Work Text:
Secret Santa
The meeting room at the CBI has shed its usual skin of urgency and fluorescent-lit tension. For once, no case files are spread across the table, and no whiteboards are filled with timelines and scrawled theories. Instead, the long conference table has become an impromptu holiday banquet, littered with half-crushed disposable cups and the unmistakable aroma of a feast that started as a debate and ended up being a great decision.
Turns out, you can have multiple cuisines, and you don’t need to argue about getting pizza, Chinese, or Mexican. There are empty pizza boxes slumped beside torn-open containers of fried rice and trays of loaded nachos, their discarded wooden chopsticks forming an accidental lattice among crumpled napkins.
The quintet of the Major Crimes unit claimed the room as soon as their latest case closed earlier today. Now they sit wearing ridiculous and slightly crooked Christmas hats and unguarded smiles on their faces. Beer cans and liquor miniatures have been emptied into flimsy cups as they drink freely, knowing that they’re now officially off the clock for the time being.
Laughter spills easily, rolling across the room like something unfamiliar yet welcome. Shoulders that have spent months tensed with pressure now relaxed, dropping lower with each shared moment. It’s needed after a difficult year so far – six months of it without Jane being in their presence – and twelve months of continuing the unwanted dance with Red John.
Tonight though, they can celebrate. They will share this moment together here and most likely end up in a bar later. As friends and as a team.
“I think it’s time for…” Van Pelt leans forward with a mischievous glint to her eyes. She reaches beneath her chair, fingers brushing around until they close on something hidden. With a small, triumphant motion, she sets a neatly wrapped parcel on the table, flourished with eccentric ribbons. “Secret Santa.”
The words land with a quiet ripple of amusement. Of course this had been her idea, an earnest attempt to give the team something resembling a normal holiday tradition, something not overshadowed by stresses of the job and danger. When she first suggested it, the reactions had ranged from mild curiosity to outright scepticism, but in the end, no one had refused. Even the most reluctant among them could admit the thought of sharing something intentionally light felt… necessary.
Especially, after this year.
Cho is the next to reach for his gift, sliding it out from beneath the table with little care. His wrapping paper is minimal. A simple design of green and red stripes, that’s folded neatly and is without any additional trimmings such as tags or ribbon. He places it beside Grace’s offering without comment. Lisbon is next, she slides a red envelope towards the middle of the table with a gold bow in the centre.
Rigsby looks a little awkward when presenting his gift. It’s in a bag with reindeers all over it and tissue paper spilling out of the top. Something that he has definitely thrown together last minute. Jane has wrapped his gift tidily in brown paper, but he’s tied a red velvet ribbon around it before knotting a bow.
When he picked the tiny slip of paper out of the Santa hat, he felt something stir in his chest. He didn’t think when he joined this team around a decade ago, that he’d still be here, that they still wouldn’t have the answers he seeks. And even though he’s grateful for them and a sense of purpose that he has been provided, he can’t help but be a little resentful.
Now though, he’s just happy to be around them, during a time of year that has been very difficult for him since losing his family. A holiday where family is a key element. Maybe… this is his family now. “Grace, you should go first.” Lisbon prompts, trying to move things along. “It was your idea.”
“Okay, I err… I picked Wayne’s name.” The redhead announces shyly as she slides her gift across the table to him, cheeks tinged slightly pink, but Rigsby doesn’t spot her blushes, not when he's so focussed on what he could be about to unwrap.
He doesn’t bother with finesse – he very rarely does – and the paper tears in his hands in broad strips, before he drops the scraps to the tabletop. But then he pauses when he’s left with the impossibly soft item, his thumb stroking over the fabric.
It’s a navy jumper. A shade that in the past she told him suited his colouring, so he pictured wearing a navy suit if they ever got to wed. He never told her that of course, but it’s what he’s thinking now as he holds it in his palm. “I remember you saying last winter that your house gets really cold this time of year.” Van Pelt explains and Rigsby’s chest tightens.
It was just an offhand comment at the time, an early morning grumble as he drunk his coffee at his desk, he hadn’t even realised that she registered it. “Oh. T-Thank you.” He manages to stutter out, hoping the dim lighting hides how touched he is. The longing he usually smothers, buries, scolds himself for, it swells now and is achingly present.
Before the moment can tip dangerously into something he can’t control, Cho steps in effortlessly. “You go next, man.”
Rigsby clears his throat and reaches for his gift bag, grateful for the excuse to break eye contact, to focus on the safer territory. “Oh, I got Jane.” He announces before handing it over, smiling when he catches the trademark grin take over the consultant’s features as he retrieves the bag with exaggerated curiosity.
Jane weighs it on the ends of his fingers as though attempting to decipher the item from touch alone much to the amusement of his friends. “Aren’t you going to guess?” Cho probes.
“Not this time.” He replies before diving into the bag, the tissue paper crackling loudly as he pulls it free and scatters it without care. Nestled inside is a Japanese-style puzzle box, made of dark, polished wood that’s been etched with delicate geometric patterns.
“It’s to replace the one the boss broke last week.” Rigsby explains quickly, rubbing the back of his neck whilst Lisbon groans quietly into her cup.
Cho leans back in his chair with an eyebrow cocked just slightly in good-nature provocation. “How late did you get your gift?” He asks and his friend opens his mouth to defend himself – but nothing comes out.
Jane, meanwhile, is already turning the puzzle box over in his hands, inspecting every seam, every joint, every tiny hint of its mechanism. A spark lights in his blue eyes because he has something completely harmless to occupy him for probably not much longer than ten minutes. “I love it!” He declares brightly. “I can’t wait to hide Lisbon’s car keys in it.”
Lisbon sighs a long-suffering sigh, the kind of sigh born from knowing resistance is futile. Cho shakes his head, Van Pelt stifles a smile for her boss’ sake, and Rigsby feels himself relax in his chair. “I’ll go next.” Lisbon decides before passing the red envelope across the cluttered table towards its recipient. “Merry Christmas, Cho.”
Cho takes it with a small nod, the sort of gesture that says he appreciates the sentiment before he even knows what it is. He breaks the seal neatly and pulls out two crisp tickets. His expression shifts instantly, the flicker of pleased surprise warming into something brighter. “Kings tickets.” His posture lifts, eyes widening as he reads the details, confirming they aren’t just any seats but good ones.
“Yeah, and you’d better beat those damn Pistons.” She tells him with a mock seriousness that stems from her upbringing of being taught as a proud Chicagoan that anything linked to Detroit is bad.
Her friend glances up, amusement tugging at the edges of his otherwise impassive face. It’s the closest he comes to laughter without making a sound. “Thank you.” He says and Lisbon grins triumphantly, feeling relieved to still get these unburdened moments with her team despite everything they’ve gone through this year.
“You’re welcome.”
Cho slips the tickets back into the envelope with care, sliding it into his jacket pocket as though making sure nothing could possibly happen to it. He then blinks a few times, ruminating what possible combinations of gift exchanges there could be left. “Jane, you must have Lisbon then, because I’ve got Van Pelt.” He reveals, as straight to the point as ever.
The statement lands like a sudden shift in air pressure. Lisbon’s head turns sharply towards Jane, eyes wide and bright and unguarded for half a second, almost doe-like, tense with something halfway between worry and hope. Of course she’s nervous, this is Jane, it could be a gift that’s had thought put into it or something to push her buttons.
And there’s also the added concern because their relationship has been a tangle of sharp edges lately, frayed ever since Lorelei entered their orbit and left cracks in places neither of them dared to inspect too closely. They both know it, yet they have both avoided naming it, because silence seems safer.
Jane feels her gaze before he fully meets it, and when he finally turns his head to look at her, to really look, Lisbon’s breath seems to hitch in her throat. And then, just as quickly, she drops her eyes, lashes lowering like a shield. She can’t hold the weight of his stare tonight, it feels too much. Even with beer warming her blood and the room buzzing with festive cheer.
With no theatrics, he places his cuboid-shaped gift down in front of her. It is unusually restrained for him – the lack of showmanship and plain brown paper – but there’s something about the deep red velvet ribbon that has goosebumps prickling up her arms. Thankfully, they can’t be seen because of the blouse she wears.
The room stills for a beat. Lisbon stares at the package, throat working, hands hesitating for a moment before reaching. Whatever it is, whatever he chose, it holds more weight than the paper covering it. And everyone at the table can feel it, even if no one will admit it. “So it isn’t a pony this time.” She remarks, her tone dry, a carefully crafted pressure valve released into the room and it works immediately. The table dissolves into warm, easy laughter, which is exactly what she hoped for.
When she next exhales, it’s steadier now as she pulls the package towards herself. The paper gives beneath her fingers, peeling away in tidy strips that fall beside her half-finished drink. What emerges is… a book. Or at least, something shaped like one. She turns it over slowly.
It’s covers are wrapped in bright blue leather, gleaming faintly under the bright overhead lights. Stamped across both covers is a silver holographic spiderweb, delicate and shimmering as she tilts it. But there’s no title on the outside, no author, nothing to give away what she’s holding.
Her brows knit together and she opens it carefully, letting the leather creak a little at the spine as she does. And there, on the title page, printed in classic, unmistakable type:
Charlotte’s Web by E. B. White.
Lisbon freezes. “It’s a first edition.” Jane says with a nonchalance that doesn’t quite fit with the situation.
The gasp escapes her before she can stop it, small but sharp, pulled from somewhere deep. Her hand lifts just slightly to her mouth, fingers brushing her lips. This isn’t just a book, it’s an artifact in a way, a treasure. If her grandfather were still alive, he would go off in some spiel about the importance of them because he was an avid collector of first editions. They’re in storage now, waiting for someone to care as much as he did.
She traces the edge of the page with her thumb carefully, as if the slightest pressure could crease decades of preserved history. And for a moment, only fleetingly, the room fades around her as she can’t help but wonder what this means. Not feeling the gaze of four other people sitting at the table, including Jane who watches for her reaction patiently. “Wait, I thought the budget was fifty dollars?” Rigsby blurts, breaking the hush of the moment.
“That definitely cost more than fifty.” Cho adds under his breath, though not quietly enough to avoid being heard.
Jane lifts his shoulders in a guilty, almost sheepish shrug. “I took my fifty dollars and… made it larger at a casino.” He confesses. “I’m sorry if that’s cheating. I just wanted you to have it.”
Lisbon swallows and finds herself nodding, like she’s accepting that once again he’s broken the rules all while the book starts to feel heavier in her hands. “How did you know?” She asks, barely above a whisper.
Jane leans forward slightly, elbows resting on the table, expression open in a way he rarely allows. “The Lyndhurst case.” He begins to explain. “We interviewed that witness, Walters, in his bookstore, remember? There was a kid holding a copy when we walked in. You said your mother used to read it to you-”
“And you said you used to read it to Charlotte.” She finishes quietly. The memory settles between them, warm, tender, a fragile thing neither has dared touch since. Perhaps because at the time, it felt like a truce. In that moment and for… maybe the rest of that day, there wasn’t any tension or ill feeling. It was like how it was before. Before he ran away to Vegas and met Lorelei and everything that’s come with that since.
Lisbon lifts her eyes to his finally, her green eyes searching his blue ones as if looking for a deeper meaning behind the gesture, but he doesn’t even blink. “Thank you.” She says earnestly and although he doesn’t smile, she can sense this has uplifted him.
“You’re welcome.”
The others exchange a subtle look, the kind teams develop only after years together, like they read each other’s minds – which isn’t possible of course. All while their boss holds the book to her chest for a moment, fingers curled protectively around the spine. Something fractured has shifted. It’s not fully mended yet but perhaps has been nudged towards healing.
Maybe this is an olive branch, wrapped in blue leather and silver foil.
“This must be mine then.” Van Pelt breaks the quiet to pick up the final present, aiming a smile of gratitude towards Cho. She begins peeling away the paper, chatting as she does, something about a childhood Christmas morning, waking early, the thrill of racing down the stairs, the kind of memory that carries the hum nostalgia without needing the actual words spoken aloud. Her voice is bright, her hands animated, and everyone watches her with fond amusement.
Everyone except Lisbon.
Lisbon’s attention has been pulled – as if by gravity – towards her consultant. She catches him watching Van Pelt unwrap her gift of a small hamper containing scented candles and bath oils, but the moment his eyes slide away, her own drift down to the book in her lap. An item that she will now protect as fiercely as she would her mother’s cross that hangs around her neck.
When she looks back at Jane, she can see that he’s pretending to listen to Van Pelt’s chatter, nodding politely, with a small smile on his face. But there’s something else there, something that Lisbon knows too well.
It’s a mask he wears when his mind is split between the present and something else entirely. Something heavier. Maybe she shouldn’t have mentioned his daughter, it’s hard to hear her name at the best of time but it must be even more tough during the festive period, maybe she should apologise later. After a few more beers.
Their relationship is still worn at the edges, frayed from the six months apart, from the abrupt confession of “I love you” followed by the equally abrupt denial. From all the stops and starts, the emotional misfires, the careful avoidance of words neither of them feels safe enough to repeat.
But the book in her hands tells a story he didn’t say aloud.
He remembered. Something small, something fleeting, but he remembered. He paid attention. He listened when she thought he was lost in his own ghosts. He chose something meaningful, intimate without being intrusive, personal without demanding anything of her.
Maybe… he does think about her more than she believed. Maybe the distance between them isn’t as impossible as it feels. Maybe they’ll be okay.
She looks down at the cover once more, then back at him, and sensing her gaze on him he looks to her and smiles. A genuine smile. And she smiles back a little shyly, before picking up her drink and rejoining the conversation.