WRITTEN BY ANDREW MODEEN

Planet Earth; Vancouver, British Columbia
The Sol System, Terra Quadrant, Sol Sector
DEC 25 2681/2681.358; 1405 Hours (CST)

“Lance!"

As the door began to swing open, Lance watched his mother, Sarah Kylie Casey, poke her head out expectedly. A look of restrained joy dawned over her as her gaze came to settle on her son’s face. "Hi, Mom," he greeted.

"About time you decided to pay your family a visit, Lance!" Sarah said, only half joking. "Is this the only time of year I can drag you down here?"

"You’re right, Mom... and I’m sorry." Lance started to walk inside.

Sarah got in his way, clearing her throat for effect. "Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?"

"Oh yeah..." Lance turned, looking to Stiletto. She stood back, arms folded, with a bemused smirk. She seemed to be enjoying watching Lance handle his mother. "This is Lieutenant Jean Talvert." He gave her another look, then turned back to his mother. "She... doesn’t have any family to go to. I didn’t think you’d mind."

Sarah waved a hand. "Oh, for heaven’s sakes, Lance, of course she can join us!"

"Um, hi, Mrs. Casey!" Jean spoke, only a little timidly. Still, she seemed more than a little bit different from the cocksure squadron commander’s attitude and motif she’d taken to and Lance was so used to over the past year. 

"Say, you’re that nice young girl that Lance talks about in his E-mails, aren’t you?" Sarah regarded Jean with a warm, teasing look, touching her on the shoulder for a moment. "He can’t stop talking about you, you know."

"Erm..."

"I’m only kidding, dear." Sarah stood aside and held the door open as she gave a shiver, beckoning the two in. "Oh, would you two come in from the cold already? We’re getting dinner ready now."

1750 Hours (CST)

"Dinner!"

Lance and Jean found their seats on opposite sides of the oak dinner table. Lance’s Uncle Rob, Aunt Linda, and their son David came in from the warmth of the fireplace in the living room to join them. When Sarah brought the steaming pot roast in from the kitchen, the ever-festive Christmas Dinner began.

After spreading and smearing a healthy portion of butter on his loaf of bread Uncle Rob passed a glance over Lance and Jean. "Quite a girlfriend you’ve got yourself there, Lance," he spoke, nodding in approval at the two of them.

"Excuse me?" Jean snapped, almost defensively. Lance squirmed in his seat, suddenly finding it uncomfortable.

Aunt Linda came to their defense quickly enough, to Lance’s unspoken gratitude. "Robert, dear, Sarah said they were friends from those carriers of theirs."

Uncle Rob, unfortunately, was not convinced so easily. "Not a girlfriend?"

Lance and Jean exchanged glances. "Just fr—" they both started to say in unison.

A little embarrassed, Lance let Jean say it.

"Just friends."

Uncle Rob eyed them both suspiciously from behind the fork he held out and bobbed in a puzzling manner. Finally he seemed to shrug it off, then going for a second helping of pot roast and sweet potatoes. "If you say so," he sighed.

Too much eggnog. Yeah, that was it.

"Ah, I’m sure we’d all like to hear about the Midway, Lance," his mother said, trying to start conversation and change the subject. "Or maybe this Cerberus of yours they talked about so much on the news in April." She looked to the others, motherly pride written all over her face. "Did you know my son was flying for TCIS?"

He could tell them. He could tell them how he had come aboard the Midway a green, arrogant hotshot. A nugget... a plebe. Then about the killing, the friends known and lost forever. He could tell them about Dallas, about Hawk... and about Blair. "They were both good ships. With good pilots."

"Certainly not the least of which you and your friend," Sarah spoke, pride firmly in her voice. Lance couldn’t help but feel like a toddler again, "You know your father would be proud of you, Lance. Never forget that."

That’s what everybody says, Lance thought to himself. Well, the old Iceman isn’t around to tell me that himself, is he? Guess I’ll just always wonder...

"So where are you two off to next?" Uncle Rob inquired on a mouthful of squash. "Another fancy-schmancy, spit-shiny new carrier, I’d wager."

"Hard to say," Lance said.

"We’re just happy to get some leave," Jean added, finishing off the mound of mashed potatoes on her plate.

"Even to spend it with a bunch of backwards folks like us?" Sarah laughed. "You don’t need to answer that."

"It’s an honor." Jean smiled tightly, "But it has been quite a year for us."

Lance started cutting his pot roast, nodding. "Quite a year."

"Well..." Sarah watched him for a moment, smiling happily. "I’m just glad to see you again, Lance. Welcome home."

1930 Hours (CST)

After the exchange of presents by the Christmas tree, during which his mother had insisted he play the customary role of Santa Claus to distribute the wrapped gifts, Uncle Rob and Aunt Linda called it a night and got in their land rover for their home in Regina. Lance’s mother was busy preparing the guest bedroom upstairs.

Lance and Jean were alone.

Lance started pouring himself a wine glass with a freshly opened bottle of Rolf Dunbier ’29 on the coffee table. He stopped and looked at Jean, who nodded at him when he brought the bottle over a second glass.

Returning to the cozy couch in front of the fireplace, Lance sat beside Jean. "I guess by now you’ve probably had enough of my family."

"Not at all, Lance," Jean spoke, taking her glass from Lance. "I envy you. You have a family to go home to." Switching her glass to the other hand, she leaned against his side, as if huddling for warmth.

"Yeah." Lance scratched his head. "It’s just strange... this past year I’ve considered you and the rest of us on the Midway and Cerberus my family. We’ve saved each others asses so many times it’s hard to keep track of who owes who."

"I’ll say."

"Then I come back here to see my real family... and it’s like they don’t know me anymore. Even my own mother. They don’t understand me... they can’t."

Jean shifted against him, laying her head on his shoulder. "Nobody can, Lance. Nobody but us."

Lance took sip of his champagne, then took a breath. "There’s something I think we should talk about... and this seems a pretty good time for me to finally get it off my chest."

"I’m all ears."

And out it came. "Do you ever think about us much, Jean?"

"Of course, but, um... you’re asking what, exactly?"

Taking on a Nephilim battle group of Tiamat dreadnoughts and Kraken ship killers solo suddenly sounded pretty good about now.

Lance looked Jean in the eyes. Fighting the urge to turn away in embarrassment, he held her unrelenting gaze. "I-I... I’ve been thinking a lot, Jean. About us..."

Jean cracked a half-smile and raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Lance swallowed. "I just thought that... that..."

"Oh, spit it out, Frosty. Shyness has never been your thing... it’s unbecoming."

She wasn’t making it very easy on him. "Well, we’ve been through so much together... I trust you... implicitly... and... I... I..." Lance stopped, his voice breaking. He wanted to go on, to tell her what he knew he felt in his heart without question.

Reality set in. Maybe he wasn’t strong enough; maybe he didn’t want to jeopardize ruining something that he held too dearly. What he knew was he couldn’t do this—he wasn’t ready. Not yet. Not now. "You’re a great friend, Jean," he finally said instead, trying to play it off. "You mean a lot to me."

Jean frowned, but quickly replaced it with a smile. There was still a slight hint of disappointment to her features. "You mean a lot to me, too, Casey. I don’t know what I’d do without your friendship sometimes. Y’know?"

Someday, he promised himself, someday... when I’m ready. When we’re both... if we’re both. I have to be sure.

He wasn’t about to risk losing the friendship they shared unless he was anything but. He owed Jean that as much as he did himself.

Lance thought about the bad times in the past year, the friends he’d watched die, the endless nightmares that ensued; the downward spiral that had absolved any remnant of his innocence.

It was then that he made himself think about the good things, the things he’d gotten out of so much fighting. He had made a name for himself out there; finally moved out of the shadow of his father as a hero of his own right. He had found himself.

And he had met Jean.

"Me neither," he replied at last, then immediately adding awkwardly, "Without yours, I mean."

Jean gave what could perhaps have been a teasing grin, then raised her glass of champagne for a toast as she leaned against his side. "Merry Christmas, Casey."

"Merry Christmas."

It had been a good year.

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