AN: Very special thanks to Dog in the Manger for her help with this story. I'm lucky to have her as a beta but even luckier to have her as a friend.

Merry Christmas to all!

As she edged down Ferry Street, looking for a parking spot big enough to accommodate the Buick, she had to wipe a bead of sweat off her forehead.

The heater in Big Blue had only two settings that worked: Off and August in Arizona. Although an Arctic cold front had besieged New Jersey for the last week, it was sweltering inside the car.

The dry heat blowing in her face certainly wasn't helping the throbbing in her temples and the vise-like pressure at the base of her skull. The headache had started in the madness that was the mall on Christmas Eve morning. That's where she had been, trying to finish her last minute shopping, when she had received the frantic phone call from her mother.

Ever the dutiful daughter, insert eye roll here she thought ruefully, she had paid for her purchases, climbed into the Buick, and joined the bumper-to-bumper traffic on I-95 North. The drive that normally took an hour stretched to nearly two and there was a decided lack of holiday spirit on the turnpike. She'd been nearly run off the road by a Volvo station wagon decked out with a huge Christmas wreath and a red bow.

Her Uncle Sandor's car had proven itself to be nearly indestructible, but it had its idiosyncrasies. The heater was one and the radio was another. She should have just turned it off, when she realized that it was only picking up two stations today. She'd opted for the one playing Christmas songs rather than evangelical talk radio, but maybe that hadn't been the best choice. Peace on earth, good will toward men… honestly? she thought.

Nearly two blocks past her destination, she found an empty meter and maneuvered Big Blue against the curb. As she stepped up onto the icy sidewalk, her hand went to the back of her neck, hoping to rub away some of ache. That's when she felt the telltale tingle, just before a warm hand covered hers and took over massaging her tight muscles.

"Babe."

The deep voice was familiar, as was the touch. The hint of Bulgari was unmistakable. The sight, though… not so much. She spun around and found herself blinking at him in the bright December sunlight, needing to convince herself that it was really he.

"Ranger."

Over grey sweat pants that had "ARMY" screen printed down one side, he was wearing a wine-colored Henley and a worn leather bomber jacket. His running shoes were white, not black. And he looked like he was thinking about smiling.

"What are you doing in Newark?" he asked her, his hand never leaving her neck.

"I, um, had an emergency."

Instinctively, his hand went to the back of his waist where he normally kept his Glock and he began to scan the area for threats. "Skip? Stalker? Why didn't you call RangeMan for help?"

She couldn't help it. She burst out laughing. "Not that kind of emergency, Ranger!"

"Explain," he said, his hand still on his gun.

She sighed and chewed distractedly on her lower lip. "I picked up my mother's Christmas order from Giovinchinni's yesterday, but I didn't check it and neither did she. Mom realized just this morning that the eel that she had ordered was missing. She called first thing, but they were completely sold out."

"So the Plum family eats eel?" His tone was incredulous and she saw some of the tension leave his shoulders.

"Old Sicilian family recipe for the Feast of Seven Fishes tonight… my dad says it wouldn't be Christmas Eve without it."

"The Plum family eats eel," he repeated, as if he still couldn't believe it.

"Really, only my dad," she admitted with a shudder. "I'll take the fritto misto and clams oreganata any day. But last year he tricked Albert into trying it! You should have seen Albert's face when he realized what he was eating!" She laughed so hard at the memory of her brother-in-law's horrified expression that a tear rolled down her cheek. "So anyway, my mom called all over Trenton this morning, but apparently, everyone is fresh out."

"Go figure," he said dryly.

"I know, right?" She shot him a world-class eye roll. "Lucky for me, Perfect Fish still had a supply, so I was dispatched to Newark to save the Plum family Christmas."

As she spoke, she tilted her head toward the fish market down the street, where a line of customers spilled out onto the sidewalk.

He wrapped an arm around her waist, really just to make sure she didn't stumble on ice, and together, they made their way to join the line.

"You still could have called," he reminded her.

She cocked her head at him, trying to imagine how Tank, or Hector, or Lester would have responded to an eel emergency. It was unlikely that the RangeMan Standard Operating Procedures regarding Stephanie Plum, yes, she knew about those, covered that. She opted for a little shrug. "Anyway, I figured you were out of town."

Really, it was a guess on her part. Ranger didn't usually inform her about his travel plans but since she hadn't seen him at the bonds office for more than week, she just assumed… She blinked back a tear, no doubt due to the biting wind that was suddenly blowing down Ferry Street and the too-bright December sunlight. She shivered and cursed that she had left her gloves in the car. He tucked his hand under her chin and forced her to meet his gaze.

"The installation in Boston took longer than expected and we finally finished early this morning. I'd hoped I could get back to Trenton for a few days, before I needed to leave for Miami and my annual visit with Julie, but…" His voice trailed off. It was so cold he could see his breath. His words seemed to crystallize and hang in the air between them.

She surprised them both, when she finished his sentence for him. "But now you're doing some undercover gig in Newark?"

His eyes widened in surprise and then crinkled at the corners. He was smiling… all two hundred watts. Before she could zip up her coat, he tugged on the front of her sweater, pulling her close to him and wrapping her glove-less hands around his waist, so they would be protected by his jacket.

"My mom threatened to disown me if I didn't show up to celebrate Christmas this year." He paused. "And she absolutely forbids black at the holidays."

They were chest-to-chest, so close so that she could feel his heartbeat.

"So what are you doing at Perfect Fish?" she asked breathlessly.

"Same thing you are, Babe. Errands for my mom." He tugged on the sides of his leather jacket, wrapping as much of it around her as possible.

It took every ounce of her self-control to not let her fingers wander, tracing the sculpted muscles of his back. She bit her lip, trying to concentrate. She was so distracted that all she could manage was an uncharacteristic, one word response. "Explain."

"Perfect Fish sells the best oysters in Newark."

"Your family celebrates the Feast of Seven Fishes too?"

"No," he replied. "The oysters are for tomorrow morning. My mom was so caught up with plans for tonight that she nearly forgot about brunch. My sister, Celia, was dispatched for tomato juice, horseradish, and vodka, and I was sent to pick up the oysters."

"Oyster shooters on Christmas morning? Is that some sort of Cuban thing?"

"More like a Newark thing… or maybe just a Manoso thing."

He cleared his throat and walked her backward as the line inched forward. "The Cuban thing is the pig roast my family has every Christmas Eve."

"Pig roast," she repeated slowly. "You mean like pork chops and ribs… that kind of thing?"

The corners of his mouth tipped up fractionally. "Chops, ribs, and everything on either side. The whole pig."

Her forehead wrinkled in confusion and when she finally worked it out, her mouth fell open in surprise.

He tucked a thumb under her chin and gently pushed it up. Of course, he knew exactly what she was thinking. "No, Babe. It doesn't fit in the oven. My parents have a special barbecue pit in their backyard."

"You have a Christmas Eve cookout? What about the snow?"

"It wouldn't be la Noche Buena without the lechon asado." He ducked his head so he could whisper in her ear and she shivered again. This time, though, it had nothing to do with being cold. Something magical always seemed to happen when he spoke Spanish to her, and she was happily falling under his spell.

"My brother, Rafael, flew in from Miami two days ago, so he could go with my Papa to choose the pig. Yesterday, my mother and my aunts prepared the marinade from a family recipe that has been handed down for several generations. When I left this morning, Rafael and Celia's husband were helping my father build the fire, and my sisters were wrapping the pig in banana leaves."

She found herself leaning into him, so his lips almost brushed the shell of her ear when he spoke.

"When I get back, the house and the yard will be full of people, playing bongos, telling stories, celebrating, while the pig roasts."

"Your whole family will be there, even Lester?"

"The whole family and half the families on the block," he affirmed. "And unlike me, Lester never, ever misses Christmas Eve. Who do you think plays the bongos?"

He took in her look of disbelief and chuckled. "Honestly, you have to see it to believe it. Someday, you'll have to come with me."

"Someday," she said a little sadly. "I'd like that."

The line moved again and together, they crossed the threshold into the store. Now that they were inside, she really didn't have a good excuse to keep her hands tucked under his jacket. She slid them gently across his back with the idea of extracting herself, however reluctantly, from his grasp. In response, he pulled her closer, and rested his chin on top of her head.

He tucked a brown curl behind her ear and muttered, "Thank goodness you didn't forget the baccala. Then Christmas really would be ruined."

"No time to soak," she agreed. "Now that would. be a disaster because my mom's cod cakes are divine… my favorite part of the holiday after Christmas cookies." She pulled back a little, so that she could see his face. "But what the heck do you know about baccala?"

"Cuba's an island, Babe," he smirked. "No shortage of fish there, including salt cod."

"Huh." She was still working on a snappy retort, when he spoke again, his voice softer than usual. There was an emotion reflected in his eyes that she couldn't quite identify.

"It was my Aunt Elena. My uncle married an Italian woman, and she made the most amazing baccala fritters every Christmas Eve."

"You actually ate them, Ranger? Something fried?" Now it was her turn to be incredulous.

"The Temple takes a day off on Christmas Eve, Babe." He touched his forehead to hers, and for a moment, she thought he might kiss her.

"Hmm…will she make them for the party tonight?"

He took so long to answer that she began to curse herself silently. He'd been uncharacteristically open today, but clearly, she'd pushed her luck and now he was pulling away. She tried to take a step back from him, sensing that he needed some space, but he tugged her back. Finally, he just shook his head, and gave her a sad smile. "My Aunt Elena died two years ago from ovarian cancer."

They were both so lost in thought that neither noticed that they had reached the front of the line. For him, the man who was always aware of his surroundings, that was distinctly unusual. For her, not so much.

The fishmonger behind the counter was wearing a green polo shirt embroidered with the Perfect Fish logo, a red Santa hat, and a nametag that said "Mario." He grinned at them expectantly, waiting for their order. "So what'll be today?" he asked.

"I called about the eel? For Plum?" she finally stammered.

"Sure," Mario answered. "Wouldn't be Christmas Eve without the eel." He gestured to her left, asking, "Which one of those looks good to you, Miss? Just pick the one you want."

That's when she noticed them, resting on a bed of ice near the front counter. Three fat eels with shiny blue-black skin, beady eyes and sharp teeth.

She gasped and turned away, How did my Italian ancestors turn eating sea monsters into a holiday tradition?

Fortunately, Ranger realized her dilemma. "She wants the biggest one," he said calmly. "And I need three dozen Blue Points."

"Skinned and gutted?" Mario asked cheerfully.

She managed a strangled 'Ughh' before burying her head in a henley-clad chest. Of course, she could tell that he was shaking with silent laughter, but she assumed he'd given Mario the green light to slice and dice the eel.

In a moment, Mario was back. "I couldn't help but overhear your conversation. Now no disrespect to the women in your families, but my wife makes the best frittelle di baccala. In fact, she's in the back frying up some for a late lunch. I thought you might like to taste one while I tend to your eel."

The fishmonger held out a red napkin and one perfectly crisp, piping hot baccala fritter.

Murmuring her thanks, she reached out and accepted Mario's offering. As soon as she took a bite, she moaned. "Omigod, he's right. Don't tell my mother, but this is the best cod cake I've ever eaten." She held the remaining half up to him. "Ranger, you have to try it."

He shook his head slightly. "No thanks, Babe. It's all yours."

She took another bite, a smaller one this time. "Honestly, you don't want to miss this."

Just when it looked as if she might be convinced to eat the last bite, he caught her hand and brought it to his lips. He sucked her thumb and index finger into his mouth along with the last morsel of cod fritter. He nibbled gently at her fingertips, letting his tongue trace them again and again.

His eyes were obsidian, when he finally released her hand. "You're right, Babe. That was one of the most delicious things that I have ever put in mouth. Addictive, really." His next words were so soft that she almost didn't hear him. "And I do miss this."

Behind the counter, Mario cleared his throat. "Here you go. One eel, cleaned and prepped, and three dozen oysters. I put them in two separate bags, but maybe you just want one?"

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Stephanie remembered her 'Burg manners. "No, thank you. Two bags are perfect," she said with false brightness. Honestly, 'perfect' wasn't the word he would have chosen.

The bags tucked in his left arm, his right hand at the small of her back, they headed for the door. As they exited the market, she couldn't suppress a laugh. There, parked at the curb, just outside the door, was his Turbo.

He walked her down the street to the Buick and waited, while she searched through her bag for her keys. There was an awkward moment, when she finally found them. In truth, they were both a little disappointed.

"Babe, I have a Christmas gift for you, but it's at Haywood."

"Yeah, I have something for you too. At home."

He cleared his throat. "So I'll see you, when I get back from Miami?"

"I suspect so. We're bound to run into one another at the bonds office."

"You going to Shorty's for the New Years Eve party?"

The RangeMan New Year's Eve party was legendary. At an all-RangeMan meeting held at Haywood at six pm, Ranger and Tank talked about the successes and failures of the last year, the goals for the coming year, and passed out bonuses. Then, all but a skeleton crew headed to Shorty's to ring in the New Year.

"I'll be there," she confirmed. Her thoughts wandered briefly to the new dress hanging in her closet.

"You planning on taking a date?" His tone was casual and he was pretty sure that his facial expression gave nothing away. After all, as RangeMan CEO, he was ultimately responsible for the party. He reasoned that it was important to have an accurate head count for the food… right?

"Hadn't planned on it," she replied distractedly. Then a thought occurred to her that made her feel as though she was punched in the gut, and she couldn't breathe. Was he trying to tell her that he was bringing a date? She turned to look at him as she asked, "You?"

"Babe."

After she was settled in the driver's seat of the Buick, he buckled her seat belt around her, brushed a soft kiss across her lips and muttered "Don't go crazy, Babe."

They both knew that was Ranger-speak for, Be safe driving home, OK Babe?

Her usual response, Don't get shot, didn't really seem appropriate, when she knew he was going to be spending the afternoon at his parents' house. She went with the only thing that she could think of in the moment.

"Merry Christmas, Ranger."

She gave him a smile and a finger wave and watched as he headed back toward Perfect Fish and the Turbo. As she turned the key in the ignition, the car filled with soft music. Christmas music. She thunked her head against the steering wheel, as the lyrics washed over her.

This is my winter song

December never felt so wrong

Cause you're not where you belong

Inside my arms

SARA BAREILLES - WINTER SONG