Archive of Our Own

"Shh! Everybody shut up. I’ve got eyes on target.”

The hidden figure watched as the target closed the door behind him, arming the security system with what had to be more muscle memory than eyesight. It was darker than his gran's knickers out here, and while some things were better kept in the dark (his eight year old self had wanted to burn his eyes out) their target wasn’t one of them.

The lights dimmed as the security system activated, and their target was briefly engulfed in the eternal darkness that was London in winter around seven in the morning. With a faint click, a torch beam turned on, head lamp glowing ominously.

The figure in the bushes held his breath while the target made like a lighthouse, the glowing light on his head moving from side to side as he examined in his surroundings.

“Uh oh,” he whispered from his spot crouched low behind the gate. “I think he saw me.”

He tried to hold perfectly still. He couldn’t blow this — the team would never let him live it down.

Then the target let out a loud, jaw-cracking yawn. With a crick of the neck that could be hear from outer space, he bent over and started stretching.

The figure in the bush lifted his walkie-talkie. “Never mind. We’re in the clear.”

He tried to stifled a reciprocal yawn into the sleeve of his coat. The target took his time, working through a series of lunges. Honestly, this was ridiculous. He’d told everyone that they didn’t need to get started at 4am — who in their right mind went jogging at 4am? — but Jan had argued that he was only saying that since he drew the short straw, so up since 4 he’d been.

He waited for his target to finish his warm-ups. It involved more hopping than he personally would’ve suffered, but to each their own.

Jamie had always been a particular fellow; he took stretching really seriously.

For another five minutes the stretching and hopping continued, just long enough for a poor bloke hiding in a bush to start to get bored. Then without warning the target burst into movement.

Colin squeaked as he crouched low behind the bushes. He held his breath, willing himself invisible, which would be so much easier if he had his camouflage but noooo, instead he was stuck wearing this. (How many short straws could a man get?)

To his surprise — and luck — Jamie jogged straight past the bushes without pausing. Colin counted to ten before he let himself sigh in relief.

He peeked out from around the bush. In the soft glow of Jamie’s posh neighbourhood, the other man was a distant figure growing steadily dimmer as he jogged into the shadows of the morning.

Colin raised his walkie-talkie. “Target is on the move. I repeat, target is on the move.”

Crackle-crackle. “Copy that, Mr. R. Everyone else, get into place. Mr. Gingerbread Man, be ready to meet Rudolph with the gift sack at Rendezvous One.

“Operation Frosty is a-go. I repeat, Operation Frosty is a-go.“

Someone was following him.

The leftover slurry of snow crunched under Jamie's feet, the relentless pat-pat-pat of his footsteps chewing through his morning route. He'd gotten a late start. His lie-in that morning had been an impromptu, dragging thing. The thick quiet of the pre-dawn darkness had kept him pinned under the blankets long after the phone call ended, leaving his head feeling woozy and numb. With his jaw clenched, and his muted phone squeezed so tightly that it would wind up leaving an imprint in his palm, Jamie had laid in bed in a half-dozing, half-paralysed stupor, watching the morning sky as it dried from a milky overcast to an uninspiring stale grey.

Lately the only thing harder than prying himself out of bed was falling asleep in the first place, but everything felt easier once he started running.

He was just starting to feel like a real boy again when a few streets back, he heard the echo of footsteps clapping behind him. Someone else, jogging at the same languid pace as him, street after street, but not calling out for him to stop. Not a fan then.

Approaching a corner, he turned down a random side alley he'd never been down. A few seconds later the footsteps joined him. Just his luck.

Gaze on the path in front of him, Jamie refused to turn around. He'd skipped most of his hair routine the night before. He hadn't shaved that morning either. He'd been up since five, waiting for the agreed upon time, and after—

All the good bits of him had been scraped out raw; what remained were the bitter edges stuck burnt to the bottom of the pan. He didn't care how bad it made him look, he did not have the patience for the paparazzi this morning.

Picking up his pace, he let his legs carry him towards the park, hoping that it wouldn't take too long to leave his stalker in the dust.

It's fucking Christmas, mate. Leave me alone.

By the time Jamie arrived at his preferred clearing, his stalker appeared to have given up. The echo of footsteps fading behind as soon as Jamie crossed the road and entered the park.

Jamie pushed the inconsequential ordeal out of his mind and got started on his cardio — a set routine that Roy had well drilled into him. Except the cranky git had plans today. Wouldn't even tell Jamie what they were. Hadn't even told Jamie what to do in place of their usual training, other than to take a parting shot about Jamie needing to take himself out for a walk this morning.

What a fucking arsehole.

What was worse was that Jamie couldn't even work himself into a proper fit about the fact that the only coach willing to give him the time of day lately had been a fucking dick the past few weeks. It had been months since Jamie had to train on his own, and he'd forgotten how boring it could be. The park was nearly empty, most families opting to go around it rather than try to avoid the slushy mess of half-melted snow and mud. In the middle of it all was Jamie, listening to the soundtrack of his own panting as he pushed through another set of diamond pushups, his hands cold through his gloves and sweat breaking into rivulets in the dip of his back.

It was probably for the better, that there weren't any happy families out for a stroll. That was the last thing that would improve his mood right now — watching a mum and dad holding hands while their kids skipped around them. He didn't want to picture it. He didn't want to imagine any of it. He'd rather pretend it was just another normal day, with disappointing snow and an ache in his chest and a pounding behind his eyes that drowned out everything else.

After finishing his another set of pushups, Jamie pushed onto his feet with a hop. His fingers were fucking freezing. He peeled off his gloves, the fabric sticking to his fingers under the packed slurry of ice and dirt. They finally released him with a gross squelch, and he muttered a curse under his breath as he tossed them on the pile with the rest of his belongings—

—only for them to land with a crunchy slop onto a spot of empty ground where his belongings should be.

It was all gone. His extra jacket that he'd pulled off when he started cardio. His water bottle with the bright orange cap. His cell phone.

Fuck.

Jamie spun around in circles, his chest twisting tighter with every spin. Where the fuck did he set it down? Had he drifted further down the green while doing his sets? No, he was in the same spot. That was the same bench, Roy's bench, right where they left it, so what—

Before the panic won over and he did something really stupid — like flapping his arms in public when anyone could be watching — Jamie spotted something red glowing at the foot of one of the trees.

He stalked towards the blinking light, confusion morphing into disappointment as it came into view. It wasn't his stuff — just a stupid toy Rudolph with a red blinking nose. Some kid must've left it behind on accident.

He picked it up, absently rubbing a thumb along its flank It was a pretty high quality toy. Smooth vinyl, felt antlers, and even a fancy scarf tied around it's neck.

He squinted closer.

Was this little reindeer wearing a red and blue Richmond scarf?

Jamie spun around again. Still no sign of intruders or his stuff, but there was something suspicious frosting up the air. It reminded him of the moments before stepping out of the shower, when you got that tingle down your back and you just knew someone had fucked with your stuff. Stolen all the clothes out of your kit bag or put dye in your hair gel. He'd always had a sixth sense for when someone was fucking with him, even though Dr. Sharon had tried to convince him that wasn't a good thing.

A chill went up his back as he spotted, a few trees away where there definitely hadn't been anything before, a small white object.

He jogged towards it. It was a snowman, strung up on a ribbon to make a cheap ornament. Tacky glitter stuck to his palm as he turned it over in confusion. He glanced around, and another new object beckoned him closer, this one bright blue and sitting on the bench he'd just past.

It was annoying. Like Hansel and Griddle. Like Hansel and Griddle, if Hansel and Griddle were fit footballers and the old lady was a bit of a dick.

Or perhaps a middle-aged American man with a moustache.

He could usually appreciate a good prank, but after this morning he really wasn't in the mood for whatever emotional journey Ted Lasso had cooked up. He already felt like an overturned rock, with worms and guts bared up to the sky, and he wasn't ready to be flipped to another side.

Not knowing what else to do to get his phone back, he let himself be dragged forward on a leash.

A Rudolph, a snowman, an Elsa doll, a Grinch, a yeti. Then there was some sort of uglier yeti with a scarf, all hunched over like it had stomach cramps. A Lego Santa. A train car.

The final straw was the pack of graham crackers. Not a pack of digestive biscuits, but an actual still wrapped in the plastic package of graham crackers. It was the same kind that Ted had ordered for a teambuilding activity after Zava left (the first team building exercise they'd had since the trip to the sewers) and Jamie still didn't know what made them any more special than any other malted biscuit. To make matters worse, the longer he stayed outside, the colder he got without dry gloves to protect him from the elements. His hands hurt, and the toys were getting dirty. and families had started to brave the slush and were circling the park and after that morning's phone call—

For a moment Jamie forced cold winter air into his lungs, counting his breaths the way Dr. Sharon had taught him.

Maybe he should just be lucky that Ted hadn't led him to the sewers this time.

There was still no sign of his stuff — or his phone — and drastic times called for drastic measures.

He snatched up the graham crackers, dropped the toys on the ground, and got to work.

Sitting back on his heels, Jamie examined his defensive line, rather satisfied with his backup plan. He popped the last remaining half a graham cracker in his mouth.

Now he just had to wait.

He and his troop of not-misfit but also definitely not-sexy toys didn't have to wait long before Jamie's tormentor got bold.

He could see the next toy already staged a few trees down the way. Munching on his snack, Jamie watched it from a distance, refusing to take another step closer.

Was strategy, wasn't it? Like pulling wingers out of alignment by forcing them to come after you in the middle channels.

This clearly wasn't part of the plan, because after a few minutes a bright green arm appeared from behind yet another tree and set something else down.

Gotcha.

Jamie pounced. Or rather, Jamie rushed the few strides it took to clear the distance between him and the spot where his foe was hiding behind a bin. Without slowing down, he snatched up the first toy he reached, drew his arm back, and as hard as he could chucked it blindly at the figure hiding behind the tree.

"Ouch!" Colin shrieked as a stuffed Pingu with earmuffs hit him square in the face. "What did you do that for? I didn't do anything!"

"Um, yeah, you did!" Jamie shouted, stuffing his shaking hands in his pockets. "You've been following me all morning!"

"No, I haven't!" Colin rubbed his nose, which had skipped through pink and was quickly turning a shade of red. "Wait, you saw me behind the bushes?"

"What bushes?"

"Nevermind," groaned Colin. He looked pathetic, sitting on his bum in a puddle of slush. "Could you at least help me up?"

Jamie offered him a hand. As soon as Colin reached out to grab it, Jamie pulled it away and let him fall back on his arse. Served him right.

"Come on, man. Don't be a prick!"

"I'm not the prick, here! You're the prick," Jamie spat. Distantly, the Ghosts of Sharon's Past whispered that if he wanted people to understand what he was feeling, he needed to use his words. "And you're the one who's invading my privacy and stealing my stuff. And—," he wrinkled his nose, "—and what the hell are you wearing?"

Colin flung his arms out. Under his brown jacket, the rest of the outfit seared Jamie's eyes in a diabolical blaze of green glory. "I was supposed to be an elf!"

Jamie looked pointedly at the antlers on top of Colin's head. Then he pointed at his own nose in wordless question.

Shoulders drooping in defeat, Colin explained, "But I'm also Rudolph."

He wrinkled his nose. "Why?"

"We changed it around at the last minute."

"We?"

Colin's eyes widened. Deer in the headlights. Rein-deer in the headlights.

Jamie's brow twisted so hard it hurt as he considered the who of it all, and then the most likely of it all, and the most importantly — the most likely to put Colin up to something like this in such a way that Jamie could already feel tension settling on his shoulders, because this seemed like a lesson.

All questions led back to the same person.

Graham crackers.

"Tell me this ain't a Ted thing," Jamie begged him.

Without warning, Colin bolted. He took off running, his feet hitting the pavement with impressive speed, and although Jamie took off after him he was at the disadvantage of not knowing where his teammate was running to.

It was a shame that his defensive line was unfortunately in the other direction; the little fellows would have to wait for him to circle back.

Between Colin's head start and the fact that Jamie had spent the morning exercising, it took a few hundred metres for him to work up to his second wind — and by then it was too late.

Jamie turned one final corner and found himself standing at the apex of a coffee shop and a bookstore. Aside from a discarded takeout cup on a nearby table, there was no one else in sight. Jamie even checked under the cafe tables in case Colin was hiding, but nope. Not so much as a Welsh hair. The other player had disappeared.

In the distance, the delicate jingle of a bell echoed through the snow-muted streets.

Ring-ring.

After that strange interruption, and still missing his stuff, Jamie figured the only option he had left was to head home. He could still get into the house with the security pad outside his door, and as annoying and empty he felt without his phone he could still do all the same stuff with his tablet — hell, even his watch could make phone call if he needed it to. He could pressure Colin for the whereabouts for his poor kidnapped phone later.

With great reluctance, he abandoned the tempting smells wafting out of the coffeehouse. Crossing the street, he picked up a steady pace, and when his feet hit the opposite pavement he continued on at an easy jog. No harm in reclaiming at least that much of his ruined workout. Besides, he needed to clear his head after whatever the hell that was.

What did he mean by 'we'?

He only made it a few blocks before a new figure appeared wheezing beside him. Jamie turned to see who it was — and nearly tripped in surprise.

“Oh come on,” Jamie huffed. “What are you doing here?” He squinted his eyes at the tall figure striding alongside him. “And who the fuck are you supposed to be?”

“I’m Zorro,” said Zoreaux. Van Damme. Whatever. The other man was clad head to toe in black and — was that a cape? “And I am just a simple passerby-er out for a typical Christmas morning run.”

“Is Zorro a Christmas movie?” Jamie questioned. He’d never seen it.

“Nah. I just wanted my code name to be cool.”

Jamie could respect that but, “Are you wearing a nose guard?”

“Yeah! It's pretty cool, isn't it? Will painted it for me," Van Damme puffed his chest out. "Moe offered to knit me an eye mask instead but I didn't think it'd look as hot.”

“Mate, you better get your eyes checked, because that one ain't either.”

Zorro gave him a sidelong glare. “Come on, man. It's Christmas. I didn’t give you the prick signal.”

“No, you gave me the lame signal. On account of how lame you look. What, is there some fancy dress party today that no one told me about?”

For a few long strides, Van Damme didn't respond. A chill took up in Jamie's already numbed fingers. It wouldn't be the first time Jamie had learned too late that he'd misunderstood the team's holiday plans.

A few beats too many, Van Damme scoffed. “Whatever. I think it looks cool. Mind if I join you for some laps? Or are you gonna be a prick about that too?"

"Suit yourself," Jamie responded, aiming for dismissive but sounding to his own ears like a stuffed turkey.

"In that case, you mind if we go this way?"

Jamie shrugged. Why not? After all, it wasn't like trying to wriggle out of Ted Lasso's idea of a good time had ever landed him anywhere good.

In his head, the sleigh bells were ringing:

Prick, prick, prick, prick.

Jogging with Van Damme was surprisingly invigorating. The taller man may not be as fast as him, but he was taller in the legs and his naturally long stride made it a challenge to keep pace with him.

So of course it figured that just as Jamie was beginning to settle into the painful-but-good thrum of a decent jog, Van Damme slowed down. His arms pinwheeled at his side, and he panted, taking big gulps of air as he crouched over his knees. "Stop!"

Jamie turned towards their keeper, still jogging in place. His thighs burned with the effort of keeping his knees high, but they would hurt more if he stopped and then tried to start again. "Why? You already tired?"

Van Damme took one hand off his knee to flap it weakly at one of the buildings. "You're supposed to go in here. Man, I think I got a stitch in my side."

The team really needed to work on improving their conditioning, if Jamie’s normal pace was wearing one of them out this easily. He’d consider recommending it to Ted, if he actually thought Ted might listen.

Jamie glanced at the storefront Van Damme had gestured to, taking in the merchandise in the window. His eyebrows furrowed.

“Mate, this is pretty high-end. I don't think they're open—“

He turned back towards Van Damme and blinked. The other man was gone. Down at the end of the street a tall, Van Damme-shaped silhouette hung onto the back of bicycle while a familiar silhouette dressed in all red pedalled the bike furiously away.

Jamie wasn't necessarily surprised to see him, but it did raise a number of questions. After all, he'd been vocal about having plans today. Why would he drop all that just to mess with Jamie? For that matter, why would Ted ask him to cancel? It didn't make sense; Ted was the one who was always whanging on about them going home as often as possible.

For the first time, Jamie started to question whether he knew who was pulling the strings here.

The distant ring of a bicycle bell echoed through the streets as they disappeared around the corner.

Jamie let himself inside the shop.

This was not the sort of place that stayed open on Christmas just in case someone forgot an ingredient for their Yorkshire puddings. No one was popping 'round here to pick up more boxed wine for their auntie. In fact, Jamie was pretty sure that if you even whispered the words ‘boxed wine’ between these shelves, the whole place would spontaneously combust in a shriek of flames.

He'd never had a reason to stop at a wine shoppe as fancy as this in his life. Despite the fact that he could probably afford to buy out most of the store with what he made in a week, this was the sort of posh place that made him want to break out in hives. Standing in the doorway, panting with cold sweat on his brow and grass stains on his trainers, his first instinct was to apologize for intruding and hightail it out of there before the proprietor could call the cops.

But the old man behind the counter barely blinked an eye at him. He had a spotted bald patch on his head and grey hair fraying at the temples, and he wore a wool cable knit cardigan over his dress shirt that reminded Jamie of Simon — that was where the resemblance stopped. Just like the store, everything about him politely cleared its throat before tactfully revealing that all available merchandise was deceptively expensive.

The knobby-wristed old man suffered a severe smile and bowed his head.

“Happy Christmas,” he rasped in a voice that sounded like a fireplace chute clearing its throat. “You must be Jamie Tartt. I have a order for you. Just one moment, sir.”

The little old man shuffled away. A pang of guilt cut through Jamie as he realized the man was wearing house slippers. These old nuggets would never be caught dead outside in their house slippers; he must live upstairs.

Jamie didn't know what old bachelors did around the holidays, but he was pretty sure it was something rude to interrupt. He tucked his hands under his jacket and waited. Least he could do was try not to touch nothing.

When the old man reappeared, he carried a large wicker basket. It seemed like there should be a better word for it, like fancy wicker, because every inch of it screamed and elegance. The….ribbons? Weavings? The stick parts were dark oaken colour, rich and warm and polished to such a dizzying shine that it resembled ripples over a swift-moving river.

The old man set the basket down on the counter. He stepped back, and with some sort of Jedi mind-trick Jamie knew he was being invited to take a closer look.

The basket was…stuffed wasn’t an elegant enough word for it, but it was stuffed with white and gold striped tissue paper that shimmered like a fluttering candle when Jamie brushed it aside. It was soft as silk to the touch. In contrast, the linen ribbon that held it all wrapped together was roughly textured under his fingers.

Prominently displayed at the front of the basket was a bottle of wine that Jamie couldn’t read, didn’t recognize, and couldn’t begin to guess the cost off of.

Next to it, wrapped and seemingly ashamed to be included, was a Richmond-brand sports bag. Someone had gone through a lot of effort to make it look like a natural part of the basket, but it hadn’t worked.

Jamie pulled the sports bag out first and set it on the counter; the shopkeeper breathed a deep sigh of relief.

Beyond the wine and the bag, the basket was stuffed with a bunch of snacks. Fancy mixed nut blends, jams. Some speciality sausages that Sam had served at their pre-season team building party. 

The proprietor shuffled away, leaving Jamie to pick through the basket with growing delight. 

He found something soft and tugged, hoping for a blanket but mentally preparing himself for it to be something else — a really nice tea towel, or one of those wax cloth things they used to shape baguettes.

It was lovely, and finely knitted, and Jamie suddenly realized that this must be the reason Bumbercatch had gifted him what was clearly a pair of socks from the Richmond gift shop instead of something hand knit he made on the bus.

My pet rat ate your present, his arse.

Bumbercatch had been slowly knitting sweaters and socks and hats for all of the team, but there was an order to it. You had to take a number, and put in your request, and then sit on your hands and hope that Bumbercatch didn’t get too distracted moving between projects that he forgot to finish it.

Jamie had, almost jokingly, put in his order for a sweater shortly before last Christmas, but he’d done it more to show that he was serious about being a part of the team now than anything else. He hadn’t even really wanted a sweater, he just hadn’t wanted a scarf or socks or gloves or a hat. He was picky about his head gear, and all the other stuff would be touching his skin and sometimes things that touched his skin made him feel itchy and weird. If by some miracle Bumbercatch did knit him something, Jamie would have to wear it at least a few times or else he’d look like a prick. So sweater it was.

He hadn’t actually expected to be gifted a sweater.

The fabric he unfurled faintly glimmered as he held it up. It wasn’t anything spectacular or intricate, but it felt luxurious in his hands. It was a deep blue colour, the sort of shade that a novice to the whole fashion thing might mistake for purple. On either shoulder, there was a bit where the arm met the torso where the stitches laid flatter and tighter than the rest. It was a normal sweater, with a normal scoop neck and normal cuffs at the arm.

He didn’t know a lot about knitting, but he knew this must’ve taken hours to make. Days, possibly.

The back of his mind whispered weeks, but he quietly shut the thought away for being too overwhelming to consider.

He ripped open the envelope.

The finest company deserves the finest wine. As you are neither, I recommend this exceptional wine to make up for your unrefined presence. I'll be waiting to share it with you later.

Enjoy your picnic,

M. Père Noël

A throat cleared. “Ahem. Sir.”

Jamie paused in the doorway, glancing behind him.

“You’ll need to pay for that,” he said.

Jamie followed his Yoda-like gaze to the bottle of wine. The likely really fucking expensive bottle of wine.

Shit.

Jamie lifted his watch hopefully. “Do you take tap-to-pay?”

Jamie ended up having to run the entire way back home just to grab his wallet.

Fucking Richard.

“You can retrieve the basket later,” the old man said only after Jamie slid over the signed receipt. “For now, I am to instruct you that you are to bring the wine bottle with you, as well as the… eyesore,” he shot a poisonous glare at the sports bag, "to your next destination."

Once Jamie had removed the wine and the eyesore from the counter, the old man fucked off upstairs. Jamie loitered another moment before hastily shoving the knit sweater in the bag as well.

The bag, it turned out, had other stuff in it. Most of it wrapped.

"How many of these bloody things are there," he grumbled as he exited the shop.

He paused mid-step as a figure blocked his path.

"Oooh, somebody's grumpy. Maybe your codename should've been The Grinch," his newest obstacle crowed in an all too-familiar blunt tone. Since day one, he'd seemed way too satisfied in getting under Jamie's skin. "Did you not like your gift? Richard said it was the best they had for an English store."

Top hat. Cane. Cravat and a bright red vest under a thick black knee-length coat.

He was also carrying a stuffed Kermit the Frog, who wore a shabby coat and a Richmond scarf.

Tucking the wine bottle under his arm, Jamie squared up, baring his teeth. “Who are you supposed to be? And why are you here? You don’t believe in Santa," Jamie accused.

“No one believes in Santa. Santa is a marketing tool used to sell products to consumers. And I’m Mr. Scrooge,” Jan Maas added, far past the point where it was necessary. “And I’m hear to give you a warning.”

"Oh yeah?" Jamie raised an eyebrow in challenge. “What’s that then?”

“Run.”

That’s when the first projectile hit Jamie in the face.

By the time the park swam into vision, his lungs felt erect with the effort of his sprint and yet he still hadn't shaken his assailants.

The note said picnic. Colin stole his stuff in the park. Another Nerf dart went careening over his shoulder, and he ran harder, his final destination in sight.

In the middle of the Richmond Green something new waited for him:

Straw goats.

At least a dozen of them, all wrapped in kinky red ribbon.

Someone, possibly Bumbercatch, had shown him a video of a giant Yule goat made out of straw, only that one had been huge — and on fire. These ones were tiny, barely reaching his ankles, and instead of flames someone had set out LED candles.

In the middle of the circle of LED candles and kinky goats lay a Nerf gun with a bow on top.

Ducking down to avoid another projectile, Jamie put on a burst of speed. Once in range, he dropped to his knees, sliding across the cold wet grass to come to a stop in front of the weapon.

He set the wine bottle carefully in the grass. Someone had carefully arranged the Nerf gun on a child-sized knitted blanket. A fat shiny bow glittered in top of it, and leaned up against its side was another envelope.

Jamie picked up the envelope, ignoring as another foam dart bounced off the back of his head. His fingers were cold from running, and as he ripped open the flap grassy wet fingerprints stained the cream coloured card stock with spots of grey.

Another dart bounced off his shoulder.

Inside, written on fancy paper in crispy neat calligraphy, was an address. Below the address were the instructions:

12PM. Don’t bring witnesses.

Mr. B

Jamie checked his watch. That gave him about thirty minutes. 

Behind him, his enemy dressed as the Gingerbread Man sprouted up from behind a bush, shouting, “Vamanos!”

All hell broke loose.

Suddenly there were a bunch of people jumping out from behind trees. A yeti. An elf. An evil looking Santa Claus that might've just come off a bender. Some hag looking figure with three little dolls strung around the waist. A member of the Royal Guard with a toy drum. Jack Frost.

Jamie blinked in surprise as Jack Frost ran towards him with a war-cry that could scare the snow of a mountain. When had Jeff had time to dye his hair ice blue?

Then a dart flew out of nowhere and hit him square in the eye. That’s right, he had a mission here.

Don’t bring witnesses.

That meant leaving no survivors.

Wiping the tears out of his stinging eye, Jamie shouted, “Not today, Gingerbread Man!” and ran out into the field of battle to meet Dani head on.

Their screams of anguish and victory could be heard far and wide across the Richmond Green.

When it was time to leave, he looped back to grab the wine bottle, where it lay prone but otherwise undamaged on the ground. Then he took his chance and led his assailants through the lines of trees from that morning.

Poor Mr. Gingerbread man yelped as Jamie tricked him into running into his defensive line from that morning — the line of toys he'd set as a trap to trip Colin.

"Oh, no!" Dani cried from behind him. "I stepped on Lego Santa! He has destroyed my shoe! I think he is wounded!"

Jamie twisted around, sticking his tongue out and smacking his chest in victory as he left them in the dust.

Buoyed by the fresh high of success, he approached his next destination with a spring in his gate. His cheeks flushed with exertion, but he couldn't stop the pleased grin from nesting on his face.

“Bumbercatch!” he cried as he spotted the man on the corner. He sprinted faster; the other man looked terrible, draped in what looked like a large fuzzy wet blanket. “What happened? Are you alright?”

“I’m Belsnickel.”

“You— what?”

“I’m Belsnickel,” Bumbercatch repeated. He lifted his arms. “See? I’ve got the fur coat? I'm here to give you directions, but first!"

Bumber— Mr. Belsnickel pulled out a torch and flicked it on, lighting his face from below.

"Before you may receive directions, you must answer my riddles."

Oh for fuck's sake.

"Bumbercatch, come on. For crying outside, don't do this to me again, man. You remember what happened last time—"

"I was not responsible for Kenneth crashing the bus."

"Well it wasn't me, and I don't know why everyone keeps saying it was since I was sitting in the back of the bus!"

Bumbercatch dropped the torch. "Come on, just go along with it, okay? I promise these ones are easy."

He said that the last time.

"You said that the last time."

Bumbercatch pressed his hands together, staring pleadingly at him with eyes that somehow looked extra big.

"Fine," Jamie gave in. "Fuck it.

Bumbercatch pumped his fist. "All right. You ready?"

Jamie nodded.

"Okay." He flipped the torch back on, using it to light the underside of his face. Instead of being scary, it was very Vogue. "Your first riddle: have you been naughty or have you been nice?"

"Naughty," Jamie answered confidently.

"Correct. What word is always spelled incorrectly?"

"Um. All of them?"

"'Incorrectly.' I can run but I never walk. I have a mouth but I never talk. I have a head but never weep; I have a bed and never sleep. What am I?"

Jamie's mouth gaped open. It was on the tip of his tongue to guess 'me?' but he'd already been called a prick once today.

It was going to be a long day.

"These are truly unforeseen circumstances," Bumbercatch mourned.

If Dr. Sharon was still around, Jamie would march into her office for an impromptu appointment because he was right, the world was out to get him.

Aside from the first question, he didn't answer a single riddle right.

"You said they were horses! How was I supposed to guess the answer was 'teeth!'"

"It's a popular riddle!" Bumbercatch argued, as if people walked around telling each other long complicated riddles on the way home from the pub everyday. "I thought you'd seen that movie!"

Jamie could feel his shoulders starting to do that thing where it felt like they'd been filled with cement. His jaw hurt. Pinching the part of his nose where his eyes met, he stole a sharp breath between his teeth; it never actually helped, but he'd watched his mum do it all the time when he was younger and so he always tried that first.

Nausea kicked in his stomach, reminding him that he'd skipped his pre-workout snack that morning. This whole thing was stupid. Dr. Sharon would shake her head at him and ask him to explain why it was stupid, but Dr. Sharon wasn't here. Jamie was here, and it was his actions he was accountable for — not Bumbercatch's or Colin's or the man pulling the strings — which meant he shouldn't be taking out his snappish mood on his poor teammates just because the high from running around all morning was quickly beginning to fade and the incoming headache threatened to make everything worse and he hadn't gone home—

Prick, prick, prick, prick, prick—

"We can stop if you want."

Bumbercatch's offer broke through the fog that had settled over his shoulders. The other man's brows were pinched, but unlike his usual conspiracy face there was something softer burrowed behind his dark eyes.

Jamie twisted the front of his shirt before remembering that his hands still had mud on them.

"No. No, we don't need to do that." He shook his head, trying to clear away some of the yuck. "I'm just tired, is all."

"If you're sure," said Bumbercatch, and that was his conspiracy face peeking out around the edges this time. "In that case, I’m supposed to instruct you to go two more streets and make a right.”

“Do I wanna know what happens to me if I go left?” he joked.

“I’m not supposed to tell you." Bumbercatch narrowed his eyes. "But I can tell you that both options are better than going straight. O’Brien insisted on dressing up as a Yule cat, and we've told him he doesn't need to do that like four times. Not on the itinerary. Besides, I don’t think he really understands what a Yule cat is, you know? It definitely should involve more clothes.”

Oh. Oh.

“I think I saw him at the park. He was shooting darts.”

“Then he disobeyed direct orders,” Bumbercatch muttered disapprovingly. "I'll have a word with him."

He turned on comically oversized boots to leave, and Jamie—

He had to be accountable for his own actions.

"Thanks for the sweater."

Bumbercatch looked over his shoulder, arched a perfect eyebrow at him, and grinned.

"You're welcome, but how about we wait to see how it fits later. Doesn't matter how good the knitting is if the shape isn't right in the end."

Jamie wasn't sure what to think anymore. He'd started off believing this was Ted's doing, some sort of lesson that would only make sense long after it was over, when Jamie was laying in bed at night and wondering how much had flown over his head. But Ted's lessons usually didn't involve Jamie doing things he wanted to do.

The Nerf guns were fun. Colin trying and failing to play elf was fun. Jogging was fun — or at least it had to be fun if you were a footballer. Even Bumbercatch's riddles, as irritated and small as they made him feel, had clearly been picked with the same easy intensity that Bumbercatch brought to everything he did.

If there was some life lesson here, some moral teaching that would leave Jamie feeling scraped open like roadkill but probably better off in the end, then right now he couldn't see it.

What he did see coming was a familiar street, which would lead to a familiar window and a familiar neon sign.

Two streets and a right. At least Jamie knew where he was going this time. Somehow despite the heaviness in his chest, he felt a bit lighter.

Shrugging off the strange sense that someone was watching him, Jamie rounded the last corner.

Ring-ring.

He let himself inside the restaurant.

His jaw dropped as he took in the figure in front of him. “Simi! Not you too.”

“I’m afraid so." She offered him a wry smile. “Although I refused to wear the usual dress.”

Forcing Simi into the dress would’ve been a crime. She looked elegantly radiant, dressed as she was in a black jumpsuit with red and silver detailing that sashed together at the side to give the appearance of a wrap. Glitter hugged the contours of her cheeks, and sharp frosts of silver had been drawn around her eyes.

Her only acquiescence to her role was the Santa hat pinned to the top of her hair and an employee name tag with fancy cursive spelling out the words:

Mrs. Claus.

"So what do I gotta do here?" asked Jamie, rocking back on his heels. "Make deliveries? Buff the floors? Peel potatoes?"

Mrs. Claus gave him a sharp look. "What are you talking about? I don't want you in my kitchen."

"I don't understand. What am I here for then?"

She gave him a look that said he was being terribly stupid, but that she would play along with him the way a girl might put up with an annoying puppy all because someone she loved brought him home in the first place.

"Lunch."

One time, after a rough draw against Leeds, Ted had decided that the best thing for the team would be to have their post match dinner at Ola's. He'd called the food scrumptious, and Jamie had subtly scooted his chair away, not able to handle Ted's folksiness when his nerves were stretched from the match and Ted was being so wholesome.

Ted was right though, Jamie considered as he shoved another meatball thing in his mouth, the food here was scrumptious. He was glad he hadn't been asked to make making deliveries. He may be the fittest professional athlete on this side of London, but he'd been running on and off all day and his legs were sore with the effort. If Simi had sent him back into the cold with hot food to deliver, he would've ended up paying for the refund out of his own pocket, because it was a fat chance that he would've made it more than a block before giving in to the heavenly smells swarming through the warm air of the restaurant.

The only downer parts of his meal were: firstly, that he didn't think he was supposed to open the wine bottle yet (which sucked because he paid for it); and secondly, that Simi, despite the jolly codename, was doing her best impression of a disappointed schoolteacher as she watched him eat. She sat on the other side of the table, marrying utensils together and wrapping the whole family in a fancily folded napkin with expert hands. It was hypnotic to watch.

He bit into half a meatball, scraping the sauce off the fork with his teeth, and she let out an aggrieved noise.

"Who taught you manners?"

"Thank you," he added belatedly. He picked up his spoon and tasted the soup with a slurp. Fishy and a little nutty — just like his day.

Simi groaned again. "You footballers, I swear. The only one of you who does not try to piss me off is Isaac."

"Isaac loves your food."

"Of course he does. My food is excellent."

She added another rolled napkin to her pyramid and grabbed more utensils. As much as Jamie would like to believe that he could just sit here and enjoy a nice (hopefully free this time) meal, there was a ghost tapping him on the shoulder, telling him that there was something more going on here and he needed to start paying attention.

"Have you been naughty or have you been nice?"

He wasn't sure he'd ever been truly nice to anyone in his life.

"Is this really all we're supposed to be doing?" he prodded again. “There isn't a catch. You're not going to tell me I need to give more to charity or call my mum or something?”

“I’m supposed to feed you,” said Simi, her voice simmering with sarcasm she rolled another set of napkins, dropping them on the stack without looking. The forks rattled as she grabbed another from the pile. “Why? Do you need to be bullied into calling your mother?”

“Nah. I already called her.”

Mrs. Claus appeared surprise. “Already? I thought you started training at 4AM?”

Jamie nearly choked on his meatball. "Did Sam tell you that?"

Maybe they all needed to spend less time living in each other's pockets if poor Simi was having to listen to Sam talk about Jamie's morning routine. Seriously, this was why the lad was blowing it with her.

Simi took pity on Sam and didn't rat him out, but they both knew the truth. Instead, she skipped right to, "Please tell me you did not wake up that poor woman before four in the morning?"

“I did not wake up my mum before 4AM," Jamie promised, mouth half-full of meatball. Simi shot him a disgusted look, and he obediently finished chewing his food before continuing. "I told her I'd call around six — that's why I got a late start this morning.” He fiddled with his fork. “I wanted to call her before everyone else got up so it wouldn’t spoil her day.”

Simi’s lips pursed. While Jamie chewed his food, she was apparently chewing on the riddles of life or like— the logistics of mobile phones between London and Manchester. 

And it wasn’t like he’d been rude about it; he’d called her at the same time that they’d agreed on last year.

After watching him inhale his way through his second plate of little meatball things — scrumptious, delicious — Simi prodded, “And why does someone who would wake up their mother at six in the morning with a phone call not simply make plans to see her, rather than putting the poor woman through setting an alarm to speak to her son?”

Well when she put it like that, he sounded like a piece of shit.

“It’s not like that, alright?”

“Hmm.” She gave him the sort of look that could measure exactly how much coal his soul was worth; Jamie could see why they dubbed her Mrs. Claus. “What exactly is it like, then?”

“She’s with her new husband, visiting his old family.”

“So?" she challenged. "I thought you were good with kids. That's what Sam always says.”

Hearing that Obisanya had been singing his praises woke up that torn, raw ache he'd felt lying in bed that morning, except in a good way. It was the sort of stretching that tore you open, but that left you stronger when you healed. Not tendons and nerves, but muscles and hearts, and it could be that all this stretching really was making his heart grow three sizes larger and three times stronger.

Maybe Jan was right when he pegged him as the Grinch.

Seriously though, he had to tell Obisanya to knock it off. He certainly hadn't earned it, with how he was playing lately.

“I am great with kid,” Jamie asserted smugly, “Best on the team." She snorted. "But they’re not kids. Simon's kids, they’re all around my age. One's a few years older; other two are a bit younger. And the youngest is doing a gap year — she flew in from Argentina two nights ago."

"Big family."

It wasn't entirely free of judgement, but it wasn't throwing stones either.

“Yeah," Jamie agreed to both the out loud part and the silent part. "My mum’s always had a habit of dating men who’re complete tossers at heart. Simon's different. He was a bit of a tosser when he was younger, but it was only ever on his sleeve, you know? It wasn't what was in his heart. The first girl he got pregnant, he did right by her. Paid for everything, showed up for birthdays. Second time it happened, he settled down. Few years ago, they got divorced, but he still makes it a point to show up. He’s a good guy, Simon. He comes from a big family too. Only time they really get to be together as a family is on Christmas, so mum makes the trip to Birmingham with him every year. I could go to but—“

Old guilt stymied his words. Even the lingering deliciousness of the food withered from his tongue.

“—but I wasn’t at the wedding,” he admitted. A balloon welled up in his chest; he might suffocate if he didn’t spit it out. “I was too busy being a twat. Missed the wedding; missed the first few Christmases. It wouldn't be right of me to crash the party now, not when I’ve never met any of them.

"And even if I did — famous footballer, TV star? It’s just gonna steal the spotlight. Make it all about me instead of them. They’re all normal people, having a normal nice time celebrating together. They’d don’t need a celebrity sucking up all the air in the place. It’s my fault for skipping out on meeting them for so long.”

"You know what I think?" Simi finally interrupted. Before giving him a chance to respond, she ran him over with a bulldozer. "I think that's your ego talking. No mum in the world wants to wake up at 6AM. For any reason. And certainly not when the alternative is being able to see her son."

She reached over the table and stole the fork from his plate. She pointed the tines at him at gave the fork a threatening wag. "Stop making it about you. Go visit your mother's family. And if it turns out they don't want you there—"

She let him dangle off her words, hope strangled and dying in his chest.

"—then who cares." She shrugged her shoulders, the sash winking at him confidently. "If they don't want to see you, then they can cover their eyes. She wants you there. You should be where you want to be, with the people who want you to be there the most."

Simi was great. For the first time, Jamie considered that she might be too good for Sam. Sam.

He swallowed thickly. "Isn't that just letting my ego do the talking? How is showing up where I'm not invited a good thing?"

"Who said you weren't invited?" Simi rolled her eyes. She used his stolen fork to steal a meatball. "Sam was right about you."

He hoped Sam had said something good.

Simi let him finish his meal in silence, and in return he moved his plate to the middle of the table, more than happy to share someone else's taste of home.

When Simi handed him his next envelope on his way out the door, Jamie felt ready for whatever came next.

When she handed him a bright red hoodie lined with white around the hood, he felt less ready, but mostly he was grateful to have something less sweaty to change into. After running around all morning, he'd turned into quite a sweaty boy.

"Here," said Simi, handing him a pair of expensive looking gloves. "They're Sam's. He wouldn't want you catching a cold. You can give them back to him when you see him later."

"Thanks," he muttered. He pulled them on, flexing his knuckles. They were snug, but warm, with just enough texture that he wasn't worried about accidentally dropping the wine.

He gathered up his stuff. As Simi marched back towards the kitchen, shouting instructions to her team of chefs, she shot him one last parting shot over her shoulder:

"Call her."

He gave her a salute, two fingers tapped to the temple in thanks. Then he waved goodbye and stepped out of the restaurant.

Icy wind slapped his face. For the first time that day, the sky grew dark. Pristine flakes began fluttering through the air, slowly covering the muddied layer of frost where it bit the ground.

It was starting to snow.

Part of him wondered as he walked if this would be it, if this would be when the mastermind who'd orchestrated the day's events would make his presence known. Jamie even had a sneaking suspicion that he knew who it was now, the memory of the figure on the bike ringing clear.

Then he arrived at his destination. If this was the mastermind, then Jamie had been greatly underestimating the lad this whole time.

"Hi, Jamie!" Will chirped, waving a glove that was decorated with little candy canes. He was standing with a group of people, who all turned to look curiously at Jamie like a mob of meerkats. "You made it just in time; we're about to start. This is Lindsay and Dana, I'm sure you know them. And these two are Sven and Lana." He blushed very, very red, and cleared his throat. "So! Do you have your program?"

"Maybe?" Jamie checked the bag on his shoulder. He'd completely forgotten about the wrapped presents inside, and he hadn't been instructed to open any of them.

He slung his bag off one shoulder and unzipped it to let Will peek inside. The rest of the group waited, chatting amiably amongst themselves. Lindsay and Dana grinned wide behind their hands, whispering as they shot Jamie looks.

Fans, Jamie preened.

Meanwhile, Lana and Sven cuddled close to each other, their casually wandering hands speaking of a relationship as new and fresh as the snow pillowing atop their festive knit hats.

Everyone was dressed for the season, all bundled up in fur-lined hoodies that matched the one that Simi had pushed at him. Lana and Sven were decked in red, and Lindsay and Dana had their halls decked with white. Poor Will also also wore white but remained incredibly red about his cheeks as he shot the cutesy couple furtive looks over his shoulder, the poor lad.

With Will's help they found a small, flat, flimsy present that was the same size and shape as Will's program hiding at the bottom of the bag. Jamie tore open the tissue paper.

The Muppet Christmas Carol

"Are we singing?" asked Jamie, flipping open the book while Will attempted to squeeze the wine bottle into the bag. The book was filled with music notes and lyrics; none of it familiar to Jamie. "I don't think I know any of these songs."

"You don't?"

"I've never seen the play."

"It's a movie," said Sven, giving Jamie a look of pure offence. Lana shook her head in disappointment. Dana emitted a shocked noise high in the back of his throat that sounded like he was gagging. Lindsay made the sign of the cross over his chest.

Jamie wondered who Good King Wenceslaus was and how he'd wound up at a party with a guy named Fozziwig.

"I'm sure it will be fine!" Will insisted, shooting the couple another nervous glance. He clapped his hands, his energy approaching Ted Lasso levels of enforced enthusiasm. "Everyone ready? Let's get this show on the road!"

"That went well," Will lied after leaving yet another house that was more than happy to take a photo with famous footballer Jamie Tartt and just as quickly to make up an excuse for why they needed to shut the door once the singing started.

"It ain't us having the bad night. "Jamie protested. He aimed a kick at a ledge of fresh snow; it was really coming down now. "He said the turkey was burning."

"You're a horrible singer," Sven said bluntly, cutting through the crap. He reminded Jamie of Jan Maas, which right now was the biggest insult he could think of.

Jamie kicked another pile of snow. How was it his fault that there were people out there who didn't appreciate his showmanship? "I told you, you should've let me sing it Stevie Nicks style."

Lana squeezed his arm where it was tucked in her elbow and said sweetly, "No."

Maybe all Dutch people were secretly Jan Maas in disguise.

Thankfully their circuit through town had taken them towards another familiar stop. He recognised this area of town better than the neighbourhood where he lived. The gates loomed at the end of the road, beckoning him to come closer.

Would anyone even be inside? Ted had pushed for the whole staff to have the day off, and Ms. Welton had made a point of extending that to the entire facility.

"Here we are. We have reached your penultimate destination for the evening," Will exclaimed with a sweeping gesture. Reaching inside his coat, he pulled out a small red envelope with a blue wax seal. It looked fancier than all the others. "This is the final message, but you'll need to wait to open it. You'll receive a signal when it's time."

"Thanks." Jamie took the envelope. He eyed the entrance gates warily. "Do I need a key?"

"Nope! The door should already be open for you. Use the employee entrance at the east gate." He made as if to offer Jamie a hug, then a handshake, before settling for giving an open-armed shrug. "And thanks for coming with us. It was fun!"

Thankfully the lad didn't turn to see the look of dismay that passed between Lana and Sven.

Will continued on optimistically, "You know, if you're ever interested, some friends and I meet up every other Tuesday for karaoke. I'm sure they'd love to hear your Stevie Nicks!"

"Thanks, man," he said sincerely, feeling oddly touched by the offer even if he would never in a million years take him up on it. "You're a good lad."

Maybe never in ten years. A few years. A few months. He still didn't want to be caught dead drinking out of a fishbowl though; that didn't sound hygienic or like it was good for the fish.

Jamie was pushing his way through the entrance door at the gate when Will's panicked shout rang out from behind.

"Wait! I forgot to tell you — watch your head!"

"Watch my head?" Jamie parroted back mere seconds before a ginormous white cloud smacked him in the face.

This was insane, he thought, gasping as he pushed his way through what in hindsight had to be pillow stuffing. Orgies of pillow stuffing, hanging from the ceiling as far as the eyes could not-see.

He pushed his way through the offensive puffiness until he reached the door to the other side, slamming it open. A blue wash of lights hit him in the face, but at least he could blink now.

The inner hallways of the training grounds were lit up like the inside of snowman's arsehole. Blue and white lights flickered, turning the tunnel into some sort of underwater rave, while someone had gone through the effort of stringing fake icicles and string lights up and down the halls. The passing doors had that fake frosted glass stuff on them, and he could swear someone had turned the AC down in the building to slightly below puckering.

Richmond might be small compared to the facilities he was used to in Manchester, but the amount of work that had gone into decorating this place was impressive. He'd been here yesterday, and he was pretty sure even with the mood he'd been in he'd have noticed all of this.

Oh.

His feet came to a halt. At the end of the hall was a cheap wooden prop with the words North Pole and an arrow pointing towards the dressing room.

The dressing room Jamie had not-so-subtly stormed out of yesterday.

In terms of shit things Jamie had done to his teammates, this one wouldn't have cracked the top one hundred.

A small snit. A harshly shut cupboard door, his cans of Lynx falling over in the process.

Leaving early instead of waiting for Sam so they could walk out together.

He hadn't insulted anyone, but as he'd left he'd felt the eyes of his teammates boring a hole in his back, as loud as if they were all giving him the middle finger.

Prick.

Prick.

Prick.

Prick.

Prick.

If Dr. Sharon were still around, Jamie would have climbed upstairs to see her and told her the whole story.

No, he didn't need the feelings chart. He wasn't angry at his teammates, not really.

He just didn't want them prying into what his plans were for Christmas morning.

He just wanted them to back off.

And Dr. Sharon would've sighed, the same way that Jamie's mum sighed. The same way that Simon had sighed, when Jamie had begged off coming to the stag do to meet Simon's other sons. The same way that Simi and Sam and Bumbercatch and Ted and Coach Beard and Roy and Keeley and anyone who'd ever stuck around Jamie for longer than five minutes had sighed.

He may not know how to explain his feelings in a clear and meaningful way, but he always knew what everybody else's lines were in the script.

And he did know what he wanted to say, the words held back with numb and aching fingers, because unless one of them gave him the signal he couldn't just come out and say it on his own:

It's fucking Christmas, mate. Leave me alone.

In the dressing room, a shower kit waited for him on the bench.

Jamie didn't need to be offered twice. He'd spent most of the day running on and off. Wherever he wasn't cold, he was sweaty; and where he wasn't sweaty, he itched with the leftover tackiness of dried sweat.

He made quick work of the shower, enjoying the way it warmed his skin, but something was different. The walls were too big, the room too empty. There was no music echoing in from the dressing room, no shouting about missing socks. No smell of Lynx in the air. No Ted. It reminded him of the echo-y quiet that had followed him down the halls yesterday after his sudden departure, the sensation that he was being crushed under a pane of glass while the world moved around him in grey shadows.

Frozen out.

Jamie thought of that little snowman he'd found, the second toy after Rudolph. Cheap glitter and tacky to the touch, strung up on a lazy ribbon.

Frosty melted after running around too much, didn't he?

The hair at the back of Jamie's neck stood up. A long nurtured instinct telling him something was wrong.

It was a good thing Dr. Sharon wasn't here, or else Jamie would have a lot to say to her. At the top of that list would be:

See! I told you! The world is out to get me!

Except this time he was pretty sure it wasn't the world, but a stylish man in a Santa outfit.

There were a few faces Jamie hadn't seen yet today, and at least one of them was a face that Jamie knew would never pass an opportunity like this up.

Wearing nothing but the lavender-scented towel around his waist, Jamie sized up his opponent. Possibly, his mastermind.

A wicked grin crossed his face. Only one way to find out.

“Mr. Claus, I presume?”

Isaac adjusted his sunglasses. “Yo ho ho."

Jamie sauntered towards his bag. To the naked eye, it appeared undisturbed, but Jamie was wearing a towel. "I hope I didn't keep you waiting."

"Not at all. I know how much you appreciate a good shower. We also got a fresh change of clothes for you."

Jamie came to a halt as he took in the clothes hanging in his locker that hadn't been there when he first entered the room. It was creepy. He eyed the top cupboard, emblazoned with the number 9. His eyes danced around the room, inspecting all the lockers for clues while he boded his time.

And then he remembered.

"Colin took my keys when he took the rest of my stuff."

"Yep," Isaac confirmed, tilting his chin up in pride. "Mr. Rudolph did his job well."

"Mr. Rudolph," Jamie parroted, rolling his eyes. "Mr. Grinch. Mrs. Claus." He towelled himself off, pretending to not look towards the bag. “Does Sam know you asked Simi to be your Mrs. Claus?” 

“Pssh, man. Of course he does.” Pause. “Why, did she mention me?”

Alas, poor Isaac.

Jamie pulled on his pants. He pretended to have a think as he pulled on his trousers.

"Then we had Zorro. Mr. Belsnickel. The Gingerbread Man—"

"That's Mr. Gingerbread Man, to you."

"What's my codename then? Huh?" snapped Jamie, his eyes affixed to the numbers on the other side of the room. "Is it 'Prick?'"

"No!" Isaac lowered his sunglasses. He sounded taken aback. "No. Why would we—"

Jamie spun on his heel and lunged. There was only time to make one guess.

The arsehole who made him pay for the wine in the first place.

Monsieur Père Noël.

He reached the number 8 moments before Isaac could stop him and ripped open Richard's locker.

"Freeze!" shouted Jamie, lifting the bottle by its neck and holding it threateningly above his head. "Freeze, or I'll drop it!"

"Hang on, hang on!" Isaac raised his hands. "I didn't ever say this was my idea!"

"Whose idea was it then!" Jamie lifted the bottle higher. "Spill! I want a name!"

Carefully eyeing the wine, Isaac weighed his options. He puffed out his chest. "I ain't a snitch."

Jamie feigned an expression of concerned sadness. "Then say 'goodbye' to Mr. Grape."

"Hang on, man! It doesn't have to go this far! You know we're only doing this for you!"

"Who's we?!" Jamie shouted. His cracked voice rang out around the dressing room, more stressed and raw than even he was expecting.

Something had spilled, and it wasn't the wine.

Isaac pursed his lips. For a few hamstrung moments, they were both at a loss, hopeless as to what they should do while the wine hung unsteady in Jamie's hands between them.

"I think you should talk to him," Isaac finally said. "He can clear things up for you. Alright? Now can we put the wine down? That shit's expensive."

"You know, we had a whole thing planned man. There was going to be an obstacle course, and Cluedo. We were gonna joust on lawnmowers."

Jamie did feel a bit bad about that. It sounded fun, but he was—

Tired. Yeah, he was tired. That was it. That was all.

"Don't worry about it," said Isaac, dismissing Jamie's half-baked apology easily, like it didn't matter to him if Jamie was held accountable for ruining all their hard work. "We'll just leave it up for training tomorrow. I'm sure Ted will get a kick out of it."

Jamie paused in pulling on his socks. He glanced up at Isaac in suspicion. "So Ted's not involved in any of this?"

"Nah. We tried to invite him, but he said he already had plans. But he did donate a bunch of toys to the cause. Said he wouldn't want to miss out on you having a special Christmas."

Damn Ted Lasso. Even when he wasn't around, he had a way of making Jamie feel like he was trying to stand on one leg during an earthquake.

Isaac left Jamie to finish dressing, although he did stop in the doorway to give a parting warning.

"We're gonna discuss some of that shit later. Alright?"

Jamie redoubled his focus on tying his shoes. "Yeah. Sure."

The sigh Isaac let out would've fit right in with Dr. Sharon's and the rests'. Rough and full of something Jamie didn't know how to fit in his hands without making a mess.

"All your stuff from this morning is in the number 12."

Jamie jumped out of his skin as a palm clapped his shoulder.

"Merry Christmas. Don't forget to bring the wine, alright? I wanna try it."

With that, Isaac was gone.

The dressing room seemed colder without him. Jamie sat on the bench for a while, letting the day's events wash over him as he waited for his damp hair to stop being so damp.

From the outside looking in, it had been a weird, strange day of being jerked around, sidetracked, stolen from, and mildly assaulted — all with some innocent pranking thrown in for good measure.

But he'd be lying if he said he hated it. The him from last year might think otherwise. Might think this was just them getting back at him for something. Jamie didn't know when that him had started to disappear.

The whole team had butted their heads together to make this happen. They'd taken time out of their day, the one day a year where they could reasonable expect to be selfish and fuck off, and they'd used that time to conk their heads together to make Jamie the center of attention. They'd circled around him and put him in the middle of everything even after he'd been a prick to them yesterday.

No. Because he'd been a prick to them yesterday.

Codenames. Costumes. Bribing an old man to open his store on Christmas so that Jamie could collect his gift basket, stuffed as it was with things the team knew he'd liked.

The endless plates of meatballs at Ola's, and that soup dish he'd told Sam he wanted to try.

The knit sweater in his bag that was nicer than he should've asked for, even if it had been a joke.

Sam's gloves.

Without considering too closely what he was doing, Jamie opened the bag he'd been carrying around all day. There were still gifts littering the bottom of it. Envelopes and tiny boxes that he'd been tempted to open — but he hadn't yet, because for the first time in his life it made sense to him why you might not open gifts if the people who gave them to you weren't around.

Where would be the fun in that?

But since he'd already opened this one, he pulled out Moe's sweater and slid it on. It fit like a hug.

In his eyes, the shape was perfect.

And there, having slid down to the bottom to mingle with his unopened gifts, was his phone. He pulled it out and turned on the screen.

At the top of the screen a new message waited.

"Meet me outside."

Jamie stared long and hard at the name of the sender. Then he repacked the bag, grabbed the bottle of wine, and followed Isaac's trail through the hallways, the glow of the fairy lights and the light haze of Christmas in the air embracing him along the way.

The final figure was waiting for him in the car park. When he heard the door open and the crunch of Jamie's feet upon the newly packed snow, he turned around with a smile, dropping his hands from where they'd been tucked under his armpits.

He wasn't wearing gloves.

"I like your sweater. Is that the one that Moe made?"

"Sure is."

Sam grinned, the joyful arch of his smile brighter than any string of fairy lights. "It suits you. Walk with me?"

Jamie followed him into the early descent of twilight that urged on by the depths of winter, storm clouds, and delicate swirls of snow that fell upon shoulders without any grace for the cold or the growing weight. His ears tickled, still damp hair brushing over the tips in a whisper.

His fingers, wrapped warm in Sam's gloves, itched for something more to say.

It's Christmas, mate.

I'm glad you're here.

“You don’t even celebrate Christmas,” Jamie said accusingly as they walked. He was trying to be better these days, but he wasn't that good.

Maybe he'd always be a prick at heart, but that could be a problem for tomorrow Jamie. Today's Jamie was starting to get excited. It was like a switch had finally come unstuck in his head, something that had been keeping the lights dimmed suddenly gone, and in its absence all the surrounding lights seemed twelve times brighter, the decorations they passed felt three times bigger, and even the stoplight they waited at appeared to be one red-nosed Colin redder.

The future was one more phone call closer, and with a swoop of his stomach Jamie realized that he didn't care how badly it went. He wanted to see his mum.

But most of all, Jamie was wondered where they were going.

“I do not, not really. My interest in Christmas is cultural at best,” Sam confirmed. His smile didn’t falter though; he watched Jamie attempt to catch snowflakes on his tongue with the sort of barefaced indulgence that made Jamie want to shake him by the shoulders and tell him to put it away before someone tried to mug him for it. “But Simi does, and my coworkers do, and my friends do. And you do — although you have certainly not made the effort to embody the Christmas spirit in the past.”

Jamie’s insides were beginning to squirm under that look of open affection. His heart thudded particularly hard at the separation between himself and ‘friends’, and he found himself twisting the wine bottle between his hands. He tried to tell himself it were nothing; remind himself that him and Sam were good these days — great in fact. ‘Cept they hadn’t hung out much while Zava was at the club. Or since Zava left the club.

Jamie hadn’t hung out much with anyone, except for maybe Roy — and God only knew however much that counted for friendship.

"What's my codename?" he asked, unsure if he wanted to know the answer.

Sam's smile grew more playful. "What do you think your codename is?"

Yeah, he didn't want to do this.

“And who are you supposed to be?” he changed tactics. He'd been trying to guess: Sam was wearing a respectable peacoat and fashionable sneakers. It wasn't anything different from his normal clothes, as far as he could tell, but that didn't stop him from tapping a finger against his chin and putting on his best impression of a detective. “Wait, don’t tell me. I want to guess. I bet you’re Hugh Grant from that Christmas movie, the one with all those sad stories where it turns out everyone knows each other at the end."

Sam blinked inquisitively. "Do you mean Love Actually?"

"No, I don't think it was supposed to be love stories. It was definitely sad. 'Cept the song at the end, that part was fun."

A small choked sound, followed by Sam punching his chest.

"You alright there, Obisanya?"

"Yes. Of course," said Sam, his lips tightly pursed around a strange smile. "No, I am not anyone from that movie. Strike one."

"Um. Oh, wait! Are you that bloke from the old black and white films with the bridge?"

"Very much, no. That movie is sad. Strike two."

"Fuck me, this is just like Bumbercatch and his riddles." Jamie sucked in his cheeks, thinking long and hard, running through the list of popular figures he'd seen that day, and struck gold. "No! Hold on a second! Are you that orphan kid? The one Scrooge doesn't like? Are you supposed to be the grown up version of him, the version he becomes after everyone learns their lesson or whatever?”

He'd never seen the movie, but he thought he'd figured out most of the plot after singing along with the songs.

Sam’s already soft face somehow softened even more. He had a way of making Jamie’s brusquely thrown comments seem childish and small, any lingering sharpness dripped away like candle wax in the presence of his patience.

Holding out his hand as if offering a handshake, he introduced himself, “I am Sam. Just Sam. And I’m here to bring you to our final destination.”

Fine. Whatever.

Jamie accepted the offer hand, Sam's gloves finally back in the right palms.

“Lead the way, Sam.”

They pull up to small, unassuming neighbourhood to a small unassuming house. There was nothing special about the decorations outside, but on the inside silhouettes crowded merrily behind a gently glowing window. The sound of good cheer skated between the falling snowflakes as it drifted out to greet them.

The garden was littered with foam dart, the bits of bright orange painting a path that pointed towards the front door.

“Where are we?” Jamie steeled his shoulders, swallowing nervously.

Sam gave him a bemused, fond expression. “Would you like to open your invitation now?”

His invitation?

Oh. Oh.

The envelope was still tucked safe in his bag, albeit a bit smushed from being stuck under the wine bottle earlier. Speaking of, he passed the good stuff over to Sam, who held inspected the front label indulgently while Jamie ripped open the invitation.

You are cordially invited to join The Higgins Family for our annual Christmas celebration. Food and drinks to be provided, but we can always find room for a little extra! All we ask is that you bring all the love in your heart.

We hope to see you there.

Love,

Julie, Leslie, Lindsay, Dana, Stevie, Terry, and Kris.

“Are you joking with me right now? Seriously? All of this, all of this—,” Jamie waved his arms around, trying to encompass the events of the entire day, “—this, all because I said I wasn’t going to go to Higgins’ for Christmas yesterday.”

“Yes,” Sam answered simply.

Jamie couldn't believe it. "You tricked me!"

Sam held up his thumb and forefinger so they were an inch apart. "Only a little."

The door to the Higgins residence opened, and framed with lights and carols behind him was the last smug arsehole he wanted to see right now.

“Mr. Scrooge!” Jamie pointed, trying his best to make it sound like a curse.

“Mr. Frosty,” Jan greeted in return. "Oh, good. You did bring the wine."

Mr. Frosty. Mr. Frosty.

They really had named him after the tacky snowman. They hadn't even given him a stove top hat or pipe.

Jamie wasn’t done complaining. “But neither of you even celebrate Christmas.”

Sam and Jan shared a look over his head that was downright insulting.

“I always celebrate my friends, Jamie.”

“But—“

“Jamie,” Jan interrupted rudely, “If you know that neither Sam or I are particularly attached to this holiday — then why do you think we are doing this?”

“I think it is because—,” Sam’s gloved hand gently landed on Jamie’s shoulder. It took some of the sting out of his teasing voice as he said, “—we want to see you.”

"And because it was fun," Jan added.

"And besides," Sam's face twisted for a moment, a blink and you'll miss it expression of sincerity that made him feel like a rug was being pulled out from under him. "We've missed you. You've not been around as much. You're always training. Is it so bad that we simply wanted to include you in our plans?"

He didn't have to stay here. They couldn't actually force him to stay and mingle with the Higgins bunch. He could go home.

But through the curtained window and behind Jan's shoulder, Jamie could make out the distinctive silhouettes of Zorro and Mr. Gingerbread Man clinking their glasses together in a toast. He could see Mr. Belsnickel surrounded by kids — who would probably have an easier time answering riddles than Jamie ever did. He could even spot a pair of antlers helping a shorter figure in a Santa hat carry casserole dishes to the table.

"You should be where you want to be, with the people who want you to be there the most."

"Fine. I'll stay. On one condition."

Jan raised a surprise eyebrow. He turned to Sam, who considered Jamie with a concerned frown. "Go on."

Here goes nothing.

"If I'm gonna stick around, then for my Christmas present—," his chest felt tight, his fists clenching at his sides, "—I want the signal. I'll stay, but you've all been running me around all day, and I think I've earned the right to be a prick about it."

Concern metamorphosed into shock, then grew wings as gleeful surprise as Sam burst into laughter.

Jan was already raising two middle fingers in his directions. "Done! Now get inside, prick."

"Mr. Prick," corrected Jamie, feeling bold.

"As long as you're sharing that bottle of wine, you can be whoever you want." Jan shuffled to the side, gesturing for Jamie to come in.

Jamie pretended to gasp. He raised an appalled hand to clutch at his chest and turned towards Sam in mock surprise. "Who said I'm sharing? Do you know how much this bottle cost me?"

With a beatific smile, Sam flipped him off. "I do," he said. "Richard was very proud of himself."

"And nobody gave him the prick signal," added Jan.

Sam wrapped an arm around Jamie's shoulders and whispered, "How about we drink the entire bottle together? Richard can have it back at the end of the night."

"Obisanya!" Jamie's jaw dropped in real shock, delighted at this turn of events. "And who gave you the signal, huh?"

Sam squeezed him around the shoulder. "I do not need a signal. I told you, the only thing I wish for today is to spend time with my friends."

"You heard the man, Mr. Prick," Jan grabbed him by his elbow; Sam, still attached to his side gave him another squeeze. "Get in here, you're letting the snow in."

Together, they pulled him inside.