Authors' Note: It was a cold and eventually snowy night in Utah when Eowyn77 announced that we had to give our friends in the Botosphere fandom a holiday present. The rest of us agreed, though it took some time to decide on a storyline. (At one point, Judy Witwicky was going to sing "Santa Baby.") Christmas with the Morshowers seemed like a hilarious way to go, but then, in the spirit of the oblivious Borg, we decided to focus on a character never before seen: Morshower's Missus. Things sort of snowballed from there, no pun intentional. Happy holidays to you and yours from us and ours.

I didn't mind the quiet. Not really. It was Abigail's first Hanukkah at college, and classes wouldn't finish for another two days. She'd be home for the final night, and in the meantime, Glenn and I were enjoying being empty nesters. Our gifts for each other were low-key and I hadn't even put out the decorative menorah until yesterday. Glenn had put the wreath on the door the same day. He'd been raised Christian but tended to view God the same way he did the President of the United States - a power to acknowledge but not worth fighting over when there were more immediate concerns.

I lit the candles at sunset, singing the hallel by myself for the first time in eighteen years. Glenn made it when he could, but Abby had always been with me, and she had such a pretty voice. He was more inclined to arrive punctually for the latkes and graciously do the dishes afterwards, but he left the more ritual aspects of our holy days to those who held them sacred.

Glenn arrived just as the timer started beeping on the oven. Tomorrow was a holiday party at the museum where I volunteered, and no matter your feelings about the Divine, everybody liked gingerbread. I quickly pulled the cookies out and then hurried to the living room.

"Welcome home, Sarge," I said, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. It'd been a joke between us for two decades.

"Smells great in here," he said, hanging up his parka and pulling off his snow-covered boots.

"Dinner's ready when you are," I told him, returning to the kitchen to put the cookies on cooling racks.

He had been home a mere half an hour when the doorbell rang. This usually meant Lieutenant Commander Clancy, Glenn's aide, had some urgent business. The other Chiefs preferred to discuss work in an official location and no other junior officer would dare to bother the General at home. We were not expecting any guests, but I had prepared something slightly less kosher for post-dinner companionship and Tom was welcome to the wassail.

When I opened the door, however, I found a group of people who must have been military. No other group of carolers would have been in parade formation. I half-expected them to throw a salute, but instead, they broke into enthusiastic song.

"Here we come a-wassailing…"

I had prepared well apparently. Glenn, drawn by the ruckus, came to the door with an amused expression of interest. When he caught sight of our visitors, his jaw dropped slightly.

"Love and joy come to you
and to you your wassail too…"

The vocal stylings were impressive, but badly blended. Two of them seemed to be channeling Elvis, while the one with a cowboy hat sounded quite a lot like James Earl Jones. Even the lone female of the group could be favorably compared with Ella Fitzgerald. The rest seemed to be more mumbling along looking half-embarrassed and not knowing the words. One young man hovering near the back-whose face I vaguely recognized-seemed to simply be humming and not even trying to get the words.

Two boys who were obviously brothers started the next verse with unnecessary volume and the one on the left actually winked at me.

"Call up the butler of this house
Put on the golden ring
Let him bring us up a glass of beer
And better we shall sing..."

Near the end of the song, I saw a slightly panicked look in the cowboy's eyes as he caught sight of the menorah in the window. I was prepared to soothe his not-really-faux-pas with a thank you and an offer for wassail but barely a breath after the end of singing, he started booming out "In the Beis Hamikdash long ago, the beautiful Menorah lights would glow." There immediately followed some confused expressions on the rest of the group until with, pointed looks and even more pointed elbows, they too noticed the menorah. I was impressed, blended voices or not, since I'd never seen a group of carolers convert so quickly.

"Anyone know the words to Lake'le latke'le?" the winker asked.

"We're out," Glenn grunted.

That was not strictly true, but Glenn was prone to guarding his potato pancakes jealously. He had been known to challenge Abigail to a game of chance for the last one.

"The butler has no beer," I said dryly, "but as you've come a-wassailing, I can accommodate your request."

"Come on in," Glenn invited with an unreadable glance my way, "and touch nothing."

This seemed to be addressed to the ones who had asked for beer. Clearly, he had worked intimately with this unit. The difficulty arose when I invited them to have a seat.

Seating seemed to be a game to which none of them knew the rules. The cowboy and the boy I knew but couldn't place looked around for a moment and then seemed to mutually agree to take a love-seat and that prompted the others to settle in as well. The brothers attempted to sit on several pieces of furniture, but were interrupted in making themselves comfortable by glares or admonitory grunts from their fellows. They eventually claimed a sturdy oak bench against the wall that was undeniably stain-resistant and unlikely to shatter under their weight. Glenn and a stocky soldier brought a couple of chairs from the kitchen. Three more took the couch, Ella Fitzgerald and a blonde young man ended up on the other love-seat, and Glenn settled into his recliner.

I retreated to the kitchen and the murmur of voices was too low for me to make out words, but there was a rumble of laughter a few moments later. For all of Glenn's surprise, these were not unwelcome guests, just an unexpected party. When I returned with a tray full of mugs and a plate of gingerbread, they looked more at ease than they had since entering our home, though they suddenly fell silent.

I set the tray on the coffee table and pulled up the empty kitchen chair next to Glenn so I could sit beside him. "So, you work together?"

"In a manner of speaking," Glenn deadpanned with a quick glance at the vaguely-familiar young man. "Diplomatic matters have required us to collaborate on a number of occasions."

"That sounds unpleasant," I remarked.

A few of them laughed and others nodded gravely. The young man simply rolled his eyes, suggesting that I was the mistress of understatement.

"Are you all in the military?" Glenn worked with a number of people both in and out of the service, and while most of their haircuts were not regulation and none of them were in uniform, they all had the air of soldiers.

There was a pause, as though they weren't sure how to answer, and a murmur I couldn't quite make out but that sounded like "foreign legion"; then, the cowboy answered, "We have worked closely with the military but are not currently a part of the US armed forces."

"What is your current assignment?"

"Classified," the woman responded, though she said it with a grin.

"Come on, Boss," Glenn chided me. "They came all this way and we're going to talk shop?"

"Polite interest, Sarge," I corrected, while filing the 'all this way' comment in the back of my mind. "I haven't asked for name, rank or serial number."

The familiar young man's eyes widened. "Sarge?" Ella elbowed the hulking blond beside her and whispered, "Boss!"

Glenn blushed handsomely and I suspected that this information would not remain within the confines of the room. "An endearing misunderstanding," he explained. "I was a lowly Major and she was unfamiliar with insignias."

"I should have known better," I added, "since I was a sucker for a man in uniform."

"Ah man, TMI!" one of the brothers grumbled, but the cowboy shot them a stern glance.

"Enjoy your drinks," Glenn ordered.

All but the stocky male complied immediately, either from fear of Sarge or fear of seeming ungrateful. The man squinted at his mug in apparent disapproval.

"Traditional wassail calls for both brandy and hard cider," he observed. "Wassail is a hot, mulled punch often associated with Yuletide drunk from a wassailing bowl. The earliest versions were warmed mead-ale brewed with honey-into which roasted crab apples were dropped and burst to create a drink called 'lambswool' drunk on Lammas day, still known in Shakespeare's time. Later, the drink evolved to become a mulled cider made with sugar, cinnamon, ginger and nutmeg, topped with slices of toast as sops and drunk from a large communal bowl."

This recitation seemed to either call my recipe into question or object to the drink itself. "It's apple juice with a cinnamon stick," I responded a little confused.

"In other words," the cowboy said, "you won't be court-martialed for public intoxication if you sample the punch."

"This time," one of the brothers muttered, earning them another glare.

"Ah." I said in unison with the stocky one. Apparently he had wanted to know if it was alcoholic or not.

Thus reassured, the man drank it down in one go. "This is satisfactorily nutritious, providing adequate levels of several vitamins and containing no harmful substances," he announced. "Ves heil!"

"Slainte," Glenn responded. "The gingerbread won't kill you, either."

There was a lull of conversation then as they warily munched on the gingerbread men, and since Sarge's manners had apparently gone wandering, I said, "I'm Miriam. And you are?"

There was a choking cough from the boy on the love-seat. He quickly gulped some more wassail and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Sorry, Ma'am," he squeaked, "My name is Sam Witwicky."

Witwicky - I did know him. The business a few years ago when his face was plastered all across the world and Glenn had not been able to return home for weeks.

"Optimus, ma'am," the cowboy supplied. "Optimus Witwicky."

Sam beamed proudly, but I couldn't help wondering if one of them had been adopted. They were almost certainly not blood relations. Their parents clearly hadn't agreed on a naming convention within the family.

Introductions continued around the room. The woman spoke up, "I'm River Christiansen and this," she indicated the blond beside her, "is Cam Romero." He tipped his head politely and smiled.

"Ron Hatchett," the stocky one on a kitchen chair said.

"I'm Boyer Haught," said one of the men on the couch and the angular soldier in the middle added, "Harrison Pitt, but you may call me Prowl." The third man there simply said, "Hugh R. Haught."

"Skids!" one of the brothers on the bench piped up, and then the other added "Mudflap."

From the context I gathered those were their names, but they were quite unusual. It also seemed more trouble than it was worth to ask for the origins.

"Pleased to meet you," I said, and it was mostly true. It was amusing to see they way they'd thrown Glenn off. He seemed comfortable with Tom, who treated him respectfully but familiarly. These people seemed to see him as something of a slightly-annoyed uncle who would show them a good time out of family duty and show them the door as soon as decorum allowed. They were certainly colleagues, but definitely not subordinates.

"And are you planning on stopping by any other houses?" Glenn asked. "The one on Pennsylvania Avenue, perhaps?"

"Don't give them ideas," Sam blurted out, even as Boyer and Hugh exchanged excited looks behind Prowl's head.

"We ain't got da clearance," Skids said mournfully.

"Ain't never stopped us before," Mudflap rejoined.

"Not on my watch," Sam said. "There's not enough money in the world to pay me to clean up after that mess."

"And I would see that your clearance to anything from the mess hall on up was revoked," Glenn added.

"Dude, it be your idea."

"I think we might be wearing out our welcome," Optimus said, rising to his feet. Everybody else stood up, too, including me and Glenn. "We did not mean to invade," he continued and Sarge snorted at that, "but thank you for your hospitality all the same." From his coat pocket, he pulled out a small, gift-wrapped package with a card attached and offered it to me.

Before I could accept it, however, Glenn snatched it from his hands and then very carefully held it to his ear.

"It's been vetted by Mikaela," Sam said, smirking slightly. "And none of the twins had anything to do with it."

Glenn's shoulders relaxed slightly but he still didn't let me handle the gift. "We'll open it," he assured me, "once I've found my Geiger counter."

I wasn't sure if that was meant to be a joke or not, so I smiled genially. "Thank you for the thought and for your visit," I said. "Would you like something for the road?"

They politely declined and then at a small glare from Optimus they moved one by one to the kitchen and deposited their cups in the sink and napkins in the trash. Would that all unexpected guests were so well mannered.

They shuffled out the front door a few minutes later and dispersed to a long line of expensive cars - including a Search and Rescue vehicle and, of all things, a semi. Apparently, no one had heard of a carpool. On the night air, a final song floated back:

"Shalom, my good friends
Shalom, my good friends
Shalom, shalom
We shall meet again
'Til then, my good friends,
Shalom, shalom."

I watched the vehicles parade up our quiet, suburban street, and that phrase, "all this way," popped into my head again. Their accents were American, but they were diplomats who worked with the military. Who exactly were they diplomats for? The Witwicky boy had been tangled up with the aliens... and though he'd never spoken of it directly, I knew Glenn was involved with the aliens as well.

I closed the door and, crossing my arms, gave my husband a long, searching look. He sheepishly glanced down, and I couldn't help but smirk. "Witwicky gave it away, but don't worry, your secret's safe with me."

Lifting his head, he feigned confusion. "What secret, Boss?"

I picked up the now-empty tray from the coffee table and kissed him on the cheek before sauntering back toward the kitchen. "Exactly."