonna do it for me."

"You mean—"

"Yes, Erica. I'm sticking around. Don't wanna disappoint your mother," I joked, but my tone remained flat. "I know you're not pleased—"

"Dad, stop it!" she exclaimed, derailing my train of thought. "Will you stop?!? I never wanted to see you go! I want you to stick around!"

"But why—"

"I don't... I... argh, why is this so difficult? I've got my own gripes, and I don't need your disappearance on my conscience!"

"Why am I not surprised?" I sighed, sipping my coffee. "Well, like father, like daughter. Can't say I was a particularly good role model."

"No, it's not that! The point is... well," she began, her tone softening. "I just... I kinda want to let the past die."

"Wh—what?"

"I know, I know... I'm a vengeful person, just like Grandpa... but Mexico was a reality check."

"You too?"

"Dad, that was the single worst op I've been on. And you were right—overconfidence led to that shitstorm. Mike and Zoe are traumatized, Chip and Jawa almost died, and Ben... honestly, I'm not sure I want to think about what happened to him."

I remained silent at the last bit, since Erica actually didn't know the full scale of what happened to him. She knew that Hallal hurt him, but she didn't know the specifics, or what that bitch Lemon did. During our debriefs in the states, the only people that knew what happened to Ben were the adults on the CIA-MI6 team and Ben himself. The kids and SAD team were left in the dark—with the latter being fed the cover story of the children being students rescued from the cartel.

"I don't know how, but... I think I've changed. At least, that's what Mom said. Something just doesn't feel right about being in CIA mode 100% of the time. And... she said talking with you would be a start to working things through."

"Hm... your mother really is the best of us," I murmured, eliciting a slight grin from Erica. "But on that note... remember what I said about regrets? I have many. I've screwed over a lot of people, Erica: enemies, assets, fellow officers, but I think the worst thing I did was to screw you over. I'm not asking for forgiveness, 'cause I don't expect it. But I regret it... all of it. And believe me, I'm not lying."

Erica stared at me for a moment before looking away, as if trying to process everything I just said. Sipping my coffee, I stared out at the park and beyond, watching people go about their daily lives: men with briefcases, women with purses, workmen with tools, cops with light batons.

"Well, I appreciate it, Dad. I'm not really sure what we do now, though."

"You and me both."

"This sounds cliche, but what if we start over?"

"... Erica, that's about as cliche as it gets. Besides, I'm not exactly sure if I'm fully redeemed yet."

"Well... Mom said to give you a chance... repeatedly. Guess it's time I actually listened to her," she sighed before turning towards me and outstretching her hand.

"... what are you doing?"

"Starting over. Hi, I'm Erica Hale. Nice to meet you."

"You do realize this doesn't make any sense, right? I technically knew you before you knew me. Also—"

"I know, I know, cliche. Please just humor me."

"Our family really has a flair for the dramatic," I replied with an eye-roll, nonetheless meeting her handshake. "Nice to meet you, Erica. I'm Alexander Nathaniel Hale."

"... I don't know what to do now."

"Me neither. Maybe we should just call your mother..."

BACK TO THE PRESENT...

And thus began many, many months of training and family therapy. The latter wasn't done with any sort of professional—which probably would've helped, in retrospect—but Catherine generally acted as the mediator because she has her shit together (at least, better than the rest of us).

It's probably because she wasn't born with the Hale drama gene.

Still, we were collectively in a good spot, but what continued to linger were my own... well, "daddy issues," silly as it sounds.

Speaking of the devil, the man, the myth, the legend himself had arrived: the door opened behind me and out came my father, similarly bundled up with a cup of coffee in his hand. Closing the door behind him, he eased himself down on the step beside me.

"Mornin', son."

"Huh, someone's cheery."

"What makes you say that?"

"'Mornin' son?' That's gotta be one of the most congenial greetings you've ever given me," I joked. What my eyes beheld were not an eye-roll or smirk, but instead a somewhat deflated expression, almost with a tinge of... regret? Longing?

"You've... you've got a point there, Alex," Dad sighed before sipping his coffee.

"Damn, Dad. No need to get so philosophical about it. It was in jest."

"Maybe, but there's a massive grain of truth in there. That's what I wanted to talk to you about."

"Okay, what's wrong?" I replied as I turned towards him, concerned. This behavior was out of the ordinary: hesitancy and sadness didn't suit him. He was a hard-charger, a Marine, an SAD operative.

"I... I failed, Alex."

"What the hell are you talking about, Dad?"

"I screwed up. It's my fault our family is the way it is today. All the drama, the lies, the anger, the hate... it all comes back to me."

My mouth opened, but no words came out. Dad never talked like this. Whenever there was a problem, he immediately looked at me. Granted, it was justified most of the time, but even if the screwup was someone else, I was generally implicated in some manner. In recent times, I learned to accept it and move on—apart from, of course, the Mexico op when I punched him in the nose.

"As you probably know, after I graduated from the Academy, I took part in a special program in which eleven other men and myself went into the military—me, I went into the Corps, joined a recon battalion, eventually made my way into FORECON. My combat experience was Vietnam. Ended up coming home to middle fingers, curses, and the like from anti-war protestors that didn't know the difference between anti-war and anti-troops. I didn't exactly want a damn 'thank you,' but a lack of the aforementioned bullshit would've been nice."

I felt myself grimace as I remembered some of my history lessons. Indeed, the war was shrouded with doubt and controversy. But the sad truth was that the men that were drafted—whether it be to avoid punishment or try to serve their country the best they could—were spat on by idiots and turds that didn't exactly understand how drafts worked.

"Left me a little less confident in the nation, but enough about that," Dad continued. "Returned to the Agency, became an SAD/SOG operative. Your mother was in PAG. We worked together—I actually disliked her at first—but eventually, we ended up getting hitched. She was basically my lifeline, the one thing that kept me sane. Funny thing is, she never went to the Academy or served in combat roles, but she understood me better than anyone I knew at the Academy."

"You're kidding."

"No, Alex, I'm not. Y'know, I actually didn't want you to join the CIA at first. Janet actually resigned her post so that she could focus more on raising you. Hell, I was getting ready to leave the Agency for the private sector, but then... well, Christmas of 1980 happened."

"Yeah, I remember that," I sighed, remembering that memory: the tears, the confusion, the fear, the hopelessness. It was one of, if not the, lowest points in my life. And as it seemed, my father felt the same way. "Hard to believe it's been thirty-five years since then."

"Thirty-five years... oh, God," he mumbled as his head hung low, his expression drooping more. "What have I done?"

"Is this regarding your disapproval of everything I did? I mean, Dad, it's fine. I didn't have natural talent or whatever it was, I just needed to work harder, and I didn't."

"Maybe, but what kind of father estranges himself from his son and doesn't try to correct his mistakes? Your acts may have been done by your own accord, Alex, but if I instilled proper ethics and discipline in you—rather than be consumed by grief and anger at your mother's death—we'd be in a much better spot. You, me, Catherine, Erica. Why do you think the majority of criminals come from fatherless homes?"

The fact of the matter was that everything he said was true. Not only were his implied statistics correct, he really never tried to rectify my mistakes and was so cold, I was actually happy to leave for the Academy. I practically lived there and never returned home, sometimes not seeing or even writing to him for years at a time. Now, I still blame myself for my actions, but I had no way to counter his statements.

"What I'm trying to get at is that... I realize now that I've failed you as a father—and by extension, Catherine and Erica as a father-in-law and grandfather. I should've raised you as a father should. And for that, I'm... sorry," he finished, his words dampened by regret.

Once again, Dad had rendered me speechless as I tried to process everything he just said. The old me likely would've taken the chance to argue and gloat, but the truth was that despite all his failures, I committed the actions that brought shame on my name, not him.

"Dad... there's nothing for you to be sorry for. Like I said, you didn't make me lie or cheat. That was all me," I replied slowly. "Not you. I'm just glad you're still here with me. Whatever the case may be, those mistakes will be with us, all the way to the grave and the great beyond. What's more... I don't want to lose you too."

With that, his head jerked up and towards me, his eyes wide with surprise.

"Mom's gone, and that's the bitter truth. I already came too close to losing Cath and Erica. I... I don't want to lose you too, Dad," I whispered, feeling myself choke slightly on my words. "You always have been the only father I've ever known."

"Alex... I'm too far gone. I can't be the man I was before your mother died."

"I'm not asking you to be him, Dad. I want you to stick around. Your criticism, your realism, your wisdom, every facet of your character. Just be here. If not for me, then for Erica. But please be here."

After my long-winded request, we fell into silence as we effectively sized each other up, trying to determine what move to make next. Finally, Dad spoke.

"Do you forgive me?"

"I do, but on one condition: just be here, please."

"... deal," he replied, extending his hand. I shook it, feeling myself smile as a big weight lifted from my shoulders. Dad, as it seemed, felt the same way, looking at me for a moment before a wistful smile came on his face. "Huh... you've got your mother's smile, Alex."

"Really?"

"Yeah... oh, and in regards to Nathaniel... that was her idea. Her uncle, Nathaniel Farley, died fighting the Japanese in World War II. Alexander was my idea because of its meaning: 'one who assists men.'"

"Really? I... I didn't know that."

"Yeah," Dad chuckled, his smile growing as he unzipped his coat pocket and brought out a small present, no larger than a phone. "Merry Christmas."

"Huh... you're my Secret Santa?" I asked almost rhetorically as I laid down my mug and took the package from his hand. I opened it gently, to find none other than a watch... a knockoff Rolex Submariner. "Heh, this is nice. One helluva imitation, Dad."

"That's no imitation."

"I call bull, Dad. We set the limit to fifty bucks. Ain't no way this is the real deal."

"Take a look at the watchband."

At his words, I began examining the simple metal watchband. I didn't know what to think of the apparently authentic Submariner until I saw the engraved eagle.

'No... it couldn't be...' I thought as I looked at the face, where a small scratch was at the two o'clock position. And finally, engraved on the ticker's backside, was "A.N.H." It was my Submariner—the one I traded for a van and full tank of gas in Mexico.

"What... I... how?" I stammered out as I looked over those three marks again. It had to be a mock-up, it just had to. And yet...

"Got it from a watch hawker and cocaine dealer," Dad replied with a smirk. "He was tryin' to sell me some cheap shit, but I got this off of him under the threat of bringing a horde of armed citizens and cops down on him."

"B-but—Mexico... how?"

"No idea, son. Maybe whoever you traded it to jumped the border, maybe he had the same idea as you. But that day—even more so than the time you saved my ass in West Virginia—you proved yourself as a warrior. You saved the lives of everyone on that op. I didn't say it then, so I'll say it now: I'm proud of you. You taught me a thing or two that day."

"Holy... thank you, Dad. Really."

"Of course, Alex. By the way... sorry about your face."

"Eh, it was justified. I whacked you first, remember?"

"That was a good punch, though."

"Heh... you want a rematch at some point? I've improved in gunfighting, but I have a ways to go in CQC."

"I'd be happy to. With Catherine and Erica?"

"I mean, we could, but... I wouldn't say no to some father-son time."

"... Alex, don't expect me to play catch with you unless it's baseball," Dad snarked. "I'm garbage at football."

"That's fine, but don't yell at me too much for not holding the light steady while we fix our cars," I shot back.

"... fair enough, son."

Chip POV

Jawa and I woke up late, much to our surprise, at 0800. We helped ourselves to the coffee Alexander made and finished some games of chess, war, poker, and rummy. Yes, we are very competitive. Yes, I continued to lose at chess... though I took a lot more of his pieces with me.

It was 0830, with our peers still asleep in the living room. The Hale men were still conversing outside while Catherine was in a robe, sleepily trying to finish her cup of tea and answer Jawa's questions about the differences between the US and UK, spy and civilian-wise.

'What a nerd.'

As for me, I was thinking about what Jawa told me last night: to be the bigger man in the feud I was having with Hank. As much as I hated to admit it, he was right. If we couldn't repair our brotherhood, perhaps we could at least come to a truce.

Finally, I made a decision. Excusing myself and setting up in a quiet section of the apartment, I used my laptop to contact Hank via VTC.

'Low chance he'd be near his laptop, ain't it?' a small voice said in my head.

'Probably. But I gotta work all my options.'

Suddenly, I found myself facing my former best friend, current worst enemy, and constant big brother as we faced off through VTC. We sat in silence as we stared each other down: me in my simple clothes in the apartment and him in his MARPAT camo on what appeared to be one of the Navy's amphibious assault ships.

After graduating the Academy, Hank decided to take one of the paramilitary career tracks to guarantee a shot at becoming a paramilitary operations officer. Somehow, he managed to complete his bachelor's degree right as he graduated—he's the brainy one between us, after all—and, as per his career track, joined the United States Marine Corps.

After completing OCS and the other necessary schools, he became a second lieutenant and platoon commander in 1/2 (1st Battalion, 2nd Marine Regiment). Knowing him, though, he would try to go for one of the Recon Battalions, maybe even Force Recon.

"Chip," he finally said, breaking the silence. "It's been a while."

"That's about right."

"Why'd you call? Is somethin' wrong?"

"You could say that."

"You ain't in trouble, are you?"

"C'mon, how stupid do you think I am?" I shot back with an eye-roll.

"Huh, guess this isn't important th—"

"Henry," I firmly cut him off, stunning him into silence. The names on our birth certificates are, in fact, not "Hank" and "Chip," but the only times we've heard them are in legal settings or when we're in trouble.

Or in this case, when we're being dead serious.

"Christopher, what are you doin'?" he replied, his tone low and tense.

"I... I wanted to say... well, I—I apologize," I stammered out.

"... what?"

"I... am... sorry."

"What in the hell for? What is this, some stupid Christmas gag—"

"This ain't no gag!" I angrily interrupted. "Doggone it, Henry! I'm tryna tell you I'm sorry for what I said and did in the past?"

"The past? You called me on Christmas day to talk about the past? What does that have to do with anythin'?"

"Everythin', Hank! Look, you came to the Academy years before me, alright? An' when you came back to visit, you changed... you didn't spend any sort of time with me anymore."

"You know how it is, Chip. You should now."

"I understand now. But... Hank, I don't know if you know this, but I... well, you left as my best friend. But when you came back, you'd changed. The Academy changed you."

"People change, man. That's life."

"I really wished that you'd better explained it to me, but I couldn't wrap my head around the idea of you bein' bullied because of your background. I guess I was so insulated, I didn't realize how unfriendly some people could be."

"I was treated like crap by a bunch of my peers," he sighed after a moment of silence. "Grew up in a 'hick town,' as they put it. We're practically rednecks, or whatever the hell the mainstream term for us is."

"To heck with mainstream."

"Damn right. Those snobs with their fancy gear and clothing. Hell, those city folk wouldn't last a day in a foreign environment, let alone a gunfight."

"Good thing we got that on our side, huh?" I replied with a light laugh.

"Yeah..." he murmured, with us falling into silence as he broke eye contact and stared off to the side, deep in thought. This had been one of our more peaceful encounters in which our parents weren't involved, but I still feared that Murphy's Law would rear its ugly head and ruin the moment.

And yet, it didn't.

"Well, I accept your apology, Chip. Come to think of it, I've got one of my own: should've explained the situation better, or at least been a proper older brother."

"C'mon, it's fine. We both screwed up."

"Heh... suppose we oughta start over."

"Cliche, ain't it?"

"Hey, I'm a second lieutenant that did my university schoolin' online or through the Academy, and actually passed the promotion board for first lieutenant, but I somehow got deployed before I could be officially promoted via ceremony. A cliche make-up between estranged brothers is one of the least weird things I've heard in the past few years."

"I still can't believe you commissioned. From what Ripley told me, you sound more like an enlisted man."

"I inherited Ma's brains," he snarked, referencing the fact that Ma had associate's, bachelor's and master's degrees because she used her GI Bill early on and went through a lot of schooling as a naval aviator (yes, Marine pilots are referred to as naval aviators, as they're in the Department of the Navy).

"I got Pa's wisdom, and I can beat your butt," I shot back.

"You really wanna try me?"

"C'mon, LT. Scared of gettin' whooped by your little brother?"

"Your tauntin' doesn't work on me, Chip. I may be an LT, but I ain't stupid enough to think that I know better n' my platoon sarn't."

"That's probably the smartest thing you've ever said," I bantered.

"Shut up," he ordered, but he couldn't keep himself from laughing with me. Suddenly, I began to hear banging his end: likely someone pounding on the hatch to his quarters.

"Half a mo'," he muttered as he stood and disappeared from view, but I could still hear the sounds of him opening the hatch and greeting someone. "Lance Corporal."

"Sir, Captain and First Sergeant wanted this passed down to the platoons," the lance corporal replied. After a moment of silence, Hank responded.

"Thank you, Lance Corporal. Make sure you pass this on to the platoon commanders and sergeants. Dismissed."

"Aye, sir!" the messenger replied before hurrying away, his boots thumping on the floor as Hank closed the hatch and returned to his desk.

"Duty calls?" I asked.

"Yep. Joint training exercise with Mexico's Naval Infantry Corps. Did you know that the Mexican Navy likes us much better than the Army, and that the former is one of the few groups in Mexico to not get infiltrated by the cartels?" he replied, going into what appeared to be his nerd mode.

"Tell me later, LT. You've got work to do."

"Ain't that the truth. When I come back, do you wanna... go huntin'? Frog-giggin', somethin' like that? We're gonna need time to figure this crap out."

"Sounds like a bang-up time, brother," I replied with a smile. "Congrats on becomin' a Hershey Bar, by the way. Watch your six."

"Roger that, brother. Take care," he replied with a similar grin before the VTC was cut off. It wasn't a miracle fix. Time would be needed to heal all the bad blood between us. But if nothing else, this was a start.

With that, I closed my eyes and quietly muttered a prayer: for my brother, my parents, my family, my friends as I celebrated Christmas here with them, whether they were in spirit or in person. I felt the weight of my sins—the hurt, the hate, the animosity, the anger—dissolve within me.

"Amen," I murmured as I completed the prayer, feeling myself—for the first time in a while—being completely at peace.

Jawa POV

By 1000, the rest of the team was finally awake. The rest of my peers—save for Chip—looked tired from all the partying we did last night: dancing, singing, snowball fights, even an eggnog drinking contest that Alexander got a little too into.

And yet, the mood was warm, cheerful, and bright, matching the Christmas spirit. Though the greatest surprise came from Ben, who was positively serene. When Catherine asked him about it, he replied that he slept well and felt more at peace. At his answer, I couldn't help but grin, realizing that our plan to boost his spirits—as elaborate and silly as it sounded in retrospect—worked.

Now, we all bore cups of tea, coffee, or hot chocolate as we handed out the presents that were placed under the tree.

"Okay, how shall we do this?" Catherine asked, holding up her phone as if taking photos for the Hale family album. "How about... Cyrus!"

"Fine, fine," he replied as he pulled out a pocket knife and carefully cut open the package. Inside, he found a folding E-tool (entrenching tool) kit, with several extra tools that could be detached and attached as needed: a modular tactical shovel, if you will.

"That's... practical," Mike said with a giggle, with Zoe joining him.

"Huh, there's a note," the older man muttered as he pulled it from the packaging. "'Remember: it pays to be prepared. Not just in the field of battle, but at home. May you have a blessed Christmas. Semper Fidelis.'"

"Chip," Alexander, Erica, and I said at the same time as we looked towards the muscle-bound southerner, who had a bashful smile on his face.

"What? It sounded right."

"You're a real warrior poet, aren't you?" Cyrus chuckled as he reached across and gave Chip a handshake. "Thanks, Devil Pup. Merry Christmas."

"Awww, how sweet!" Catherine gushed. "Chip, darling! Your turn!"

"Yes, ma'am," he acknowledged as he brought out his own pocket knife and cut open his present with a bit more fervor than Cyrus. For some reason, I wasn't all that surprised when Chip revealed that he had received a tactical tomahawk.

"Holy—I think I've seen that kind of tomahawk before!" Alexander exclaimed. "I remember seeing SEALs, Rangers, and MARSOC guys using them for breaching and CQC!"

"Huh, pretty cool! But aren't these expensive?"

"They generally are, but I found it on sale at Lumberjack Dan's," Catherine replied with a smile. "I think you'll like this whether you become a farmer or an operator."

"He's qualified for both," I murmured, making my buddy snicker and roll his eyes.

"You're just jealous, aintcha? Thank you, ma'am!"

"You as well, dear. Merry Christmas!"

"I think you're next, Cath," Alexander said as he passed her gift and took the phone to take pictures. I was hoping that she'd like what I picked out.

"Well, let's see here," she said as she carefully opened the package with her standard ladylike grace. "Oh, how sweet! A tea collection and recipe book!"

"Wow, you really do like tea," Zoe commented, eliciting several "no duh"s across the room.

"Oh, and there's a note... 'when I was hurt, you took care of me like I was your own son, allowing me to come home to my family. Sincerely, Jawa.' Oh, thank you, dear!" she said, looking at me with a bright smile.

"Well, my mother likes tea. You kinda reminded me of her in that moment," I replied, feeling myself blush. "It's mostly Indian varieties, but there's a few others. I scribbled some of my mother's recipes in the book towards the back."

"Well, it smells positively divine. Thank you so much. Merry Christmas."

"Thanks... guess I'm next," I sighed as I opened the package at my feet. Inside was a pen and notepad, which were both inside of a mug. "What the... 'can't talk, I'm at a board meeting?'"

Erica facepalmed while Catherine tried to stifle her laughter, all while looking at an incredibly smug Alexander.

"Dad jokes? Seriously?" Erica groaned.

"Hey, Jawa said he surfs. I thought he'd like it. Plus, I noticed you're a very schedule-oriented fellow. Tactical pen plus waterproof notepad, both of which can go in your pocket. Plus, the former will also get through TSA."

"... and you know this how?"

"I've done it several times, all by accident because I forgot to put it in my checked bag. Remember, kid: it's important to laugh in life, no matter what your kids say about it," he said in the most shaman-like manner possible.

"Understood. Thank you, sir!" I replied.

"Of course. We can go ahead and skip me, since Dad already got mine. Michael, you're up!"

"Alright, alright, alright!" he said excitedly as he quickly, but smoothly, opened his package, revealing a pair of high-quality sunglasses with an attached strap. "Well, this is awfully convenient, considering that I broke my last pair."

"You're welcome, Mikey," Zoe replied with a grin. "I remembered that when I got those."

"You're the salt of the earth, Zoe. You should take a look at yours," he said, motioning towards her package with a sly smile on his face.

"Ah, so you're my secret gift-giver, okay... HOLY CANNOLI!" she shrieked when she opened her gift, making us jump in surprise. "The next edition of the Intelligence Institution series?!? And it's an advanced reader's copy?!?"

"Take a look at the inside cover."

"... WHAT?!? SIGNED BY SEYMOUR GRAY HIMSELF?!?"

"Well, I'll be damned!" Catherine gasped. "Michael, how in the world—"

"So you see, me and Jawa were at the bookstore..."

THE DAY PRIOR...

"Okay," I said as Mike and I entered the shop. "We're at the bookstore because Zoe likes to read, I assume. But what are you gonna get her?"

"Well, she likes Seymour Gray's stuff... he just released the next installment to the Intelligence Institution series. Intelligence Institution: Oceanic Ops, or something like that," Mike replied.

"Uh, you sure about that, bud?" I responded quizzically as we searched the shelves. I could see the rest of the series: the original I.I., I.I. Espionage Encampment, I.I. Surveillance Snowboarding, I.I. BORTAC, I.I. Going Dark, and I.I. English Expropriation. But there were no copies of Oceanic Ops to be seen.

"Hang on, this can't be right," he muttered, pulling out his phone. After a few seconds, his face fell. "Uh, Jawa?"

"Yeah?"

"I thought Oceanic Ops was to be released on December 20th, 2015... it's actually set to be released on December 20th, 2016..."

"Oh damn. Bro, you could always find another book..."

"Yeah, but I'm not sure what to do. She seriously loves this Gray guy, and she's got all of his books. Everything else he's published has already come out, with the rest of it coming even later than Oceanic Ops!"

"Well, you gotta decide what happens next, bro," I replied, clapping his shoulder as we walked towards the exit. "Not the end of the world, you know."

"I guess... wanna get some hot cocoa? It's freezing outside."

"Sure, man." With that, we went towards the coffee shop that was inside the bookstore, ordering two hot chocolates before sitting down at a table, right next to a middle-aged gentleman that seemed to be waiting for someone. He was also having some trouble with his laptop.

"Ah, damn it!" he cursed. "Damned thing isn't working!"

"Uh, sir? Everything okay?" Mike asked, standing up and walking over to the man—likely to get his mind off the situation at hand. "Laptop problem."

"New laptop, weird tech. Not sure how to work it," the clean-shaven, gray-haired man replied as he turned towards Mike.

"Holy—you're Seymour Gray!" Mike gasped, taking a step back in surprise. "Author of the Intelligence Institution series!"

"Yeah, that's about right. I've been trying to work this software, but the damn thing keeps directing me to this screen and won't let me access my files! I've tried everything, and there are too many files on here to lose!"

"Do you have a cloud backup?"

"This is the cloud backup. My computer caught on fire, and the main backup is this cloud."

"Uh-huh... may I?"

"Sure," Mr. Gray sighed, turning his laptop towards him as he rubbed his forehead, stressed. Mike fiddled with it for a few minutes before asking him to enter his passcode. Lo and behold, whatever Mike did worked!

"Well, whaddaya know? Thank you so much... er..." Mr. Gray hesitated as he outstretched his hand.

"Mike. No problem at all," he replied with a small grin, shaking the author's hand. "My friend is a big fan. If she were here, I'm sure she'd be bouncing in excitement."

"Is there anything I can do to thank you?"

"Er... could I get an autograph for her?"

"Sure, sure!" Mr. Gray took his briefcase and pulled out a pen and a notepad. He uncapped his pen and was about to write before Mike noticed something inside the case.

"Mr. Gray? Is that the next installment? Oceanic Ops?"

"Hm? Oh, yes," he replied as he pulled it out. The book's cover art was much like the ones of his works on the shelves of the store, save for the banner across the top of the cover in black and red: "ADVANCED READER'S COPY - NOT FOR SALE."

"What's an... 'advanced reader's copy?'"

"Long story short, these are given out to reviewers, bookstores, magazines, and the like. These readers make comments or find errors in this manuscript and inform the author—me, in this case—and I make the edits before the final publication. I broke the trend of 3-6 months, bringing this out a whole year in advance of publication. I was supposed to meet a reviewer, but she... well..."

"Stood you up?"

"I wouldn't put it quite that way, but yes. I don't feel particularly inclined to give her another chance to review it, considering that I shifted flights and wasted several days I could've spent with my family in Texas for Christmas. Problem is, this is the last of the ARCs, and I don't have any other readers," Mr. Gray sighed, shaking his head disappointedly.

"Huh... Mr. Gray? I don't know if this is allowed, but... since she's part of your target audience, do you think I could get my friend to read it and review it?" Mike asked, making me jerk my head from my cocoa towards him. There was no way he would—

"That's... actually a pretty good idea. It'll be interesting to hear one of my readers' words on the matter. Sure, she can have it."

'HOW THE HELL DID HE JUST—'

"Oh, thank you so much!" Mike said. "If it's no trouble, do you think you could autograph the book to her?"

"Hm, I don't see why not. To whom am I making this out?"

"Zoe."

"Okay... this must be a very good friend of yours..."

"That sounds about right," Mike replied with a smile.

"Alright... here you go," he said, closing the book and handing it to Mike. "I've also put inside a note explaining how she can contact me with her commentary once she's finished reading. She can keep the ARC if she wishes."

"Great! Thank you so much!"

"Oh, and Mike?" Mr. Gray called. "I don't think I've ever heard of autographed books being the way to a girl's heart, but I wish you the best in that regard."

Mike's expression devolved into one of embarrassment as he tried to stutter out a response, only making the older man chuckle.

"Don't worry, kid. Just keep a cool head when you ask Miss Zoe out, okay?" he advised with a smirk as he packed his briefcase and stood. "Now I have to go catch a flight. Merry Christmas."

And with that, Seymour Gray left the cafe and bookstore as Mike plopped back in his seat red-faced and I roared with laughter at my friend's expense.

BACK TO THE PRESENT...

Of course, Mike left that last bit out as he concluded his story, leaving the rest of us astounded.

"Wait, so I get to review it?!?" Zoe gasped. "THIS IS AMAZING!"

"I knew she'd like it," Mike said with a smirk as he looked towards me. However, his smug expression was shattered when Zoe suddenly grasped him in a hug and planted a big kiss on his left cheek.

"Mike, you are freaking awesome! Thank you!" she exclaimed as she continued her fangirling. Meanwhile, Mike's stupefied expression was slowly replaced by a small, dumbstruck grin.

"Okay, before these two drama queens drown in dopamine, how about you and Ben open your presents?" Chip proposed, motioning towards Erica.

"Alright, alright," she sighed as she tore the packaging open, her eyebrows rising at the contents. It was, in essence, a fancy survival bracelet: paracord, whistle, compass, and firestarter. But with it also came a card and a photograph taped on the inside. From my position, I could just make out the words:

"Remember your friends and family. No such thing as spying solo, even when you're alone. You're always going to have help. Merry Christmas. - Ben." As for the photograph, it was one of all of us—kids grouped up on the left and adults on the right—one I honestly don't remember where it came from... before the Mexico op? After? Or even more recently during this trip? It didn't seem too crazy to think that Ben got a photo of us and printed it off.

"Ben... what does this mean?" Erica finally asked, looking towards our younger friend. Off to the side, Cyrus had a knowing look, while the rest of us bore looks of puzzlement.

"Exactly what it says, Erica. Family's important. Friends are too. They're what keep us going," Ben firmly replied. "Heck, it's kept me going."

"I... I see. Well, I hope you like yours," she responded, her tone becoming nervous and maybe even... shy? With that, Ben opened his own present, finding a box the size of Chip's fist. "You have to open it. There's a little switch on the bottom you need to twist—there you go."

I began to hear "Black Sabbath" by... well, Black Sabbath coming from the music-box. There also appeared to be a photo on the inner section of the lid as well. The picture had Ben, a couple, and two kids—his family, if I were to guess. As for the Black Sabbath music, it made sense, considering that it was some of the only music he ever listened to—something Mike once mentioned.

"Where in the world did you find this?" Ben asked after several moments of stunned silence.

"Good question... we were browsing and we found it among some other music-boxes. Zoe recognized the band, I made the call," Erica replied. "Guess I had a similar idea in mind. Er... good memories are vital, so to speak."

"That's... oddly thoughtful of you," Mike commented without a hint of sarcasm in his voice. Meanwhile, his best friend kept looking at the music-box as it completed its tune. He then looked up towards Erica with a sad smile, nodding.

"Good memories indeed. Thank you so much, Erica," he softly said.

"Of course... h-happy to."

"Very nice," Catherine said with a bright smile. "Now, a group picture for the album!"

Following her directions, we set ourselves up as needed before she set her phone up with a timer and took several pictures for the memories. Afterwards, we ended up enjoying some of her famous blueberry muffins, along with a few chocolate ones, laughing and joking around.

It was a very merry Christmas indeed.

Catherine POV

The children were all sitting together on one side of the table, with even Erica joining in on conversations. I felt my heart warm at the fact that the "Ice Queen" had finally exited her shell and was enjoying some normalcy. Well, as normal as it got for a junior CIA officer.

I sat with Alex and Cyrus, who were quietly discussing something without me. Likely some family business between them, considering that they seemed to be on much better terms than any time I'd ever seen them. It was perfect.

"Hey, guys!" Mike suddenly said as he looked up from his phone. "Remember that event we went to last night? They just announced on the local network that they raised $17,000!"

"Hang on, didn't that fire captain say seven grand? Where'd the extra ten big ones come from?" Zoe asked.

"It's a welfare cause, and the funds aren't being handled by a government bureaucracy... appeals to more people, I suppose," Chip reasoned.

"Well, damn. Guess a lot of good came outta last night."

"Hey, looks like it snowed some more!" Mike added as he checked the forecast. "You guys wanna go outside?"

After several affirmative replies, the children all went to get their coats. Looking to my left, Cyrus stood to join them, whispering something in Alex's ear before patting his shoulder and leaving.

"So... how's that tea?" Alex asked, gesturing towards my mug.

"Masala chai... bit of a kick, but quite pleasant!" I replied, holding out the mug. "Want a taste?"

"Eh, sure... whoo! You weren't kidding! That's pretty close to black coffee!"

"I still have no idea how you drink that..."

"Well, excuse me for being American!"

"Ah, yes. The land of the free, home of the brave, and place of the imperial standard measurement system."

"Ah-ah! The term is 'Freedom Fractions,' sweetheart," Alex snarked. "We don't believe in the metric system, unless it's for firearms... and even then, we're not going to spell it the silly way you do."

"For the nth time, Alex," I bantered, continuing our back-and-forth as I heard the children shout their goodbyes—having dressed and left in record time, I might add. "It's millimetre with -re, not -er!"

"-er makes more sense, though!"

"No, it really doesn't."

"Tea-drinker."

"Foot-user."

"Ah, so we're going full ad hominem, huh?" Alex replied, making me giggle. "Ah... I've missed this."

"Missed what?"

"Y'know... the banter, the time together..."

"Alex, we've been back together for more than a year," I reminded him as I stood, moving to place my dishes in the sink. "What's with the nostalgia?"

"Oh, I dunno. Was hoping to make the togetherness a little more permanent."

"What are you—" I began as I turned around, only to find him on one knee, a ring in his hand and a grin on his face. It may not have been the typical diamond ring—honestly looking more like a wedding band—but it didn't take a genius to understand what was happening.

"Yeah... surprise."

"Alex... are you serious?"

"No, I took the time to custom-order and purchase an engagement ring for fun," he deadpanned. "C'mon, Cath. What do you think?"

"It's just that... how do we make this work?"

"Well, we'd just have to keep it on the down-low, make sure neither of our agencies catch wind of it... but I assume that isn't what you're referring to."

"I'm scared, Alex. I don't want what happened in the past to happen again," I replied honestly. "Especially for the sake of Erica."

"You and me both. But still, I think we've got a shot. We can do it. I have no speech, since there's nothing more I can say... Catherine Parker, will you become Catherine Hale once more?"

"I'm already Catherine Hale, you goof," I chuckled, feeling myself tearing up.

"You know what I mean, sweetheart. Cath... will you be my bride?"

"Oh, God, this is really happening... I think I'm going to cry," I laugh-sobbed. "Oh, Lord. I'm already crying... yes, Alexander Hale. Yes, I will be your bride."

"Okay, drama queen," he muttered, his smile only widening as he placed the ring on my finger and stood. "But I guess I'm the drama king, then."

"You goof," I mumbled as he grasped me in a hug and his lips met mine. "I have to ask though... not that I'm complaining, but what's the ring made of?"

"Copper tellurium," he replied as he pulled away with a maniacal grin. "'Cause you're CuTe."

"... how long have you been sitting on that one?"

"A long, long time, my dear..."

We're not done yet, folks. Still a few loose ends to tie up (i.e., other relationships). As always, thanks for reading! Don't forget to comment your thoughts (I'll respond as my schedule allows)! The next update will arrive when it's ready (whoever guessed a month... you're probably right). If you haven't already, make sure to check out Mind the Gap!

Take care of yourselves and each other.  Happy Easter!

Until we meet again,

- ADF-2