Ghosts of Christmas Past

Author's Note: Merry Christmas everyone, or happy holidays if that's your thing! I hope you enjoy this gift. It's a retelling of a story I wrote once upon a time, and I do expect to continue it (eventually, ha ha). Enjoy!

"Let your requests be made known unto God: and the peace of God which passes all understanding shall keep your hearts and minds through Jesus Christ our Lord."

- Philippians IV:4-7

Christmas Eve business hours were nothing unusual for cops. They certainly weren't new for Frank Reagan.

One of the perks of making a good rank was getting a break on the biggest days of the year, but Frank had always chosen the tougher half of that equation. After all, no cop worth his badge was toasting with champagne when the clock struck midnight to usher in a new year. Hell, his most memorable New Year's had been a huge, escalating arrest featuring six drunks, three half-full kegs of Red Stripe, two lovely ladies of questionable reputation and one illegally-obtained carriage horse, and the fancy Black and White Ball at the Gramercy had nothing on that.

He wasn't proud of the holidays he'd missed over the years, though, and there was a sad litany of them - birthdays, anniversaries, Valentine's Days, too many Christmases. But he struck the best balance he could, letting the intense and aggressive demands of his work soothe against his grandchildren's smothering hugs, against his quiet moments in the den with a glass of scotch and a collection of Ezra Pound poems in hardback, against the rare morning when the slants of newborn sunlight woke him instead of his alarm.

On this particular Christmas Eve, however, the only place in the world he wanted to be was behind his desk.

Garrett had finally kicked him out of headquarters at about two in the afternoon. "Frank, I swear to God I'll call you, all right?" he'd said, all but forcing Frank into his heavy overcoat and pushing his briefcase into his hand. "The second Arboghast calls me, I'm calling you. There's nothing you can do here except sharpen pencils and stare at that phone. Go, Frank. Be with Danny and Erin and the grandkids. I'll call you."

Frank had hesitated, looking toward the windows. A heavy snow was falling, silent and white against the cold glass. "How much are they predicting?"

Garrett followed Frank's gaze. "Maybe another four or five inches by midnight. Nothing the city can't handle. Gotta love a white Christmas."

"It's going to be cold out there tonight."

Garrett's eyes were clear, his expression firm. "I will call you, Frank."

He had swallowed; tried to clear his mind. "Actually, I don't know if that will work. The family's coming over for a Christmas Eve dinner tonight, and they don't know. I don't want them to know."

"Tell you what - I'll text you. No calls unless it's an emergency, all right? I'll take care of it."

"The instant you hear."

"The instant."

So Frank had climbed into the back of his waiting SUV and stared at the snow, falling luminous and thick and silent, and he had arrived home an hour early. It gave him plenty of time to change into his favorite sweater and partake of a pre-dinner drink, stronger than usual. Henry was planning the Christmas Eve meal that night, and Frank had joined him quietly in the kitchen, pulling down the bright blue salad bowl, busying his hands at the kitchen island with vegetables and cool water and the wooden chopping board. Familiar things, relaxing things.

Unfortunately, he was anything but relaxed.

The scent of rosemary and thyme on his father's hands shook him from his reverie, and Frank glanced over as Henry stepped up to his elbow, peering around Frank's arm with disapproval. "You haven't even chopped the carrots yet?"

"I'm getting to it, Pop." He took a slow breath.

"The kids are going to be here any minute." Henry turned, scowling at the oven. "We'll have a full table and no food to put on it at this rate."

"Calm down about the food," Frank snapped, then caught himself and breathed again, turning his eyes downward, back to the salad bowl. "And it won't be full tonight."

Henry eased back, let the sharpness in Frank's tone roll off his shoulders. "So that's what's bothering you. Danny working late?"

"No." He chose his next words carefully. "Jamie picked up a tour."

"Ah." Henry nodded sagely. "It may seem like an impossibility, but I remember when I was a rookie. You worked when they told you, and half the time, you worked when they didn't because you knew what was good for you." He grinned, oblivious to the tension in the flat smile Frank offered back.

A key scraped in the front lock, and a moment later children's voices swirled into the foyer on cold December air, high-pitched with laughter. Henry's grin broadened. "Sounds like the boys are here," he said, moving towards the doorway to the dining room.

Frank cleared his throat, catching his father's attention. "Listen... would you mind keeping them out of the kitchen for a few minutes?"

Henry stopped, brow furrowing. "Francis, are you sure everything's all right?"

"I am."

Henry seemed unconvinced, but acquiesced, wiping his hands on a dish towel. "All right... but Linda will want to be coming back to check on the roast. You know how she is about my cooking."

"That's fine. Just a few minutes to collect my thoughts."

Henry's face softened. "Long day, huh?"

Frank swallowed hard before answering. "Long day."

Satisfied, Henry slipped out.

Frank returned his focus to the generous spread of food on the kitchen island, shaking out some mixed greens onto the chopping block and laying his blade across them to part the broadest leaves. The oven clicked serenely in the stillness of the room; the clock, mounted on the wall above it, measured out the seconds in even harmony. Around him, the air glowed with the warmth of baking bread, simmering roast, tender vegetables. Snow continued its silent fall outside the kitchen windows. The sounds of his family in the living room faded beneath the quiet, the peace of home, and time seemed to pause, swelling, its breath held.

"Hey, Dad."

The unexpected voice froze him. He dropped the knife and the clatter it made against the cutting board was loud, jump-starting his heart into beating again. He willed his knees to hold steady and kept his eyes on vivid green of the watercress before him.

He couldn't look up. Didn't have the strength.

"Dad." Two hands entered his vision, resting flat on either side of the salad bowl, and Joe Reagan leaned forward to peer up into his father's face. "You're ignoring me."

Not once in his life had he ignored Joe. It was impossible. Even as a baby, Joe had lit up the faces of family and strangers alike with his buoyant energy, his broad smile, his good cheer. Danny had liked to joke that his little brother ate rainbows and pooped lollipops, and that he ought to try for a career as a golden retriever if police work didn't pan out. But even Danny's darkest moods couldn't hold on long in the face of the Joe Reagan brand of sunshine. His was a joy that shone through all the time, in everything he did.

No, he could never be ignored. Not by anyone. Certainly not by Frank. At the funeral home, where Joe's body had rested in unnatural stillness inside that flag-draped coffin and hour after hour had passed in an agony of uniforms and grieving faces, Frank had seen Joe out of the corner of his eye for hours. There, just outside in the hallway, his hat tucked under his arm. There, next to Danny, peering anxiously into his big brother's dark and deadened eyes. Frank had been hard-pressed to convince himself that he wasn't going crazy. It had happened too the winter before, when he had watched the grandkids ice skating at Rockefeller Center and Joe had stood next to him for a half hour, his presence warm and real.

Frank had decided then that he was absolutely crazy.

"Dad," Joe said again, gently.

God, his voice. Even the sound of his voice, warm and tinged with good humor, sent a pain through Frank's heart as sudden and deep as though he'd turned the cutting knife onto himself.

"You gonna stare at that lettuce all night or what?"

Steeling himself, Frank lifted his eyes.

The amused green ones of his middle son, his second boy, sparkled back at him. "Finally." Joe leaned back, satisfied, his hands still resting lightly on the wooden surface of the island. He was wearing his police uniform, crisp and clean, the brass of the twelfth precinct winking from his collar. He was always wearing his uniform now, when Frank saw him. He didn't know what it meant anymore than he understood why his dead son occasionally showed up to shoot the breeze with him like they always used to do, but he knew better than to ask questions. Probably wouldn't understand the answers.

Frank opened his mouth to speak, but he had no voice. He clutched at the edge of the island, hands cold and sweaty in the palm.

Joe tilted his head. "Jamie's gone undercover again."

Frank cleared his throat. "Is that why you're here?"

Joe's eyes roamed the island surface before landing on a whole carrot, clean but unsliced. He picked it up with obvious relish, snapping off the tip and popping it into his mouth. "I don't think he should be out there," he said around the mouthful, ignoring Frank's question. "He's only been on the force for what, a year? Two? He doesn't know anything yet. He's just a kid."

Frank looked down at the vegetables scattered before him, their colors orange and a dozen shades of green. They were real. Grounding. "He's not so small anymore."

"Eh." Joe gave a flippant shrug which Frank caught out of the corner of his eye, and for a moment, his middle son looked and sounded for all the world like Danny. "He'll always be a kid to me."

Frank had forgotten how many mannerisms Danny and Joe shared. How could he have forgotten? "You're... you're talking like a big brother. Jamie's a police officer now."

"I AM a big brother," Joe protested. "And a cop too, but that comes second."

Frank swallowed. His throat was dry. Where had he heard those words before?

Joe bit off another piece of carrot, leaning his hip against the edge of the kitchen island. "So Grandpa doesn't know about Jamie's gig?"

"No. Just me, this time. And you, I suppose."

"Yeah."

"Does your mother know?" Frank asked suddenly, then shook his head. "Forget I asked. I don't want to know the answer."

Joe chuckled, and the sound was like music.

Frank steeled himself and lifted eyes to his son again. God, he seemed so real, standing there like he always used to do. "I miss you, Joe," he said, the words full and thick with emotion, hanging in the still air between them before Frank even realized he had spoken.

Joe's eyes were warm. "I miss you, too."

Frank dropped his head, squeezing his eyes shut.

Joe's voice continued, soft and easy. "Dad, I'm not here about Jamie. I'm here about you."

"Me?" he muttered, not lifting his head.

"You. Dad, you know Jamie's always going to be my little brother. But you're right that he's not so small anymore. You can't control what he does or the choices he makes. Any more than you could control the choices I made."

Frank's heart twisted. "You know I never wanted you on that warrant squad."

"I know. And you know what happened wasn't your fault."

Frank forced himself to take a deep breath. "Maybe not. But it's still the first thing I think about when I wake up in the morning. The last thing I think about at night."

"You're doing everything you can, Dad," he said quietly. "You're doing everything right."

"And it isn't enough," Frank snapped. "Do you know what will happen if I lose Jamie like..."

His throat sealed closed around the words.

"Like you lost me?" Joe finished for him. "Dad. That's out of your hands."

"I don't know what comes next," he whispered. "I... son, I don't know what to do."

Frank heard Joe take a step closer, and he squeezed his eyes closed even tighter than before. He could feel his son beside him now; his presence, his warmth. "Of course you know what comes next, Dad. Just stop thinking like the PC for a minute, huh? You have to let go and give it over to God. For Jamie, for me... for all of us."

Frank swallowed hard, letting those words settle across his aching heart. "So when did the student become the teacher?" he asked wryly, running a shaking hand over his face.

"Well... dying opens your eyes to a whole new world, you know."

Footsteps sounded across the hardwood floors of the dining room, and Frank looked up sharply as Danny stepped into the doorway, his brow creased. He glanced left, then right, before settling his gaze on his father. "Hey. You talking to somebody?"

Frank didn't need to look to know that Joe was gone. The stillness, the solitude, was already sinking into him like a chill. "Nobody here but me," he replied, and forced a measure of lightness into his voice as he looked back down at the vegetables, grateful to have them on the counter before him.

Wouldn't do for Danny to see the mist of tears lingering in his eyes.

"You all right, Dad?"

"I am. But... could you do me a favor, son?"

"Yeah, what?"

"Ask Linda to come on back. I think the roast is done."

"Sure." But Danny stepped into the room instead, and Frank smiled despite himself when his oldest seized a carrot from the cutting board. "So, where's Jamie? He loves Christmas. I can't believe he's not been here since the crack of dawn."

"He's working."

Danny chewed the carrot slowly, methodically. "Working patrol, or...?"

"He's on assignment."

Danny stopped, then crunched a piece of carrot particularly hard between his teeth. "Great. What's he into this time?"

"No need to-"

"I *do* need to know, Dad."

Frank smirked. "He's tying up some loose ends for OCCB."

Danny leaned forward. "Not the Sanfinos again," he said, voice sharp. "I thought that was busted wide open."

"Some associates, as I understand it. I'll be notified when he's clear. And no, I don't know when that will be."

Danny's gaze wandered over Frank's shoulder, to the window. "Not a great day for it out there. When did he start?"

Frank's stomach twisted in a slow, sickening roll. "He went under... almost twenty hours ago."

Danny sat back, staring at his father, then swallowed hard. "But OCCB's had eyes on him, right?"

"As far as I know."

Danny thunked his elbows on the counter, rubbing at his forehead. "I hate this, Dad."

"You're not the only one."

Fifteen minutes later, Linda brought out Henry's roast with a flourish, and Frank settled himself at the head of the dining room table, allowing himself a moment to drink in the faces around him... his father, Erin and Nicky, the boys, Linda, and Danny, with only a hint of trepidation hiding in the tightness of his expression. He did not allow his eyes to linger on Jamie's empty seat.

Of course you know what comes next, Dad.

He placed his cell phone on the table next to his fork. Erin saw it, her eyebrows lifting in surprise, and Henry followed her gaze. "Really, Francis?" he chuckled. "Breaking a cardinal rule there, aren't you?"

"I'm expecting a call," he shrugged.

"Must be an important one." Erin was watching him keenly.

"A police officer's work is never done," Linda sighed.

"Grandpa's not a police officer," Sean protested. "He's a PC."

"You don't even know what that stands for," Jack scoffed.

"Do too!"

"Do not!"

"Boys," Linda said warningly.

Frank's cell phone vibrated.

He looked down.

To: Reagan

From: Garrett

All clear 6:08p

Frank closed his eyes, allowing himself a single, deep breath.

All clear. The operation was over.

Jamie was safe.

"Dad?" Danny's voice was soft, urgent.

"Fine," he replied immediately, and the moment he turned to his oldest son he saw Danny relax, calmed by the expression in Frank's eyes. "Everything's under control."

The relief clear in his own face, Danny coughed into his first and cleared his throat, shaking his head at Linda, who was eyeing him with curiosity. "So, uh... we ready to eat or what?"

You have to let go and give it over to God. For Jamie, for me... for all of us.

Frank reached out, taking his son's hand in his left and his daughter's in his right. "Let's say grace," he said quietly.

And he knew his family was with him in the soft, powerful words that followed.

Every one of them.

"A little faith will bring your soul to heaven. A great faith will bring heaven to your soul."

- Charles Spurgeon