AN: I was going to wait to post this and then realized, hey, we all need some silliness and family feels in these bizarre and trying times. Hope all is well with you lovely people. We're in this together!

(Also, sorry for the anachronistic Christmas content in April.)

"Love can change a person the way a parent can change a baby—awkwardly, and often with a great deal of mess."

~Lemony Snicket, Horseradish

"Where is the knife?"

"I thought you had it!"

"Why would I have it?"

"Because I asked you to stab that bird ten minutes ago!"

"Uh…guys?"

"What?"

"What, Patrick?"

"I think Riley has it."

"No—!"

Thud…THUD…!

Sadusky halts on the stone walkway, utterly flummoxed. Brows up so high he feels them pushing at his forehead.

He's holding a covered serving tray of gingerbread, with a green and red striped holiday tie to go with his grey button up, and in this moment he feels suddenly ludicrous. His breath fogs the crisp air when he lets it out. These are people he's chased on manhunts. And yet somehow when Ben called him, sounding weirdly serious about the whole thing, Sadusky found himself saying yes around a suddenly dry throat.

What has he gotten himself into? Was agreeing to come to this really a good idea?

Too late to back out now.

Besides, the series of lumbering thuds has crescendo-ed into lots of swearing and whining and the sound of something heavy dropping to the floor. He's starting to get worried. The last time he was in this house, someone had been shot.

Not a great track record.

Peter knocks sharply on the door, then realizes no one can hear it over all the shouting and falling. For a house with absolutely no children in it, it's louder than his daughter's. He goes for the doorbell this time and it chimes an old, atonal set of notes that probably has some nerdy historical explanation to go with the equally old, nerdy house.

"Peter!" Emily Gates is the only one standing at the door when she opens it, in an apron, holly dishcloth slung over one shoulder, and cranberry sauce smeared across her forehead in a little shooting star shape that she clearly hasn't noticed yet. "So good of you to come! And what's this?"

Peter debates with himself whether to tell her about the sauce. But she's already grabbed the tray out of his hands.

"Gingerbread," he finally gets out. "Made fresh this morning from my grandmother's recipe."

Emily's eyes light up, thrilled with his answer. This, at least, Sadusky was prepared for: it is considered sacrilege in the Gates family to bring something store bought, heaven forbid, to Christmas dinner. Ben drove this point home with a story about how his father once threw some sugar cookies out a second storey window, still in their plastic packaging.

"Wonderful! Come in, come in!" Emily tugs on Peter's sleeve to pull him inside and he is once again struck by how casually they all touch him, as if he was always meant to be here. He can't quite figure it out. "Let me take your coat."

"No, that's fine," he says, glancing at smoke billowing out of the kitchen and an almost Grecian chorus of yelling. "I've got it—you have your hands full."

Another thud punctuates this statement, from some room down the hall, and Emily rolls her eyes. "You have no idea."

So Peter takes off his own coat and hangs it on a series of hooks just inside the door, over top of which hangs a painting of Times Square from a hundred years ago. The house smells warm and yeasty, dusted with the glazed seasoning on what his nose promises to be a delicious roast. No evidence of the home invasion in May is visible, not even a dent or scratch. Any trace of blood has been expertly cleaned, the wood finishing restored.

There's a mishmash of old and new decorations—

Real pine boughs, pinned across entryways, are layered over top of hand cut snowflakes with Christmas themed knock-knock jokes scribbled on them. The writing is too tight and chaotic to be anyone but Riley's, and there appears to be a competition going on the giant Christmas tree flanking the living room, half of it dotted tastefully with colour-coordinated bulbs and the other half with homely, glue gun created monstrosities. Some bizarre order to the thing seems to have been attempted, with cut out felt versions of Mary and Joseph contrasted against reindeer, a yeti, chipmunks, and even a narwhal. The only artfully done decorations on that half are the gingerbread men, baked to perfection with a hole to loop yarn through.

There are two tree toppers perched at a precarious angle in competition: one a beautiful, antique star, and one a polar bear with two different sized googly eyes. Sadusky steals a photo of it with his phone when no one's looking. It's immediately set as his new wallpaper.

Emily darts into the kitchen just in time for the oven to beep.

Patrick pokes his head out. "Those are the rolls. I timed it just like you told me so they're done at the same time as the turkey…Peter!"

The man darts over for an emphatic handshake, just as well since Emily shoos him out of the kitchen with a swat of the dishcloth. Sadusky has to brace himself against the bobbing, but even still he catches himself grinning, just a small one.

"We weren't sure you'd come!" Patrick pulls back only to slap his shoulder this time. "Sorry for the mad house in here."

Peter listens to the ruckus with a trained ear. None of his experience helps it make any further sense, however. "Is everything okay?"

Before Patrick can answer, Abigail comes storming out, hands in the air. She's frazzled, snapping off epithets that have long since transitioned into German. Even with her huge belly, she's still somehow magazine ready in a pair of maternity palazzo pants and a crème silk blouse, her makeup flawless.

Her eyes, however, are cherry bombs—and right now they're ablaze, shooting off.

"That's it!" she declares. "I'm done! If Riley wants to electrocute himself and Ben wants to stab himself, they can be my guest."

Sadusky straightens with a small gasp. "Stab…?"

This sound draws Abigail's attention and she lets out a gasp of her own. It's almost a spectacle, how fast she goes from thunderous to warm, her smile wide and excited.

"Peter! Merry Christmas!" She's in motion again, pulling him closer like Emily, though with more tenderness and a gentle ripple in the fingers that land on his back that speaks of familiarity. "I didn't like the thought of you alone."

"Alone?" Patrick asks.

When Abigail finally steps back, Peter hopes dearly he isn't blushing or doesn't look as overwhelmed as he feels. "My daughter's husband is from London, so the family will spend the holidays with those grandparents this year. I'll get to be with them next time."

Abigail snaps her fingers. "We'll have you all in for next year's Christmas, then. I'll finally get to meet your granddaughter!"

Sadusky nods, smiling, trying not to let it fall in confusion. Next year? He assumed he only got invited to this one out of gratitude for that episode back in May and the losing-Riley incident in September.

Or more likely out of pity, because he has no family around. If he hadn't gotten invited, he would probably just have gone to a truck stop for a turkey dinner or bought a microwavable one. This is world's better, of course, he just didn't expect them all to be so happy about it, especially with the way he is intruding on this easygoing, mellow atmosphere.

THUD!

…Or maybe not so easygoing at the moment.

Abigail just huffs. "Patrick, do we have an actual screwdriver around here that Riley can use instead of the meat knife?"

Putting up his index finger in a thinking motion, Patrick shakes it once he remembers. "I think Ben keeps his toolkit under the sink."

"Lead the way." With a sweep of her arm, Abigail and her dry tone follow Patrick into the kitchen.

Emily watches them go, fond. She's got a particularly bright glow about her, hair grown longer past her shoulders and posture content since she and Patrick renewed their vows at a small ceremony on the waterfront this past summer.

Somehow Sadusky had gotten invited to that too.

He gestures down the hall. "Do you mind if I…?"

A little laugh escapes Emily before she can stop it. "Good luck to you. When Riley sets his mind to a task, we can't seem to stop him."

Something in her tone says that she wouldn't want to anyway, but he doesn't call her out. Her hand pats his back while he walks away and his steps almost falter at this sweet gesture.

Padding down the hall, he takes care to avoid any squeaky floorboards. It's a nearly impossible undertaking, with the eighteenth century original hardwood still in place, but he still feels he ought to try, to avoid startling the growing sound of a heated discussion.

It's not quite arguing, as Ben is mostly pleading and Riley is mostly grunting to ignore what sounds like good advice.

When Sadusky finally rounds the open door of a brand new nursery, painted in a rainbow of pastel colours, including a handmade white crib and rocking chair, it reveals Riley trying to screw some device into the wall beside the crib using a serrated meat knife and Ben—unsuccessfully—trying to pull him away from it.

The insistent thud-thud happens again, when Riley fumbles with the bulky black disk and it bounces off the soft yellow carpet. Sadusky winces, mostly in sympathy pain for Riley's faintly shaking left arm. It's clearly the culprit of his failed attempts, the muscles still not working properly.

Peter only knows this with such certainty because he's fielded the late night calls from Ben, lamenting his guilt and fear over how physiotherapy isn't working as fast as doctors had hoped. The way Riley can still type like a demon, fine motor skills, but he struggles with any kind of flexile action, pulling or pushing at something that stretches the limit of his strength and the bullet scar.

Like this pesky screw, apparently. Maybe the drywall is harder than they thought.

"You're going to hurt yourself," Ben insists, and it doesn't sound like the first time.

"Too late." Riley's deadpan muttering is probably supposed to be a joke to lighten the moment but no one laughs. "I think I can singlehandedly get a radio signal on this thing."

He holds up his spastic palm. "Get it? No? No takers?"

Ben sighs—also not for the first time. "Will you at least put the knife down? You're lucky the few times it dropped, it hasn't been on your toes."

Sadusky comes over and does it for him, removing the knife from Riley's trembling fingers. He frowns between the two men and wonders why they haven't thought of the obvious solution yet. "Riley, just let Ben put this…thing…up for you."

Ben cringes. "Wait, Peter—"

Riley draws himself up to his full height, which just barely makes it to Ben's shoulder. He's not even taller than Sadusky, though he acts like it. "I'll forgive you, Agent Man, because you just got here—welcome, by the way—but I made this security console from scratch and I will be the one to put it up. Its data readings go straight to our phones using a state of the art XML coding language that I wrote. Do you know about XML coding languages? Hmm? That's what I thought. No way is someone else installing it."

Around 'I will be the one,' Ben starts to look reproving and exasperated, but Sadusky notices something else in this statement that concerns him.

"Security console?" he asks, cutting off the argument Riley and Ben are having through sheer eye contact alone. It's quite frankly impressive. "Doesn't the house have an extensive monitoring and alarm system already?"

"So. What's your point?"

"So…" Sadusky's eyes do another loop of the room and land on Riley's pale face. "Is this one really necessary? Isn't this room secure enough?"

Ben catches on to the implications of this suddenly, looking devastated. He faces Riley head on, one hand on each shoulder, though it isn't lost on Sadusky that his right thumb rubs slowly and Riley unwinds the longer he does it.

"Riles…."

"Benny," Riley snarks back, then looks sorry about it.

Setting his jaw, Ben doesn't let it daunt him. "Riley, do you feel safe in this house?"

"Of course. Duh."

"Are you sure?"

Riley shifts on his feet. Back and forth. Just once, very fast. "I'm with all of you and chances of being attacked are low anyway. One of the alarms is on this very window."

Ben and Riley both swallow, eyes a little clouded.

"That's right," says Sadusky. They glance at him. "It would call the police immediately if someone tried to open or break it. I've gotten lots of those calls."

"Right." Ben smiles, but it's one of those worried, slightly desperate smiles like he's trying to get Riley to mimic it. "Which means this baby is going to be perfectly safe, Riley. No one's going to hurt her like someone did to us."

It should be predictable by now, but hearing Ben Gates get right to the heart of the matter, saying such personal things out loud without shame, is forever a striking experience. Sadusky picks up the device, holding the knife in one and this symbol of Riley's insecurity in the other.

"Don't go all intense on me, Ben." Riley's offhand words are betrayed by his wide eyes and the way his taut frame rounds out with the release of strain. "I just wanted to do something for the baby. That's it."

Ben eyes him for a minute longer. "Okay."

"Okay?" Riley looks up through his lashes, like he can't believe it's that easy.

"Okay." Ben musses with his gelled hair only for Riley to swat the hand away. "If you want to do something for my daughter, then I respect you going about that your own way."

Patrick appears at the door, holding a slotted screwdriver. "This might help."

Riley perks up, grabbing it almost before the man finishes speaking with an elated smile. "Aha! Thank you, Patrick."

Peter hands over the disk and Riley does something quick with it, causing it to beep, before setting the device over a pencil measure mark on the wall. He retrieves the screw from the floor and lines it up.

With pensive eyes, Ben steps back to let Riley try by himself. Sadusky too wants to intercept the shaking hand, but he too doesn't lift a finger to help. If this will give Riley some dignity and peace of mind, then they have absolutely no right to stop him.

Sadusky does hand the knife to Patrick, who heads away with a salute.

"Thank you, Peter," says Ben under his breath, brow still furrowed and eyes still on his friend.

Peter smiles. "There's no need to thank me, Ben. Like I said, you're good people."

Riley pauses, eyes flicking over his shoulder. He and Ben have another of those gaze-only conversations. Riley seems to make an immediate decision.

"Hey, Ben. See that tablet on the change table?"

Ben nods and picks it up, the screen queued to some complicated graph readings. They fluctuate when Sadusky shifts forward to look and he realizes the three lines represent each of their thermal signatures—biometrics cued to trip an alarm in case someone leans too close to the crib.

"What do you want me to do?"

Riley holds the scanner steady with his right hand and points a quivering thumb at the tablet. "See the toggle switch that goes up and down on the side?"

"Got it."

"Turn that down so it doesn't go off once I initialize the disk."

Ben taps the screen and then pulls the switch to its lowest setting. Riley finishes screwing the scanner to the wall, bracing his left elbow so it's steady while he uses his right to twist. He taps a few buttons ringing the fish eye scanner and a tiny light on the side blinks green.

"There." Riley steps back, hands on his hips, eyes beaming. Ben claps his good shoulder. "State of the art and air tight."

"It's impressive, Riles." Ben sets the tablet down with a half smile. Then something occurs to him. "You didn't need me to turn down this dial at all, did you?"

"Nope." Riley pops the 'p.' "Just asked for that keep you busy. You wanted to feel helpful, so…"

Ben laughs. "Good to know I can played so easily."

"Hey." But Riley's fighting a grin too. "You and Abigail bought this kid pretty much an entire university library and enough toys to make a whole school of children happy. Let me have this. Gotta get my cool uncle points in somewhere."

Ben scoffs, with the flash of wide eyes that indicate a whole slew of memories coming to mind. "I don't think you've got anything to worry about in that department."

"It really is something," Peter adds. He gestures to the data readings. "We need to sit down and talk about using your skills at the Bureau, or at least your tech inventions."

Riley face wrinkles into a dubious scowl. They're saved from whatever scathing reply he has prepared when Abigail calls them to the table.

And what a table it is. When the three of them meander into the dining room, it's to see the vintage table overflowing with food, and Sadusky distantly wonders how six people are going to eat it all. There are German dishes, in deference to Abigail's upbringing, traditional English meat pies, and even bejgli rolls for Riley. They've pulled out all the stops—all homemade, of course.

Except…

Sadusky feels rude asking, but he clears his throat and points out. "Did I hear something about a turkey?"

"Oh!" Abigail too notices its absence. She flushes with a hand to her forehead. "I completely forgot it in the oven, sorry. I don't know what's gotten into me today. Be right back! Get yourselves settled!"

Sadusky does so, the other head of the table left for Abigail to take its empty seat.

Patrick and Emily, sitting together on one side, are having another of those fake, nattering arguments about what they got each other for Christmas. Riley balances an apple on his head to make Ben laugh again. They look nothing like the dignified, staid figures the papers and media write them out to be—they are vulnerable and bumbling and full of the simple joy of familiar people existing over top of each other.

The words spill out of him before he can think twice.

"I just want to thank you all," says Peter, and other conversations hush. He keeps his tone level, calm, stuffing any other suspicious, tearful emotions far out of reach. "You've been exceptionally generous and it means a lot to not have to spend Christmas alone."

The Gates family, sans Abigail, all gape at him.

Well, this certainly isn't the reaction he was anticipating.

Emily breaks the stunned silence, her face as disgusted as Riley's of minutes earlier. "Don't be ridiculous. We would never have let you spend Christmas by yourself."

"Yeah no offense, Grandmother Willow." Riley leans around Ben to see him, catching the apple in his hands. "But what are you talking about?"

"I just meant…" Sadusky collects his jumbled wits. "That it's a gracious offer you extended."

"Peter." Ben grips his arm. "We didn't even give this a second thought. Why wouldn't we invite you?"

Sadusky can think of a whole host of reasons, mostly centered around the fact that he handcuffed Ben to a desk that one time and police almost shot Abigail at the Library of Congress under his—admittedly unknowing—orders, but he doesn't want to be rude. So he just smiles, the action tight.

Riley pops a candied orange slice in his mouth and speaks around it. "You're worse than Ben with his sacrificial lamb complex."

"Did I just hear the man who offered to let himself stay behind in a crypt to save our lives say something?"

"Mmm." Riley quirks an eyebrow at Ben while he chews. "Got me there."

"Alright!" Abigail marches back out, oblivious to the uneasy atmosphere. She's holding a truly massive bird on a truly massive serving tray. "Who's ready to eat?"

Peter will look back and think about this moment later, how close she got to the table. What a homey scene it was for those blissful ten minutes, the whole clan together and at peace. She's within two steps, maybe not even that. Chipper, delighted to be with her family, Abigail is the picture of the perfect host.

And then there comes a sharp splash!

Everyone goes quiet.

Riley pauses with a chocolate truffle halfway to his mouth and Ben's hand, still on Sadusky's arm, squeezes into a vice.

Even Abigail is completely lost for a moment. She halts, brow furrowed. Then it smooths and her eyes blow wide. She holds the tray away from herself, glancing down at a pool of water around her shoes, and her eyes find Ben.

He starts to stand. "Was that…?"

"Ben—"

"It can't be. We've still got four weeks—"

"Ben." Abigail takes a shaky breath. "I think my water just broke."