"The fans of Detective December strike again," Skalany muttered, barely disguising her laughter with a cough as she plopped an enormous, red poinsettia onto his desk, followed by several manila envelopes and smaller white ones. "The Chief is not amused."
Peter Caine glanced up, heat flaring in his cheeks.
"How many times do I have to tell you, I am not Detective December."
"Keep saying it, Peter, eventually maybe someone will believe it."

Skalany grinned at him. "Does that mean I can have the flowers?"
He shoved the pile of envelopes back across the desk in her direction.
"That means you can have all of it."
"Oh, no, I don't want the fan mail, just the flowers."
"All or nothing."

"Fine." She gathered everything back into her arms, hefting the poinsettia with a small grunt. "You finish that report on the armed-Santa bank-heist-gone-bad yet?"

Peter sighed. The bank guard was expected to live, but the manager's family would be having a crappy Christmas this year without a father. *So much for the alleged peace on earth philosophy of the season.*
"I might, if someone stops interrupting me."
"Ok, I'm going." She turned and staggered across the bull pen, red flowers waving wildly.

Two pages into the report later, unsuccessfully stifled hoots of laughter pealed across the bull pen. Peter glanced over to Mary Margaret's desk in time to see her dangle a pair of black lace panties from her fingertip.

"Oh, Detective December?" she called. "Here's something a fan wanted you to have. And speaking of fan, there's a rather interesting fantasy that goes along with these."
"I'm not Detective December," he muttered, heat scorching his cheeks again. He bent back over the keyboard, but couldn't focus on the report.

Doing the PBA-benefit calendar had seemed like a good idea at the time. He and Kelly had been - and were currently - in one of the off-again stages of their on-again-off-again relationship. He'd posed for the test shots on a whim, and been shocked as all hell when he'd
been selected to be one of the monthly models. Of course, his ego had been delighted. A good way to impress the ladies, he was sure. Now he wasn't so sure he wanted to impress some of them. Like the ones who sent him panties in the mail.
On the other hand.

He glanced across to the wall, where several copies of the calendar hung, compliments of his station-mates. The shots of Detective December had appeared on the walls all the way back in July, when someone - he suspected Kelly in a snit, but hadn't been able to pin it down beyond a shadow of a doubt - had leaked rumors of Detective December's identity. The PBA-calendar hunk-in-question reclined on a hay mound, one arm behind his head, totally naked except for a Santa hat pulled down over his eyes and some strategically place hay covering his nether regions.

Peter resisted the niggling urge to scratch his crotch. That damn hay had given him a rash for days. A slow grin tugged at the corners of his mouth as he admired the pose. Not bad at all, Peter. Skalany abruptly cut off his view as she perched on the edge of his desk.

"No, it's not done yet," he snapped, "And it's not likely to get done if you don't stop bugging me with this Detective December stuff."
He glanced up - and backpedaled. Mary Margaret's dark eyes held a mist of unshed tears. The stoic, tough, lady-cop didn't often mist over.

"Hey, Mary Margaret, I'm sorry. What's up?"
She waved a white envelope. "I don't care who he is, but Detective December really needs to read this one. See that he gets it, will you?"
She positioned it precisely in the middle of his desk, then tapped it three times with her index finger. "I mean it, Peter. I want him to read that."
Without another word, she hopped from his desk and darted off, leaving the bull pen completely.

Peter retrieved the envelope. Neat, crisp handwriting labeled the outside; the return address indicated a near-by suburb. No perfume scent, like some of the others he'd found on his desk. And the outline of a photo showed through.
He glanced in the direction Mary Margaret had fled. Something about this letter had pushed her buttons. Reaching down, he tucked it into the pocket of his leather jacket, which hung over the back of his chair. Detective December would read it, out of deference to a fellow cop. But not here. Strenlich glared at him from across the room. And definitely not now.
Peter bent back over the report, fingers hesitantly tapping at the keys.

The door to his apartment clicked shut. Ear-shattering silence wrapped around him.
With a sigh, Peter tossed his jacket over the arm of the sofa as he headed for the kitchen. Once there, he yanked open the fridge. Shoving aside two cartons of left-over Chinese take-
out, he grabbed a long-necked brown bottle and slammed the door, causing the remaining bottles to clatter and jingle. He twisted off the top, then sent it skittering across the counter. It skidded to a halt next to his answering machine, the red light blinking accusations at him.

Maybe Kelly had called?
More likely his mom, wanting to know if he'd be joining them for Christmas Eve dinner.
"Bah, humbug," he muttered, then jabbed the play button.

"Hey, Pete. It's me, Mary Margaret." Her voice slurred, thick with emotion and probably a bit too much holiday cheer. She'd taken off immediately after second shift, and the telltale clatter of glasses and loud voices ID-ed her calling-position as a bar.
"Just wanted to make sure about that letter. You're going to do it, right? I mean, you have to. `Scuse me, Detective December has to."
She sniffled. "It's the right thing to do, and you know it."

Peter rummaged in the fridge again, pulling out a carton of the left-overs as Skalany babbled on from his machine. He dumped some beef lo mein onto a plate and slapped it into the microwave.
"I have to go now. I'll call you back later." Click. Beep.

"Pete? It's me again." This time her voice sounded even thicker with booze and emotion. "Before you ask, I'm at home, all safe and sound, and yeah, slightly snockered. Listen, I'll tell you why this is so important to me..."

The microwave dinged, and he pulled out his dinner, then retrieved a fork from the sink, rinsing it quickly and then drying it before digging into the steaming noodles.

A heavy sigh floated from the machine. "I've never told you or anyone else this before, but I lost a sister once upon a time."
The fork hovered mid-air, his mouth gaping open. Peter placed the plate on the counter and moved closer to the answering machine.
"She was three years older than me. When she was 17, she was diagnosed with leukemia. All she really wanted was to go to her senior prom. We bought her the perfect dress." Skalany cleared her throat.
"We buried her in it two weeks before the prom. After that, life was never the same at home. I snuck out of the house on prom night, and into the school gym, like somehow if I at least went, it would kind of be like she was there. Like I could make her dream
come true."

A rustling noise passed through the phone line, then a honking as Skalany blew her nose.
"Please do this, Peter. You can make that poor girl's dream come true."
Another round of honking, then he heard her murmur, "Caine. How did you...never mind. Pete, I have to go. Just think about it. I know you. Your first instinct was to toss that letter. Think about it hard before you decide. Oh, and don't give me that `I'm not Detective December' crap. I saw more of you in that bakery than any partner *ever* has the need to, though you've obviously been working out since then. Besides, I can match most of calendar-boy's scars to your visits to County General."

The connection severed and the machine beeped three times to let him know it was the final message. At least his father was there with Skalany. A twinge of jealousy flowed over him, and he tamped it down. Hell, why should he be the only one on the planet his father
could sense when in need and pain? And Mary Margaret was definitely in pain.

Time to read that damn letter.
Cold bottle in hand, he returned to the living room, and sank down onto the couch. Setting the beer on the coffee table, he retrieved the envelope from his coat pocket and pulled out the
contents.

A pretty, young blonde woman smiled at him from the photograph, wide blue eyes the color of a clear May morning. He turned it over. 'To Rob, love Sunny.'
The name Sunny certainly fit her. He could feel the warmth radiating from her smile, from her eyes. But `To Rob?' Not to Detective December? Interesting.
Peter unfolded the letter and began to read:

Dear Detective December,
I'm writing on behalf of my sister, Sunny. She'll no doubt be annoyed with me when she finds out, but that's a risk I'm willing to take.
You see, it's been December in my sister's room since September, when she was diagnosed. She's got an inoperable brain tumor. In September they gave her two months to live.
Sunny decided that she was going to make her birthday, which just happens to be New Year's Eve. So, she went to her room and turned the calendar to December. She's been staring at you every day since then. Look, my sister is dying, and she's got one wish - to spend her 21st birthday, New Year's Eve, with Detective December.
How do I know? Cause I read her diary, that's how. It's the only way I find out anything around here, like whether or not she's in pain, or how she's really feeling. No, I'm not proud of myself for invading my sister's privacy. But she's the only sister I've got, and I'm losing her.
I don't know if you're married or what - though based on your picture I'm sure you're not alone...

"Yeah, right," Peter muttered. "Appearances can be deceiving."
He glanced back at the letter.

...but maybe the woman in your life will understand. Tell her to think of it like one of those charity bachelor-auction-things. If you can find it in yourself to grant my sister's last wish, call me. I'm sending you her picture. My sister wants to dance and drink champagne on Dec. 31st with Detective December.
Please...
Thanks for listening.
Rob Lambert 555-9897

"Jesus," Peter whispered, glancing at the picture again. The vibrant young woman smiled back at him, and his stomach knotted. How would he feel if that were one of his sisters, Carolyn, or Kelly? Losing one of them - or just knowing he was losing one of them - would be a blow.
"But, damn it, what do I look like, the Make-a-Wish foundation?"

He tossed the picture and letter to the coffee-table, then slugged back a long gulp of beer.
The lights in the apartment dimmed, flickering off, then back on. In the kitchen, the answering machine beeped its displeasure, then Skalany's voice drifted from it again.

"Pete? It's me again. Before you ask, I'm at home, all safe and sound, and yeah, slightly snockered. Listen, I'll tell you why this is so important to me..."
He groaned. The last thing he needed at the moment was to listen to her pitch again.

Jumping to his feet, he slammed his shin into the edge of the coffee-table. "Son of a b..."
The beer sloshed in the bottle as he hopped on one foot. He leaned down to rub what
would certainly be a bruise come morning, then straightened and stumbled back to the kitchen.

"Please do this, Peter. You can make that poor girl's dream come true."

He set the bottle down, then jabbed the machine button, cutting off Mary Margaret before she could continue her appeal on the young woman's behalf.
With a deep sigh, he leaned against the kitchen counter. The smell of beef lo mein lingered in the air, but he'd lost his appetite.
He needed this like he needed to be busted back down to foot patrol.

But...she was dying. And it wasn't like he already had other plans for New Year's Eve. Or a woman in his life at the moment who needed to grant permission.
He blew out a long breath and dragged his hand through his hair. "Come to the 101st, ask for Detective December, he will help you," he muttered. His father, his grandfather, his great-
grandfather would have done it in a heartbeat, no hesitation. Sometimes being part of the Caine line was a real pain in the ass.

But as far as good deeds went, at least this one was a cakewalk. He'd get dressed up, take her out, dance with her a few times, kiss her at midnight, then return her to her brother's care.
Service to humanity didn't get any easier than that. Sure beat spending the night at home, alone, wondering if Kelly was going to call. Or if she was dancing the night away in some
other guy's arms.
The hell with that.
He reached for the phone.

***
Sunny Lambert hesitated before entering the tiny living-room. The Cape Cod had been their parents, but now belonged jointly to her brother and her.
*Soon it will be just his.* She rubbed at the back of her head, cursing the dull ache settled there. She dropped her hand and pasted a smile on her face. *It's your birthday, and you can do this.*

"Dead woman walking," she called out to Rob as she eased around the hallway corner.
"That's not funny...Wow."
His eyes widened as he jumped off the tired burgundy couch. He gave her a quick once-over. "Look at you."

She smoothed the black velvet over her hip, where the sheath-dress clung like a second skin. "Not bad for a corpse, huh?"
"Stop talking like that. And the only deaths tonight will be damn near any guy who sees you in that dress. If they don't drop dead from a heart attack, I'll have to kill them myself because I know what they'll be thinking."

A grin tugged the corners of her mouth upward.
"And what's that, big brother?"
"If you don't know, I'm not about to tell you, baby sister."
"Hey! I am officially an adult tonight. 21."
"You'll always be my baby sister."
He held his arms open.

She moved into his embrace. *And I'll always be 21, too.*
She shoved aside the minor wave of self-pity and nestled her face on his shoulder. His navy-blue fleece pull-over felt warm and fuzzy beneath her cheek. Fleece? She backed from his embrace.

"You're not ready! Look at you. You've still got on your jeans and fleece. You're not even dressed!"
The doorbell chimed the first of its 20-note melody. Her mom had loved the silly thing - Sunny herself found it more annoying than amusing.

Rob grinned at her as it continued to ring.
"Get that, would you?"
"Yeah, if you go get ready. We're going to be late."

Sunny headed for the door, careful to disguise the fact that her left leg wasn't exactly cooperating with her tonight. Heck, neither was her left arm. But there was no point in adding to Rob's worries. The tumor was either getting larger and pressing against something it shouldn't be, or she'd had some kind of stroke because of it.
She knew she was on borrowed time already, so why worry? Tonight was her birthday bash, and she was going to live it up.
"Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow, we die," she murmured. The plural pronoun gave her a vague sense of comfort, as though she wasn't alone on this journey into darkness.

Through the narrow glass window along the side of the door she could make out a tall man, facing away from her, standing on the front porch. A blast of cold air swirled around her bare feet when she opened the heavy oak door.
"Can I help you?"
The man turned, and Sunny's mouth dropped open. A Santa hat perched on his head, pulled down low over his eyes. He wore a long, black woolen coat that accentuated wide shoulders.

"I'm looking for Sunny Lambert."
She snapped her jaw shut so hard her fillings rattled. After several long seconds of listening to the wind howl outside, she finally found her voice.
"And just who are you?"
"I'm Detective December."
"Yeah, right, and I'm the tooth fairy." Sunny chuckled.

The man on the porch pushed up the Santa hat, revealing a pair of sparkling hazel eyes.
"Good, because I've had a question for you for years. How come you never came to Shaolin temples?"
"What?"
He laughed, a rich sound that warmed her to the toes, despite the frigid air rushing across the threshold.

"Never mind. Listen, it's kind of cold out here, can we take this `Who's Who?' inside?"
Sunny eyed him warily. Some stranger claiming to be Detective December wanted to come into her house? Okay, so he was good- looking - at least what she could see of him, but still... "You got any ID?"

He stuck the tip of one finger into his mouth and pulled off his gray leather glove, then reached into the gap of his coat and fished around for a minute.
"There." He unfolded a police shield and held it in front of her. "Peter Caine, detective with the 101st."
She snatched it from his fingers to study it carefully.

"I'm slowly freezing to death on your front porch," he prodded. "Could be considered a homicide if you make me stay out here."
"Ok, ok, come on in."
After all, her brother was in the house with her. The badge looked real enough. And there was something about those eyes that made her feel comfortable. She held the door wider for him.

Peter brushed the few flurries of snow off his black dress shoes, then hustled past her into the foyer of the little Cape Cod. After his eyes adjusted to the change in light, he turned to study his New Year's Eve date.
All the spit dried up in his mouth and his tongue cemented itself to the roof of his mouth.

A black velvet dress displayed the most feminine of curves, from sweet, pert breasts, to a narrow waist, to the gentle flare of her hips. He curled his hands against the urge to touch those velvet curves.
The dress's hem left off about mid thigh, exposing delightfully long legs. And a pair of bare feet. Definitely not what he'd expected, despite the photograph.

He yanked his gaze back to her face. Her blue eyes twinkled at him. Nothing about her screamed `woman on her deathbed.' Although her skin did have a rather translucent cast to it, and just beneath her eyes, he could see where she'd applied make-up to try to hide the dark smudges that in anyone else, he'd say indicated a lack of sleep.

"So, I've seen a badge, but can you prove you're really Detective December?"
An easy grin lifted his mouth as he accepted his shield from her. She had sass. Which probably explained why she'd outlived the doctor's predictions.
"How would you like me to prove it? Shall I strip for you and you can compare me to the picture?"
"Works for me."

She smiled back at him, and her face transformed, lighting up like she'd figured something out.
"Did you bring any music to work with? Are you my birthday present? Ohmigod, I can't believe it. My brother got me a stripper for my birthday!"

Heat flared along the tips of his ears.
"Uh, no, not quite."
But she wasn't listening to him at the moment. She'd turned to face into the living room.
"Rob, I can't believe it. This is the coolest thing you've ever done for me!"
"I was only kidding!" Peter insisted. "I'm a cop, and I'm Detective December, but I am NOT a stripper."

"No, runt, he's not a stripper, for God's sake."
A man with the same butterscotch blond hair as Sunny walked up behind her, and thrust out his hand toward Peter.
"It's good to meet you. I'm Rob Lambert."
"Peter Caine."

He accepted the other man's firm grasp. Calloused pads spoke of a man who labored with his hands for a living.
"Ack," Sunny squeaked. "You mean, you're really..."
"Detective Peter Caine, the 101st, also known, despite my best efforts at keeping it a secret, as Detective December."
He grinned at her. The small amount of color in her face drained away, and she swayed.

"Ohmy..."
Peter grabbed her by the arms. Rob grabbed her from behind.
"Maybe you should sit down."
Between the two of them, they guided her to the sofa. She sank down and covered her face with her right hand. A low moan rumbled deep in her throat. Rob sat beside her.
"Sunny? Are you okay?"
"No, I'm not. I'm mortified."

She lowered her hand and glanced up at Peter. Her cheeks flushed bright scarlet.
"Make sure the coroner lists embarrassment as the cause of death, okay, Detective?"
"Call me Peter."
"What-what are you doing here?"
"Taking you out for your birthday and to celebrate the New Year."

Her eyebrows drew downward.
"You are?"
She turned to her brother. "And just how did this come to be?"
Rob smiled at her. "Happy birthday, Sis. You got your wish even before you blew out the candles on your cake."
"How did you know..."
She slapped her brother on the shoulder.
"You toad! You slimeball! You read my dairy, didn't you?"
She smacked him again.

"Hey, hey!" Rob held his hands up, palms toward Sunny, in sign of surrender.
"You never tell me the truth! Yes, I read it."
Another resounding crack sounded as Sunny's palm snaked through Rob's defenses to connect with his cheek.
"Ow, damn it, Sunny, that's enough."
Rob captured his sister's flailing hands in his, then turned to Peter.
"You just going to stand by while she assaults me?"
Peter grinned. "Yup. I know better than to get in the middle of a brother-sister fight. Besides, you did know she was going to be annoyed."
"Annoyed? Oh, that doesn't even begin to cover how I feel."
Sunny squirmed in her brother's grasp.
"Let me go. You're messing up my dress, you Neanderthal!"

He released her, and she rose to her feet, smoothing the lines of the dress.
"What did it take to get him here? You buy lifetime tickets to the Police Ball or what?"
Her hands stilled and she locked eyes with Peter. A sheen of moisture appeared over the brilliant blue irises. She shook her head slightly.
"No." She twisted her head back to stare at her brother.
"Tell me you didn't tell him."

Rob's shoulders rose toward his ears, then slumped back down.
"A pity date. I'm a freakin' pity date. Don't you know anything about female fantasies, Rob? Getting a date with the hunk of your dreams because you're DYING isn't one of them!"
Peter straightened up and puffed out his chest. *Hunk of her dreams, huh?*

"What difference does it make why he's here, Sis? The point is, he's here, and he wants to take you out to celebrate tonight."
"Your brother's right, Sunny. This is definitely not a pity date."
"It's not?"
She turned those wide eyes on him.
"Nope. Are you kidding me? I'm gonna be the most envied guy there tonight. That dress is an absolute knock-out. I need to be thanking your brother for his handy introduction."
"You don't feel sorry for me?"
He took her left hand. When she offered no resistance, he lifted it to his lips and brushed a kiss against the knuckles.
"I feel sorry for all the guys who aren't me tonight."
The lines of her face softened. The corners of her mouth inched up slightly.
"In that case, just let me get my coat and shoes."

"Oh, look! I think those were dead ducks hanging in that window!"
Sunny peeled her face from the limo's window to glance at him. Damn it, she was so cute. She'd clapped her hands in delight when she'd seen the white stretch limo he'd sweet-talked - with a little help from Donnie Double D. - from the limo company for the evening.
Peter's face was going to ache by the end of the night from all this smiling. Not what he'd expected from a night of escorting a terminally-ill woman.

"Peking duck is a favorite around here. You ever have it?"
She shook her head and turned back to the window, her left arm propped along the gleaming wooden railing above the bar. Up on her knees and leaning over, she unknowingly offered him one hell of a view of her shapely, velvet-encased rear.
His face wasn't the only thing that was going to ache all night.

He shifted position, trying to get comfortable.
"You really should have a seat-belt on."
She chuckled, her breath ghosting on the window.
"Why? You don't. You gonna give us both a ticket?"
What he wanted to give her was not, repeat not, on the evening's schedule.

"I just don't want you to get hurt."
A raucous burst of crackling sounded outside the car.
"Firecrackers! Those boys are lighting off firecrackers right on the street-corner."
A twinge of envy carried in her voice. She glanced over her shoulder.
"Isn't that illegal?"
"Ummm, technically, yes. But Chinatown and firecrackers are kind of synonymous. We tend to look the other way. Don't tell me you've never been to Chinatown?"
"Okay, I won't tell you. Are we having New Year's here?"

She turned. As she untangled her legs, the limo rounded a corner, sending her careening onto the royal blue, upholstered floor. Peter leaned over the glass holder.
"Give me your hands."
He extended his toward her. Her soft, warm right hand grasped onto him firmly, and she tugged herself back onto the smooth, white seat.
"Oops. I see what you mean about that seat belt. I think I'll just sit facing forward now. Thanks."
Her cheeks flushed faintly.
"Good idea. And to answer your question, no, we're not having New Year's Eve here. I just need to make a quick stop, if it's all right with you."
"I will follow where you lead, Detective December."

She smiled gently at him and leaned closer, bringing with her the soft scent of lavender. Her fingers brushed lightly across his cheek, then disappeared quickly to snatch the Santa hat from his head. She positioned it on an impish angle across her own forehead, giggling when it dropped down to cover her entire face.
"Makes a better disguise on you then me."
He pushed it back off her eyes.
"Just remember our deal: no referring to me as Detective December in public, right?"
"Right."

One blue eye closed in a saucy wink, and he bit back a groan. *She's only 21, and she´s dying. Stop flirting, and stop thinking what you're thinking.*
Maybe his father had some kind of tea to calm raging hormones. Better yet, and more importantly, maybe his father had something to help her. That someone so young and so vital, so...well, so damn sunny, should be sentenced to such a harsh reality...
His stomach clenched. Doctors had been known to be wrong before. Especially when challenged by the potions of Kwai Chang Caine.

Several minutes later, he followed her up the stairs. A slight hesitation before each left-footed step and the way she gripped the banister tightly with her right hand confirmed his suspicion. He'd noticed the weakness in her one side the minute he'd lifted her left hand and brushed a kiss over her smooth knuckles. He hovered protectively behind her but made no comment.
At his father's door, he rapped several times, then pushed it open.

"Pop? You here? I brought someone to meet you."
Wearing his black silks with the tiger on the shoulder, his father stepped from the doorway of the apothecary.
"I am here, my son."
He moved effortlessly toward them with all the grace Peter had come to admire in his every move. Did the man never falter?

"Son? Pop?"
Sunny froze in her tracks.
"You brought me to Chinatown to meet your father?"
For a split second, he feared his vivacious young date was going to reveal an ugly, prejudicial wart. But then she winked at him.
"Gee, don't you think maybe this is moving a little too fast?"
Her smile wavered slightly, then steadied.
"On the other hand, I have very little time to spare. I like the way you think."

Peter shook his head. "Sunny Lambert, my father, Kwai Chang Caine."
Pop bowed. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Sunny."
Sunny extended her hand. "The pleasure tonight is all mine, Mr. Caine."
Pop's one shoulder twitched upward and he inclined his head to the side.
"Please, just Caine."
He shook her hand.

"My dad's a...a healer of sorts, Sunny. I was hoping you'd let him take a look at you."
His father arched a questioning eyebrow at him.
Sunny turned to lock gazes with Peter.
"Did Rob put you up to this? He's dragged me to all kinds of qua...ummm, never mind."
"I didn't even mentioned it to your brother. I didn't want to raise his hopes in case..."
"In case there isn't any hope," she finished for him.
"I appreciate that. He's having a hell of time dealing with this as it is."

"You are ill?" his father asked.
A mask of composure slipped into place on her face, but her lower lip quivered as she spoke.
"I have a brain tumor. Too deep and too precariously located to be operated on. They told me radiation and chemo would only extend my time minutely. I didn't want to spend the rest of my days puking my guts out."
"Ahhh."

His father glanced at Peter, then back at Sunny.
"If you wish, I could...examine you." He spread his hands, palms out. "I do not know if I will be of any assistance, but..."
"But there's no harm in trying, huh?"
After directing Peter to the meditation room, his father escorted Sunny back to the apothecary.

Peter wandered the perimeter of the room, spent time gazing out the windows at the frosty city, finally stood in front of the altar where a myriad of candles flickered, flames dancing in the tiny drafts of the old building.
The overwhelming urge to sink to the ground and find his center called to him, but the rented tux and good overcoat weren't exactly sink-to-the-floor attire.
When he thought he could stand the waiting no more, he felt the strong presence of his father behind him. Peter turned from the altar.

"Well?"
His father's eyes, and voice, were soft. "She is a remarkable young woman."
"I've known her for less than an hour, and already reached that same conclusion. You can't help her, can you?"
Pop shook his head gently.
"I have strengthened her chi, restored some of the function to her left side, and eased some of her pain. But for the true problem, no, I cannot help."

Peter turned back to the altar, hands tightening into fists. The reassuring weight of his father's hand landed on his shoulder. Peter struggled to speak around the lump in his throat.
"Well, thanks anyway, Pop."
Sunny coughed discreetly in the doorway. Peter shrugged off his father's hand and turned to face her.
Her white rabbit fur jacket dangled from her fingertips, and she offered him a tentative smile.

"Hey, Detective. You promised me a birthday celebration to knock my socks off. Course, it helps that I'm not wearing any socks."
She inclined her head toward the door. "Time's a wasting. What do you say we get started?"
"I'm sorry, Sunny. I'd hoped --"
"Hey, I feel better right now than I have in weeks. Don't go getting all soft on me, Detective. You promised me this wasn't a pity date. This was definitely not a wasted trip."
She inclined her torso in his father's direction.
"Thank you, Caine."
Pop returned the bow.

They walked to the apartment door as a group, and Peter helped her back into her coat, marveling at the improved motion in her left arm. No, it hadn't been a wasted trip after all, but damn, he still wished the outcome had been different.

As he opened the door, Pop's hand flashed out, and he cupped Sunny's face, then patted her cheek gently.
"Enjoy tonight."
"I will," she whispered.
Peter pretended not to see the shimmer of unshed tears in her eyes as they headed out the door.

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