Chapter Text
Greg was not a natural planner. He managed it for work with endless to-do lists, piles of paperwork, and constant emails. He could supervise a crime scene for a double homicide in his sleep, but tended to procrastinate in his personal life when he had an opportunity to fall down after work with a beer and telly. The month leading up to Christmas each year invariably led to a tortuous hell of narrowly-missed emergencies and last minute errands.
His main Christmas tradition, such as it was, involved not thinking about Christmas until at least mid-December. But in late November, his DCI tasked him with organising the division’s first official Christmas Jumper Day, giving him all of two weeks to put together the fundraiser. Although he didn’t mind making an effort to raise money for a children’s charity, he had a terrible history with event planning.
Within a few days of his assignment, he grimly hit “send” on a passably cheery email to the division reminding everyone to shop for the most ridiculous jumper that wouldn’t land them in a meeting with human resources. There was a contest. A prize. Food and drink. Money to be collected. He’d figure all of that out sometime before the second Friday of December.
A minute later, Donovan stormed into his office. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Greg grabbed the first thing he saw on his desk and held it up, shaking the overtime report in a way he hoped conveyed his busy schedule.
She rolled her eyes. “Not that. Your cock-up of an email.”
Maybe he could play dumb and convince Donovan to pitch in. She slacked off on finishing reports, and turning in her expenses, and filling out overtime forms, but she was tremendously good when she could justify working by not working — like planning an office party. “What? I thought it was fine. I even added a photo of an ugly jumper.”
“No. You’re terrible at Christmas. You probably don’t even know what you and the new boyfriend are doing.”
Fuck. I have no idea what to get Mycroft. The man who has everything. He kept that thought to himself and ignored the beginnings of panic. He managed to mutter, “No comment,” as he scribbled something unintelligible on the overtime report.
“About the new boyfriend or your plans with him?”
He had not yet formally come out to anyone at the station, but Donovan had figured out the boyfriend part. Just not the identity part. “Yes. Bugger off about my personal life. But please, please help me with this party.” He circled several words at random and then underlined them.
“What’s your idea for food and drink?”
“You remember when someone brought eggnog with dark rum last year?”
“Not clearly. We got really pissed that night.”
“Yeah. That’s why I was told no eggnog and rum. Other than that…” He shrugged, hoping to convey an accurate sense of bewilderment. “Can you be in charge of something? I’m really busy.”
“Like what?”
“Maybe…everything? You know I’m going to muck it up.”
“What’s my budget?”
“200 pounds? That’s all they gave me for it.”
“For our whole division? Get me 400 pounds and I’ll do it.”
“Done.” He’d either find the extra in the budget somewhere or pay it out of his own pocket. It was a small price to pay for having one less thing to worry about.