The static slowly cleared, and the two small figures settled back, entranced. On the screen, oblivious to their interest, a young man in thin jeans and a heavy sweater blew on his hands, dipped his shoulder into the oncoming wind, and settled further into the recess in the old brick wall.

Another Christmas on the beat. At least this one was the last here in the East End, for him ... one way or another, he was getting out of this outfit, going on to better things. CI5 waited for him. New chance, time to spread his wings, time for a change.

Snow fell lightly on light brown curls, stuck to long lashes over tired green eyes. It had been a long stake out, and a bloody cold one, but it was finally drawing to an end. Nothing. Three months of leg work, turning over every source he could find, and what did he have to show for it? A big pile of nothing. If they'd let him loose, just two days earlier, he'd have had the bastards ... but no, it didn't work that way. He was so damned tired of working with his hands tied behind his back.

A piercing gust of wind whipped down his back, shuddering through his body. For a brief moment he remembered other Christmases, as a small child, before he'd grown up. Too fast. But the contrast to his present circumstances were too great, and he shied away from the warmer memories. It was just him, now. His own wits, his own strength, his own speed. All he could rely on, now, all he needed. All he could allow himself to want.

Christmas. Just another day when you're alone.

He pushed himself deeper into the recess and set his teeth, glaring into the ice-frosted darkness.

---

The static swirled, broke apart, came together, coalescing into an utterly different vista. Low desert plains by a sleepy West African river, warm air blowing the sparse vegetation and stirring the dust. The slight breeze was a comfy seventy degrees, and the exhausted man in fatigue pants and tee shirt sitting on the bedroll seemed to enjoy it. He paused, laying the oily rag lightly on the barrel of the handgun he was cleaning, sniffing the air with undisguised pleasure.

The slightly sour smell of the Cubango river cut through the dust in his sinuses and brought a smile to his tanned features, lighting up midnight blue eyes and taking years from his face. The encampment was a little over a hundred klicks from Caiundo, and he was just as happy to be away from the town. The beer was awful and the whores were unfriendly and his Portugese wasn't up to finding better. And it was Christmas.

The smile disappeared abruptly. He didn't particularly like to think about the holidays, such as they were. Not that it felt much like Yuletide here -- Angola certainly wasn't Liverpool. But then, it hadn't been a hell of a lot better back in England. There had been some good times, golden in his memory, but he'd had to grow up much too fast. And when he had, he'd handled it the best way he knew how. He'd run as far and as fast as he could. Staring bleakly at the pitted blue metal in his hands, all traces of his earlier contentment gone, he sighed deeply. Time to get out of this game. He was losing the taste for it. Maybe ... maybe it was time to go home.

---

The screen fuzzed again, and the two slumped figures shook themselves slightly.

"Bloody depressin', this is, mate," one snuffled softly.

His companion nodded. "Time to go the other direction, Chalk," he agreed firmly. "Further we go into the past the gloomier it gets." One small, pudgy hand darted forward and twisted a knob decisively. As the dots on the screen defined themselves more clearly, the little elves sighed in unison.

"Now, that's more like it!"

---

The small flat was surprisingly cozy. A slightly lopsided tree had pride of place on the corner table, lights weighting the branches down, tinsel in happy clumps stuck in the needles, mismatched ornaments adding seasonally chaotic touches of color. The depleted remnants of pudding and duck, a few scattered holiday crackers, an orange peel and a handful of fruitcake crumbs gave mute witness to a thoroughly enjoyed Christmas dinner, and the eggnog bowl was down to the final few drops. In the flickering light from the television screen, two forms so close they could easily be mistaken for one were draped across the sofa, barely moving.

Under the duvet keeping off the winter chill, a cropped deep brown head of hair snuggled closer under a stubbled chin. Long, slender arms tightened around broad sholders, and a dented cheekbone rested lightly atop the satiny dark head. Midnight blue eyes closed, a sound suspiciously like a purr emanating from deep within a strong throat, and sleepy green eyes smiled in return.

Christmas was a good time when you were not alone ... and when you finally found your way home.

-- THE END --

Yule 1996
Yule Blessings, everyone!