Chapter Text
Look.
He doesn’t hate Christmas. He doesn’t.
But it’s been just him, in his shoebox apartment for the past fifteen years. Why would he get a tree when he works fifty hours a week?
“Because it’s the thing to do, Dyn,” Cara has explained on multiple occasions, like he’s some barbarian for not buying a pre-lit six footer from Big Lots. “You said Christmas was the holiday you celebrated growing up. Why would you stop celebrating it now that you are grown up?”
“I still celebrate it,” he protests every time. “I get you a present every year.”
That’s never appeased her; he knows his partner well enough to deduce that much from her eye rolls.
Still, just because he doesn’t decorate doesn’t make him a Scrooge. He attends the precinct holiday parties, purchases the present for whoever he draws out of the hat for Dirty Santa, and even exchanges pecks on the cheek with anyone unlucky enough to get caught with him under the mistletoe. He knows all Twelve Days of Christmas and their respective presents, in correct order – a fact which stunned the entire department at their last holiday party during the trivia portion.
Dyn likes Christmas fine. It’s just not something he…gets into. It’s a fun time of year, more parties and drinking (he loves spiked eggnog, he will admit that much), and he’s not going to begrudge anyone time with their families away from work. But when the morning of the twenty-sixth comes, he’s always moved on just fine. No nostalgia, no keeping the lights up for just one more day. Christmas is nice, but now it’s over. Simple as that.
This year, though, he finds himself looking down at his neighbor’s little girl from a ladder on her front porch, with something like panic stirring in his stomach.
Moving to a new house in the suburbs is only one of the millions of ways his life has been topsy-turvy in the past eight months. Near the top of that list was buying a four-door sedan in addition to his bike, searching for YouTube videos on changing diapers and swaddling, and spending almost half a paycheck on child-proofing gear. He wonders if his past self would laugh or quit his job if he’d known.
Finding a kid on a call in for domestic violence wasn’t exactly unheard of. Dyn has even been known to help look after little ones in similar situations, fetching coloring books or stuffed animals or making trips to McDonalds while they’re waiting for child services to get to the precinct. But he was the first one to hear the crying in the run-down apartment, the first one to the crib, the first one those big, frightened brown eyes saw and the first one the chubby little hands reached for.
He’d plucked the kid out of his crib, and the little head had nuzzled right into the crook of his neck, right where the Kevlar left a gap. It had proven impossible to pry him off – all attempts had resulted in screaming. So Dyn found himself feeding the little guy his bottle and awkwardly rocking him to sleep with coaching from some of his more experienced coworkers while Cara laughed from their desk.
Then the child services worker showed up, and for some reason Dyn hadn’t wanted to hand the kid over. There was no logic in it; this was a person who was obviously trained and qualified and trustworthy with children. But just the thought of letting go of him, watching him be carried out that door and never seeing him again made Dyn feel sick to his stomach.
So he’d looked the social worker right in the eye and said, “What are my chances they’ll let me adopt him?”
The entire precinct had gone silent. Cara’s boots slid right off the desk in shock; his captain had been the first to speak up.
“Jarren, are you sure about this? Don’t go making an emotional decision just because of the circumstances.”
Dyn had only tightened his jaw. “He doesn’t want me putting him down, Karga. So I’m not going to.”
The statement actually brought tears to more than one eye, to his immense mortification. He hadn’t been trying to sound like a Hallmark card. But he’d spoken the truth – this kid trusted a perfect stranger more than his own parents, enough to where Dyn’s shoulder was apparently the best place he’d had to lay his little head in quite a while. Dyn knew what it felt like to have that security ripped away. He wasn’t about to force a kid through that.
The social worker had gotten over her initial shock quickly, and smiled kindly at him. “It might take some negotiating, with your job. But we’ll see what we can do.”
That was earlier in the spring. Now it’s late autumn, and he’s living in the suburbs and driving a car that he bought mainly because of its high safety ratings and there’s a baby harness in the coat closet next to his leather jacket. It’s fine. He’s adjusted.
What he isn’t, apparently, is prepared.
Winta looks up at him, eyes widening. “Why do you look freaked out? All I did was ask you if your baby was excited for Christmas.”
“Uh-huh.” He forces his attention back to the porch light he’s fixing. “I know.”
“Well, that was kind of a simple question, why’d you go all deer-in-the-headlights about it?”
“Winta,” comes a gently scolding voice. “That’s not a polite way to talk to Mr. Jarren. Especially since he’s helping us.”
Ah yes. Yet another reason his life has turned unrecognizably domestic – his neighbor. Omera.
He knew it was bad when she came over with her daughter and a casserole on the day he moved in, welcoming him to the neighborhood and offering to watch his boy anytime he needed.
He knew it was really bad when he’d returned the clean casserole dish to her two days later and she’d been surprised that he’d already eaten it all – to which he responded that it was delicious, and she’d smiled and blushed and he’d almost dropped said dish like an idiot.
And he knew it was disastrous when the kid got a cold and she talked him through the worst of his panicking, soothing the little guy with lullabies and medicine and soothing him in turn with her calm know-how.
“Sorry,” Winta offers in her sweet way.
“It’s fine,” he tells her. “Hand me the flat-head screwdriver.”
While her daughter rummages in the toolbox, Omera looks up at him with an apologetic smile, bouncing his kid on her hip. “How’s it coming?”
“Good.” He looks up at the light fixture again, just to keep himself from falling off the ladder and into those eyes. “Almost done.”
A gurgling coo snaps his attention back down, and he can’t stop his mouth from curving upwards.
“Hey. You being good?”
Another gurgle. Omera beams. “He’s always good. You have the most contented baby in the world.”
Dyn thinks back to two days ago, when he spent thirty minutes calmly explaining over the kid’s deafening tantrum that no, cookies were not an option for breakfast. “Yeah.”
Winta hands him the requested screwdriver. “So, are ya?”
“Am I what?”
“Gonna put up a Christmas tree.”
Right. The reason he was almost hyperventilating five minutes ago.
“I…I guess so.” He tightens the screw almost too much. “I’ve never done one before.”
A long silence makes him look down again, only to find two horrified expressions gaping up at him. He shifts his weight awkwardly. “Didn’t make much sense when it was just me,” he offers, trying not to sound too defensive.
Omera snaps out of it first. “Of course. That’s understandable.”
Her daughter clearly disagrees, but decides not to vocalize it. He appreciates it; there’s only so much criticism a man can take from a nine year old and still walk away with his dignity.
“Well, you’re gonna have to do a really good one this year,” she says matter-of-factly. “It’s his first Christmas.”
He’s all finished, which sucks because now he has to climb back down the ladder and face the reality that Christmas as a bachelor has in no way at all prepared him for Christmas as a single dad.
“Winta,” her mother says gently, “why don’t you take the baby inside and fix him a snack? There’s some graham crackers, and you can put on Sesame Street.”
Winta grins. “He loves Elmo.” She cuddles the baby close and disappears inside the house.
Dyn packs away his tools, makes sure the light works, and wonders if there’s a Christmas For Dummies book out there somewhere.
“Hey.” A small, warm brown hand curves around his upper arm; he jumps a little but Omera’s smile is the same as always – understanding and kind. “Don’t stress out about it. He’s so little, he won’t remember it anyway. Not this year.”
“Then…why does it matter?” He rakes one hand through his hair. It’s pointless to try and hide his insecurities from this woman. Besides, he’s found he doesn’t want to. It’s not like she’s ever judged him for them. “Isn’t Christmas, y’know…for kids? Mostly?”
“Mostly,” she agrees. “But the process of making it for them…that part’s for us.”
He squints at her. She laughs. “You’ll see. How about we go with you to get some decorations next weekend? If you’re starting from scratch it can be kind of overwhelming. And Winta’s already talking about doing our place. Getting to help out with a whole other house will be like a present in and of itself.”
“What about you?” he finds himself asking. “Do you still like it?”
“I’ll have you know I make an excellent door wreath,” she says with a grin, which drops when his eyes widen.
He’s been focused on the tree this whole time. But – now that he thinks, everyone’s house he’s ever been to during the holidays has had a lot more than that. Banisters wrapped in garlands, wreathes and bows and those red flowers sitting on kitchen counters…
Boy, is he under-prepared.
“Don’t,” Omera says quickly. “Don’t panic, Dyn, it’s okay. It’s fine – “
“I don’t even have a – a…” he trails off, the list of what he doesn’t have for this obviously vital holiday terrifying him.
“It’s fine,” she insists. “It’s not even December yet, there’s plenty of time to get everything you want. Next weekend, we’ll go the stores on Saturday and spend Sunday putting it all up. Okay?”
He breathes a little easier, now that there’s a plan. “Okay.”
/
Cara stares at him. “I’m sorry. You can’t come over to watch the game at my place because you’re doing what?”
Dyn very carefully keeps his eyes on the paperwork in front of him. “Because I’m taking the kid shopping for Christmas stuff.”
“Christmas stuff,” she echoes. “Like…a tree? A plate for Santa’s cookies?”
He frowns, distracted from his goal of avoiding eye contact. “They make special plates for that?”
“Dude.” Cara’s mouth hangs open. “You’re buying a tree? And, like, are gonna decorate it with ornaments and lights and – “
“Yes,” he snaps. “I’m sure you’re happy my years of being the resident grinch have finally come to an end.”
“Oh, I’m not happy,” she says, leaning back in her chair with a horrifying grin. “I’m ecstatic. Forget the game, I’m coming with you guys.”
“What?”
It comes out much more startled than he meant to, and for a moment Cara’s happiness falters and he feels guilty. But then realization dawns on her face, and he decidedly does not feel guilty, not even a little bit.
“Don’t tell me,” she drawls. “Your cute neighbor and her kid are going with you.”
Dyn does not grace that with a reply, which is all the answer she needs, really. She cackles, so loudly that Kuiil looks up from his desk next to theirs.
“What is it?”
“Nothing,” Dyn says sharply.
“He’s got a date,” Cara tells the entire precinct gleefully. “To go shopping for Christmas decorations.”
People actually start applauding.
“It’s not date,” he says, over and over again as his back gets slapped and a few of the married women even squeeze his hands, saying they’re so happy for him. He glares at his partner, who looks positively beside herself.
“It’s not a date,” he tells her firmly, and reminds himself to remember that.
/
Saturday morning dawns sunny and brisk; not so cold that walking from the car into the stores will be miserable, but cold enough that his coffee feels heavenly going down.
It’s not a date, so he very casually throws on the first clean sweater he finds and makes sure the jeans he pulls out of the dryer aren’t too wrinkled. The kid can tell something is up and jabbers happily as he gets stuffed into a long-sleeved onesie with a red-nosed reindeer on the behind. Winta brought the outfit over yesterday, solemnly explaining that wearing Christmas clothes while doing Christmas shopping a tradition. He’d accepted the tiny plastic hanger meekly, noting that it even has a hood with little felt antlers.
Winta and her mother are both extremely pleased to see the kid in his festive apparel; Dyn gives the red-and white striped get up a once over. It is pretty cute, he’ll admit. And his kid loves being the center of attention, so that means he’ll be in a good mood today. Small mercies, he thinks as he hefts the diaper bag into the trunk.
“Where’s yours?” Winta demands, fists on her hips.
“My what?”
“Your Christmas sweater,” she says in a duh voice.
“I don’t have one.”
For a horrible moment he thinks she might cry. “I’ll get one,” he offers immediately. She nods, satisfied, and climbs into his backseat; Dyn gives Omera a wide-eyed look and she just smiles gently, and turns the Christmas music on for Winta to sing along to. It’s drastically different from his quiet rides to and from work – but it’s nice. The drive into town doesn’t seem to take nearly as long, and the kid is still giggling when Dyn straps him into the carrier on his chest.
“Mama made a list,” Winta informs him imperiously as they cross the parking lot. “And we’re gonna get the tree last, because that takes the most time to get right.”
“Okay,” he agrees mildly, getting a cart and turning to Omera expectantly. She grins and consults the list.
“First up – hardware for stuff on the porch.”
/
Five hours.
They’ve been at this for five hours.
The kid has taken his morning nap in the carrier, oblivious to the debate between using colored lights or white, flashing or non, LED or classic. He woke up somewhere in the middle of picking out giant buckets of monochromatic ornaments. Now they’re at McDonald’s for lunch, and few things make his kid happier than French fries.
Dyn feeds him pinched-off pieces of hamburger bun and tries not to stare at Omera when she licks some of the sauce for her chicken nuggets off her finger.
“Can I take him to go play?” Winta begs once both kids have eaten most of their meals.
“Sure,” he relents. “Don’t let him go down the slide by himself, he’ll fall.”
He watches his kid laugh and flail around in the ball pit, feeling something warm and steady in his chest slide into place.
“He’s a sweet boy,” Omera says. “You’re doing so well with him.”
Dyn snorts softly. “I feel most days like he should be taking care of me. I’ve never used Google or YouTube so much in my life.”
She laughs. “That’s normal parenting,” she assures him. “You really are a natural, especially for going at it alone. Did you always want to adopt?”
Dyn sips at the last of his Coke. “Never even considered it. But Cara and I got called in for a domestic violence case one night, and I heard him crying in the back. I went looking and the moment he saw me he reached those hands up and wouldn’t let me put him down.”
Omera’s eyes have gone impossibly soft; for once he doesn’t make himself look away. “Dyn…”
He swallows.
“He really loves you,” she says.
Dyn hasn’t really thought about that before. None of this has been about what’s in it for him. His focus has been on making sure the kid doesn’t experience the same disinterest Dyn knew after his parents died and he spent the rest of his childhood being shuffled through the foster system, unwanted and unloved. The idea that that little gremlin looks up at him – the socially awkward, inexperienced cop who’s never had a Christmas tree – with any sort of affection makes Dyn’s throat feel tight.
Omera smiles gently, reaching over to rest her hand on his. “It shouldn’t surprise you,” she says. “Children very loving creatures, as long as they’re shown how. And you’ve certainly done a wonderful job of that.”
Dyn wants to thank her, wants to tell her that he doesn’t know if he’d remember which way is up most days if he hadn’t had the luck to move in next to someone as kind and considerate and selfless as she is. But all his attention is focused on the feeling of her soft hand on his. Without really thinking about it, he turns his over and twists his fingers through hers.
Her breath catches; he’s positive he didn’t imagine the sound. He glances up at her and finds that distracting blush spreading across her cheeks again, her lips parting in surprise. But it’s her eyes that nearly do him in – they’ve gone dark and wide and he’s pretty sure he could drown in them if she’d let him.
“Mr. Jarren,” Winta suddenly appears, holding a fussing baby. “I think he needs his diaper changed.”
Dyn found his hand empty almost before he even realized that Winta was talking to him instead of her mother. He sets his kid in the crook of one arm and grabs the diaper bag with the other hand.
“I’ll change him, and then we can go get the tree.”
Omera nods, studying the few fries left on her tray with an intensity that tells him she’s not embarrassed. It makes him feel a little better about losing that moment so suddenly.
He gets his kid cleaned up, and drives them all to the tree lot – where he is promptly informed that this is the most sacred of all Christmas traditions, and will be expected to involve the kid in this part of the holidays for years to come.
No pressure or anything.
“So…we just pick one?”
Omera winces, and laughs a little at Winta’s incredulous stare. “Mr. Jarren, you can’t just pick one. You have to pick the perfect one.”
“Okay,” he says, because he doesn’t understand what she’s trying to tell him but if he’s learned anything today, it’s not to argue with Winta about Christmas.
She coaches him through the experience of picking out a Christmas tree – apparently it’s about color and fullness and height, but it’s also about the tree’s aura. Whatever that is.
“How about you pick the one you think he’ll like best,” he finally says.
This is obviously the perfect thing to say; Winta beams and darts off among the trees. Omera laughs.
“You may regret that later.”
“I doubt it. I have no idea how I’m supposed to gauge the feeling a tree gives me.”
She laughs again; he ducks his head to hide how pleased the sight makes him feel, to know he could bring that sound into existence.
“So we’ve got the tree and all the trimmings,” he says, trying to remember her list. “Anything else?”
She hums thoughtfully. “Well, you’ve got all the necessary components. Now it’s just about the stuff you want, to make it yours.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, knick-knacks and things you can find in stores, when you’re not really looking.” She shrugs. “I always get a cinnamon candle. Smells like my grandmother’s house when I was a kid. Things like that.”
He has few childhood memories to go off – bells hung from the front doorknob, cookie recipes he thinks he has in a box somewhere – but more recently he’s spent several pleasant evenings in the homes of his coworkers and remembers one particular tradition that he wouldn’t mind trying.
“What about mistletoe?” he asks evenly.
She stiffens, but that wide-eyed look of pleasant surprise is back, along with the pink staining her cheeks.
“Is that – “ she trails off.
“Been to some parties that had it,” he offers casually, just in case he’s stepping over the line. “Wasn’t bad. Everyone knew it was just for fun, not a hard rule.”
She gets his underlying meaning, evidenced by the way the surprise melts off her face but all the pleasure stays put.
“Well then,” she says, walking over to a side display of little green sprigs tied with red ribbon. “I’ve always been a firm believer in indulging oneself, especially at Christmas.”
She hands him the mistletoe, and honestly the squirming kid strapped to his chest is the only reason he doesn’t kiss her then and there.
“I found it!” Winta appears, with her usual excellent timing, and grabs their hands to drag them through the piney fresh maze. “It’s perfect, Mr. Jarren, wait till you see it – “
He shells out more money than can be considered reasonable for a tree, but he’s got a small fortune in the trunk of his car already so what’s a little more, really?
It isn’t until much later, driving home with a huge tree strapped to the top of his family-friendly car and listening to Winta belting out Christmas carols while his kid laughs happily, that Dyn lets his mind drift to the little paper sack tucked in the trunk amongst the ornaments and boxes of lights, with its bundle of green leaves and red ribbon.
He sneaks a glance over to the passenger seat, and catches her looking at him with that soft look in her eyes again.
He clears his throat and drags his attention back to the road.
/
Sunday, as promised, is spent putting all of the ridiculous things he bought the day before to use. The kid is on cloud nine, giggling at Omera and Winta as they wind ribbons and pin up garlands and show him how to cram so many lights onto the tree that it’s probably a fire hazard.
He bought a Christmas sweater yesterday, too – one with a big Santa face knitted into the front. It’s something he prays Cara never sees him wearing, but the way Omera’s eyes lit up when he answered the door is well worth any future teasing.
“See?” Winta hooks an ornament carefully onto her chosen branch. “Just pick one that isn’t droopy, otherwise it won’t support the weight.”
Dyn peers carefully over her shoulder, holding her level with his chest so she can reach. “Uh-huh.” He sets her down and sees Omera bringing in a tray that holds three mugs of hot chocolate, and a tiny bowl of mini marshmallows.
Later, after the boxes and packaging have been taken out for trash day and the last bow is tied, Dyn sits on his couch and looks around. Winta has his kid snuggled on her lap, curled up in the big easy chair that usually his spot. He put in a movie for them earlier, and now they’ve crashed from all the sugar. His chest feels funny, looking at them like this, especially after day spent in such untarnished joy.
Seeing his kid coo and point excitedly at the lights has reshaped his feelings for the holiday. Omera was right, as usual.
Speaking of…
He can hear her, in the kitchen. He pauses to throw a blanket over the kids, and slowly pads down the hallway.
She’s washing their hot chocolate mugs, and the sight of her in sock feet and smiling over her shoulder at him makes Dyn feel light-headed.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
She tuts softly. “I don’t mind.”
“You’ve done enough today,” he protests, crossing the room to start drying. “You haven’t even touched your own house yet.”
“Next weekend,” she says with a smile. “Winta already has it all planned out.”
“I bet,” he grins. “We’ll come help. Least we can do.”
“Good,” she says, and there’s something in her voice that makes his hands pause with the dishtowel. He glances over at her. “I need someone tall to help with some of it.”
“Sure,” he agrees, wondering what he’s missing.
She comes a step closer, uses the towel he’s holding to dry her hands. “Tree topper and stuff like that.”
He swallows, audibly. “Hard for either of you to reach.”
“And…this.”
She reaches behind her; his heart slams hard and heavy against his ribcage when she twirls the little wad of mistletoe between her fingers. Her eyes flicker up to meet his, but not without lingering on his lips first.
This is where he should say something witty and flirtatious. But his mouth has gone dry as sand, so instead he puts the towel down, gently takes the mistletoe from her hand, and holds it between them, overhead.
He’s rewarded with a smile so bright it makes his knees shake. And then she reaches up, and holds onto his chest so she can lift up on her toes.
She tastes like chocolate and he is lost the very instant their mouths touch. He drops the mistletoe back on the counter, so he can wrap both arms around her waist and haul her closer. She in turn locks her arms around his neck, running her hands through his hair and generally making it extremely difficult for him to retain his sanity.
At some point he pivots and pushes her up against the counter, and then lifts her to sit on it so he can stand in the v between her legs. She sighs happily into him and pulls him even more against her.
“I really like this sweater,” she says breathlessly as he works his way down her neck.
“Cool,” he says, not to be distracted from the smooth brown curves of her collarbone. I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you, he wants to add. But it’s too soon.
So instead he moves up to kiss her again, deep and soft and savoring the way she melts right there in his arms.
“Kids – “
“Asleep,” he mutters.
“Thank – “ Omera sighs the rest of it into his mouth, scratching her fingernails through his beard.
He’s just about to brush his hands up the back of her own Christmas sweater when a wail echoes down the hall from the living room.
Breathing hard, he lets his head drop onto her shoulder for just a moment. She runs her fingers through his hair again, down his neck and shoulders. He nearly collapses at how soothing it is.
“It’s very late,” she says. “I’d better get us home.”
“All right,” he agrees, though he doesn’t want to. He straightens up and almost kisses her again when he sees how good she looks like this, well-kissed and disheveled. Her eyes are softer than ever, and there’s a pleased smile teasing at the corners of her swollen mouth. He wonders if she likes the same look on him.
“Thank you for all your help,” he tells her, hoping she understands he’s not talking about the lesson in hanging ornaments.
She smiles at him again, warm and radiant. “Merry Christmas, Dyn.”
He lets his forehead press against hers. “Merry Christmas.”
/