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“Aw, Merry Christmas lil’ guy!” Dabbing her bright blue eyes Leanne Tucker waved madly at the infant being dandled on her eldest son’s knee. Charlie gabbled delightedly as his little fist wagged in return. “Trip, he’s adorable! We can’t wait to see you in the New Year.”
“I feel real bad that we’re not with you, Mom, but…”
“No buts, son.” Looming over his wife’s shoulder, Charles Tucker II managed to drag his besotted gaze away from his grandson long enough to frown at their namesake. “You, Malcolm an’ Charlie are a family now. You won’t get your first Christmas as a dad again. Enjoy it.”
“Thanks, Dad.” The appeal of staying home with his hyperactive baby and devoted husband had outweighed the traditional call of the hectic Tucker festivities right until he’d woken that morning to quietness, Trip acknowledged. Charlie, ten months old and unstoppable as an out of control shuttlepod while conscious, could create as much noise as his brood of cousins combined, but at oh-five-hundred hours on Christmas Day he’d been sleeping as peacefully as the sable-haired angel in his Poppa’s arms.
“And thanks for sendin’ up the stuffin’, Mom.” Said angel could be heard across the hall through the open doors grumbling to himself and Trip grinned, restraining his wriggling son with an arm across the midriff while he leaned forward toward the screen. “Malcolm’s real glad he don’t have to make it up himself, aren’tcha, darlin’?”
“If you criticise my culinary skills once more, you great useless lummox, you’ll be doing the lot yourself. Merry Christmas by the way, Charlie – Leanne. Give my love to everyone, won’t you?”
“Sure thing, Malcolm.” His father-in-law beamed expansively while Mrs Tucker blew extravagant kisses. Wiping his hands on an apron bearing the inappropriate legend Galaxy’s Greatest Cook, Malcolm Reed reached over to spike his firstborn’s downy golden hair, making Charlie giggle and squirm in his other father’s light hold. “And make sure Trip does his share of the work, y’ hear?”
“After last night’s disaster with the custard, Charlie…” With a wicked grin, Malcolm looped an arm around his husband’s shoulders, his chin rested lightly on Trip’s crown. With a snort the other man twisted, trying to glower up at him.
“Maybe I had to sieve the goddamn custard, but who was it got the giblets outta the turkey?”
Leanne Tucker’s delicate cough interrupted them. “Sieve the custard?” she demanded. Malcolm groaned.
“I did say it’d be easier to buy a tin, but no – apparently if we were going to have sherry trifle we had to make it the old-fashioned way. Honestly, if I wanted scrambled eggs between the fruit and cream, I’d have asked for it!”
“And the giblets?” his mother-in-law probed. Trip snickered as his partner scowled.
“Well, how was I to know they’d been shoved up the turkey’s jacksy?”
“He means its ass,” Trip translated helpfully. Leanne pupped her lips at him.
“I could’ve figured that out for myself, knowin’ Malcolm’s more polite than you, hon! You know to strain the gravy before you serve it, right?”
“Mom thinks we’re dumb, Mal.”
“No love, she thinks we’re incompetent.” Softening the insult with a peck to the hereditary Tucker upturned nose, Malcolm grinned cheekily at the older couple on the screen. “And on today’s showing so far, she may be right! Have a lovely Christmas, both of you – I’ll get back to my post and leave you to chat.”
“You can both get back into that kitchen; I got a dinner to cook too.” More kisses were blown their way before the channel cut out. Chuckling, Trip spun his chair and reached up to plant a lingering kiss over their son’s head onto Malcolm’s lips.
“Guess that told us,” he murmured, moving back when the baby squealed. “You wanna hand?”
“Keep an eye on the Crawling Tornado; I’m just going to peel the veg.”
“’kay.” With far less reluctance than his partner deemed necessary Trip squatted on the floor and dangled their son between his knees, tiny socked feet kicking energetically through the air. “C’mon Charlie, let’s build us a tower while Daddy’s workin’.”
His laughter as Malcolm made a show of slamming the door followed the Englishman all the way to the kitchen before he gave way to chuckles himself. They were, and acknowledged it, equally hapless in the catering department but at least he had the armoury officer’s respect for sharp implements. Trip Tucker and carving knives… he shuddered to remember how poorly they mixed.
*
“And then some.” Dipping to kiss her proffered cheek he relieved her of the top half-dozen while she dropped onto her knees, smothering the squealing child with kisses as he rolled, grabbing enthusiastically at the nearest package.
“Pop-pop!”
“Oh that’s so cute!” Leaving her host to deal with the parcels Hoshi scooped the infant over her head, swinging him until he screamed with laughter. “I hope Santa brought him everything he wanted!”
“Hoshi he’s ten months old; he doesn’t know what he wants yet! C’mon, your presents are under the tree.”
“You didn’t have to – I’m Japanese, we don’t celebrate…”
“You’re our friend and we do, so quit arguin’.” Setting aside the parcels not decorated with grinning reindeer Trip let his son loose on the rest. “Mal’s in the kitchen; he doesn’t trust me with the roast potatoes.”
“Or sharp knives,” the beautiful linguist surmised over her shoulder. Trip shrugged, any answer he might have given lost under Charlie’s joyous howl of “Neeigghhh!” at the sight of a push-along electronic mane-tossing pony emerging from the first of Hoshi’s boxes.
“Merry Christmas, Malcolm!” she had time to cry before being stopped dead by the mayhem surrounding Captain Spick-and-Span. Vegetable peelings dripping from his apron, Malcolm turned to give her a distracted smile.
“Happy hols, Hoshi – no, don’t try and cuddle me, I’m a proper mess! Thank you for the gift, by they way – whatever it is, Charlie obviously adores it.”
“Relax – I stayed away from the drum kit this year.” Onion skins and carrot tops scattered over the worktops. Hoshi dashed past him, turning down the pan of parboiled potatoes just in time to stop them spilling over. “They’re ready to roast now – just rough them up a little. You’re using goose fat like I told you?”
“I think so.” Bottom lip protruding he frowned at a scraped-out pot abandoned on the draining board. With a shake of the head that made her glossy ponytail fly Hoshi shooed him back toward the large pine table under the half-open window.
“Yes, that’s goose fat, now let me clear you some room. Honestly, if anyone had dared leave the armoury in this kind of mess…”
“I know what I’m doing with phase pistols.” When she swept away the peelings he tried to intervene, but with a slap of the hand Hoshi had the most dangerous man in Starfleet scurrying for safety. Giving the bird roasting under a layer of smoked bacon rashers a considering look, she smiled.
“But not with Christmas dinners. Give me that apron.”
He bristled, which only, Malcolm knew, amused the minx more. “Certainly not. You’re visiting.”
“And you’re hopeless. I’ll have everything fixed up in five minutes.”
Before the protest could form she turned with hands upraised. “Listen to me. I love to cook. You love being with Trip and your baby. Get into that lounge and get playing, Captain Reed.”
“But your presents…”
“Five minutes. Now hand over the apron!”
Truculent, he obeyed and within a minute she heard the satisfying shriek of “Dad-dad!” from the main room, followed by Malcolm’s delighted cackle of laughter.
That sound hadn’t been heard enough in the early years of their friendship, Hoshi reflected ruefully. Trip’s love, marriage and fatherhood had finally given Malcolm Reed a reason to relish life the way she firmly believed everyone should.
With a sigh she flipped out her communicator and made a low-voiced call home. “I can’t leave them to poison themselves; I’ll be a little longer than I expected,” she whispered, sliding a tray of bacon-wrapped sausages into the scorching oven one-handed. Pigs in blankets, her British friend called them. And if that didn’t put his husband off eating them, Hoshi didn’t know what would.
*
“Next year we’ll come eat Christmas dinner with you as well as help make it.” Not fooled by his downcast look – those eyes, dancing with blue and silver lights, betrayed him – Hoshi returned his kiss with interest before being handed to Trip and whirling little Charlie in a final giddy embrace. “Hi, Jon. Merry Christmas – oh Porthos, don’t dig in the flowerbeds, Trip’s so proud of them!”
“Dig all you like, ol’ buddy.” Laughing, Tucker allowed himself to be dragged into his old friend’s hug while Malcolm hung back, one eye on the elderly beagle as it waddled across the threshold. “Dinner’s on track thanks to Hoshi, Jon...”
“For which, grateful thanks,” Malcolm put in as he was treated to an equally enthusiastic bear-hugging. Jonathan Archer grinned, unoffended that the Englishman should immediately smooth his well-cut grey jacket on release.
“I know I’m a little early guys but I couldn’t wait to give Quad his presents,” he said as Hoshi giggled, the two men rolled their eyes and Starfleet’s most decorated officer crumpled to his knees gurgling like an upset stomach at a chortling child. “What did Santa bring you, Charlie-boy?”
“Woof!” Lunging past his godfather Charlie made a grab for Porthos’ tail, only momentarily deflected from his purpose by the dog’s warning growl. “Woof-woof!”
“Easy, Porthos.” With an inelegant roll that sent his hosts skittering backward Jon caught his irritated pet by the collar, a rub of his throat enough to calm the beagle. Malcolm scooped his son onto his shoulder, supporting his hand to wave goodbye to their first visitor.
He had a sinking feeling their second wasn’t going to be following her lead anytime before midnight.
*
“He loves his roasts,” Malcolm replied, too defensive. Facing him, Trip risked a subtle shake of the head.
“He’s just not used to the food comin’ at him so fast, Jon,” he said, dipping his own fork into the unpleasant mush on the Santa plate to his left. “C’mon lil’ guy, open up for Poppa! Daddy’s cooked up these piggies in their blankets just for you.”
“Iggy!” Giving the table a thump for emphasis Charlie leaned forward from his high chair, mouth hanging open for the gravy-sodden lump of sausage-meat waved in front of him. Malcolm chuckled.
“Nice?” he asked solemnly. The infant to his right smacked the table again.
“Dad-dad!”
“Yep,” Trip affirmed, matching his husband’s grin. “They’re a hit.” Jonathan shook his head.
“Can I try again?”
“Of course.” Innate courtesy stopped the instinctive answer on Malcolm’s tongue and he sat back, watching his former C.O. dip a plastic spoon cautiously into the multicoloured mess, stretching over with care to hover the contents at the baby’s lips. Charlie gulped it appreciatively. “He’s got Trip’s appetite – eats anything.”
“Funny, your Aunt Cherie said he gets that from you.”
“Never complaining is what he gets from me, love. Greed’s a Tucker inheritance.” With a serene smile, the Brit raised his wineglass. “Cheers, Jon.”
“Merry Christmas, Malcolm.” Something brushed by his calf. “Porthos, you’re not allowed carrots any more! Trip, can you pick that – that orange blob off the floor before he gets to it? His digestion’s not great, and…”
Little Charles Tucker’s rounded face scrunched up. “Oo!” he yelped.
“Figure that means poo.” his larger namesake announced. “Port, if that was you, buddy…”
The beagle whined. Surreptitiously, Malcolm slipped him a sliver more turkey.
“I saw that!”
“Well, if you can feed my son, I’ll spoil your dog.”
Jon grinned. “Fair enough. Is he supposed to be making so many recognisable sounds so young?”
“The lab says he’s real advanced,” Trip confirmed proudly. Malcolm grunted.
“He’s going to be your typical Tucker; no off switch,” he prophesied with mock dismay. “And I guarantee: whatever the textbooks say he’ll be bolting ‘round the garden in a month.”
“We were both walkin’ before our first birthdays: stands to reason Charlie’s gonna be the same.” Catching the older man’s hopeful glance, Trip hastened to clarify. “Mal’s aunts both called to wish us happy Christmas.”
“And to report back to Mum, most likely.” Utterly replete, Malcolm leaned back and gave his overstuffed belly a smug rub. “Well, with a little help from Hoshi, I think that turned out all right.”
Charlie burped massively. Trip snickered into his napkin. “Somebody sure liked it. You got room for dessert, Jon?”
Husband and best friend shared a helpless look. “No, but don’t let that stop you, Trip. Malcolm, let me take the dishes while you get Charlie down; I’ll put Porthos out back for some fresh air.”
Leaving Trip to devour a giant slice of Christmas pudding with brandy cream the other men settled on the floor with Charlie between them, taking turns to stretch out and grab the slippery bundle of energy as he scrambled by. “Whoa!” Jon yelped, making a lunge any rugby player would, Malcolm considered, be proud of as the tot hauled himself upright on the lower branches of their oversized Christmas tree. Hooting with delight Charlie swayed out of reach, toppling backward against his father before dragging himself to vertical on the Englishman’s powerful forearm. “Hell, Malcolm, you’ll need eyes in the back of your head with this guy!”
“Goo!” CT4 responded defiantly. One hand cupped beneath the infant’s bottom, Malcolm favoured the older man with a beatific smile.
“Oh,” he said simply. “I do hope so!”
*
His husband’s singsong voice floated down from the first floor and he smiled, picturing Malcolm pacing around Charlie’s airy blue and white bedroom with their son rocking gently in his arms. The urge to creep up the stairs and join them was overwhelming, but he forced himself to turn away. He’d put Charles to bed Christmas Eve. Tonight was Malcolm’s turn, and thanks to Johnny staying so long past tea-time their routine had been screwed enough already.
He loved Jon Archer as a brother Trip reminded himself sternly, flicking through the catalogue of vids available until he found something that made him flop onto the couch with a silly grin plastered across his face. By the time Malcolm wandered in rubbing his eyes, he was happily engrossed.
“He’s out like a light,” the Englishman announced through a yawn. Trip shuffled until he was jammed into the sofa’s back and held up his arms.
“Get your jacket off, Cap’n Reed; an’ loosen up that tie while you’re about it,” he instructed, amused by the alacrity with which he was – for once – obeyed. In addition, Malcolm paused long enough to kick off his shoes before clambering onto the couch and tucking his dark head in beneath his husband’s chin.
“You’re watching that daft Grinch thing again,” he commented. Trip’s arms tightened around him.
“Yep.”
“You watched it last Christmas. And the one before that.”
“It’s festive. Anyway, I like it.”
His answer was a grunt as Malcolm made himself more comfortable. Happily lost in the movie Trip shifted just enough to accommodate him, quietly relishing the precious weight of his husband in his arms.
Ten minutes later, confused by the absence of snarked commentary on his choice of entertainment, Trip peeked over the ruffled dark crown and felt his heart flip over.
Lips slightly parted in a satisfied smile, Malcolm Reed was sound asleep.
Carefully he rolled onto his hip and let his thighs part enough for the smaller man to slide limply into their cradle, then tightened his hold on the slumbering brunet. Maybe it hadn’t been the quiet first Christmas as a family he’d hoped for, but what the hell? It was ending as it had begun, just the two of them content to be together, their baby safe in his cot upstairs.
Trip couldn’t have asked for a better way to spend his holiday.