Jamie's grown used to this game of sleeping and not sleeping, and pretending to be asleep. He sleeps when he has the time (which is like never), what with paperwork always on the table and the little bar in the comer of his computer blinking despite the number of times he plugs it in. When he's not sleeping (which is usually the case) he's running around picking up toys, dropping off children, picking up children and as much as he sees them, never having enough time for the children. And then lastly, there are the times when he pretends to sleep. This is where he is now; face down in his pillow, breathing a little to deeply to be comfortable, all the while keeping his ears perked for the rustle of little toes on wood floor.

"Shh-h," he hears his oldest whisper, if you could call it a whisper (really its only slightly lower than her toddler usual voice). Something mumbles back, quiet and almost inaudible.

"Ah so they're in cahoots," the other occupants of his bed whispers. His wife peaks out from beneath the thick comforter, pulling their hands (fingers still entangled; thank god he finally found that damn ring) with her.

"Well," Jamie adds lowering his voice, as the feet have gotten closer, "It's that time of year, you know. To put aside one's differences."

She opens her mouth to retort, but before she can even form a word, a noise sounding very similar to that of a battle cry explodes from near the edge of the bed, and Jamie's lost his breath at the bullet that's hit his stomach.

"What the-"

"Morning Daddy." She peeks out from his chest, eyes wide, excited. Jamie chuckles, before gathering the young girl in his arms and cuddling her close, "Can we open presents? Please?" she reaches up and kisses his nose as if to sweeten the question.

Jamie's face turns serious for a moment when he says, "I don't know, have you been good this year?"

"I have. You can ask Jack," she lifts three chubby fingers and points them to the child his wife has on her stomach. The baby gurgles in response, and Jamie chuckles, "I still think you're lying."

But, he sweeps the girl from the bed anyway, and they both race for the bedroom door.

It doesn't take long to unwrap the presents. Wrapping paper flutters in the air around the small family, as the older helps her brother rip the final pieces from his gift.

"Is this you?" Jamie whispers, nudging his wife beneath the ribs. She shakes her head, her eyes confused, and mouths back, "You?"

Jamie returns her bewildered gaze, no, he was sure the two had unwrapped all his presents and the ones from 'Santa Claus.'

"Whose it from honey?" His wife asks cautiously, peering over her daughter's shoulder to see the tag. The child grips the rather large, but oddly shaped gift in two hands and pulls it close. Different points stick out from the edges, and Jamie mulls over a mental list of the toys his children had been asking for from Santa Claus. Power Rangers? No. Jack already got two sets of those, and it couldn't be Barbie, it wasn't the right shape.

"To Jack," she reads proudly.

"Very good, now whose it from?"

"Jack."

His wife shakes her head, but repeats, "Honey, who is the gift from? That's under Jack's name."

"I already told you," the girl groans ripping away the final piece, "Here Jack," she adds turning to the baby, "This ones for you." The child wiggles from his mother's arms and nears the parcel on hands and feet. Together (but mostly with help from the big sister), the two pull away the wrapping.

.

The ice skates are beautiful. Though worn and tired in the leather, the blades are sharp, and well crafted.

Jamie doesn't say a word for a moment; instead he runs his hands over the cool blade. "So this wasn't you?" his wife mumbles, her hands sifting through wrapping paper. The children, too young for such a gift have already moved past the parcel, have moved onto their other presents.

"No, and it wasn't you either?"

His wife shakes her head, her hands still groping around for the tag. It's Jamie who finds it, a pale, light blue square. He opens it slowly, curiosity overwhelming parental suspicion.

"'To Jack. Keep Believing.'"

Jack.