Peter walked into the Pad, beaming from ear to ear. In his arms he carried a huge bundle of red fabric, a pair of shiny black boots perched precariously on top.

"Guess what, fellas? " He let the bundle fall onto the couch, boots sliding to the floor. "I'm Santa Claus!"

"And I'm Rudolph," Mike said dryly. "Can't ya tell by the red nose?"

"And I'm Mrs. Claus," Micky chimed in, coming down the stairs in his Mrs. Arcadian wig. 'How many times have I told you to call when you're going to be late?'" he said in a screeching falsetto.

"Very funny!" Peter held the costume up to himself. "I'm playing Santa for the kids down at the Youth Center on Christmas day," he explained. "What do you think?"

"Don't listen to them, Petah." Davy examined the costume, plopping the fur-trimmed hat on his own head. "I think you'll make a smashing Father Christmas."

"Thank you, David." Peter shot the other two a smug look. "We're decorating the center Christmas Eve," he informed them. "Why don't you guys come too? We could use all the hands we can get."

"No can do." Micky pulled the wig off, giving it a considering look before shrugging, and tossing it over his shoulder. "I'm going to Mom's for Christmas, remember? She'll have my head if I don't show."

"Davy?" Peter looked at the Englishman expectantly.

"Sorry, mate. I've got presents to deliver." He gestured toward the pile of 8x10 glossies stacked on the kitchen table, ready for his special touch. "I've got two hundred of those to personally sign and deliver before Christmas."

"You really think giving a picture of yourself to every girl in your little black book is a good idea?" Mike asked as he finished going thorough the day's mail, automatically separating the bills and tossing the rest on the coffee table.

"Supply and demand, Robert M. Supply and demand." Davy slipped the Santa hat from his hair, finger-combing the brown strands back to their usual neatness. "There's just not enough of me to go around. This way no girl has to be without my smiling face!"

Amid the groans that followed, Peter cast a pleading look at Mike.

"Don't look at me like that, Shotgun. The center's your thing, not mine."

"Yeah, Pete." Micky sat at the kitchen table and, pulling out a black marker, proceeded to add his own contributions to Davy's photo--a blacked-out tooth here, a goatee there--while Davy admired his reflection in a small hand mirror. "Why do you spend so much time there anyway? It's not like they pay you or anything."

"That's why they call it volunteer work, Micky." Peter carefully folded the Santa outfit, laying the pieces in a neat pile. "And it's fun. I get to hang out with the kids and stuff."

"Well, you go ahead and have your fun," Mike stated. "If you guys are all going to be out, then I'll have a nice quiet evening here." He smiled at the prospect of an entire evening alone, a vast difference from the usual frantic comings and goings at the Pad.

"All right," Peter replied. "But you don't know what you're missing. You guys could've been my elves."

"Hm...crying kids, wet laps, sticky fingers...I think we'll manage." Mike filed the unpaid bills in the "To Be Forgotten" box, behind last month's bills and a rent demand from Babbitt.

"Have it your way," Peter sighed, disappointed. They really could use help at the center, and he'd been hoping to talk at least one of his band-mates into helping. He shrugged. The kids would have their Santa, anyway, even if the decorations were a little skimpy.

~*~

Davy whistled as he signed the last of the new pictures he'd had made to replace the one's Micky had defaced. "Amanda Zagorski," he announced. "All done--and just in time for Christmas Eve!"

"Groovy, babe!" Micky put the finishing touches on the last of the gifts for his family. "You can drop me off at Mom's on the way to your first stop." He grabbed his jacket from the closet. "Sure you don't wanna come, Mike? Mom said you're all welcome."

"Thanks, Mick, but I've got a date with this book." He held up the thick novel he'd bought as a present for himself. "Besides, I'm expecting a call from my mother, and I don't wanna miss it."

Mike got up to turn the television off as Micky and Davy headed for the door. As he reached for the knob, a familiar-looking building caught his eye. "Hey, isn't that the Youth Center?"

Davy abandoned his pictures to peer at the screen. "Yeah, that's it! What's going on?"

Mike shot him a grim look.

"It's on fire."

~*~

The excitement was all but over as the trio arrived at the center. Parking the Monkeemobile haphazardly in front of the building, they spotted Peter outside, talking with a uniformed officer.

Peter!" Rushing up to him, they nearly knocked the blonde man over in their haste. "What happened?"

Peter shook his head, coughing into his handkerchief.

"Just a small kitchen fire, boys," the officer answered for him. "Apparently one of the kids decided to try his hand at baking cookies for Santa."

"You all right, Peter?" Mike's brow furrowed in concern.

Peter nodded. "I'm okay," he said, voice scratchy. "It was more smoke than anything."

"It's going to take a couple of days to get the place aired out and clean up the water damage, I'm afraid," the officer added.

"I'm afraid that's of little comfort to the kids." The director of the center, an energetic woman in her fifties, walked over to join them. "I'm sorry, Peter, but it looks like you won't get your chance to be St. Nick this year."

The dispirited look in Peter's eyes was heart-wrenching. "But the kids..."

"I know, but there's no help for it, Peter. There's no way we could get this place ready by tomorrow, and even if we could, we can't replace all those waterlogged gifts." She clapped him on the shoulder. "At least the damage to the building itself wasn't too bad, thanks to you. Why don't you go on home--I'll take care of things here."

Reluctantly, Peter followed the others to the Monkeemobile, sitting silently on the trip home. As soon as they were home, he headed for his room to lie on his bed, staring at the ceiling with shuttered eyes.

As he drifted off into a troubled sleep, he was unaware of the plans being laid in the next room.

~*~

Peter awoke early the next morning, nose wrinkling at the scent of smoke that still lingered in his hair despite a shower, an instant and unwanted reminder of last night's events. Looking over, he frowned as he saw that Davy's bed was made. Either he was up earlier than Peter--which was rare, indeed--or he'd never come to bed at all.

Grabbing some clean clothes, he headed for the bathroom, determined to get rid of the aroma of burning wood. As he stepped out into the living room, his jaw dropped in shock.

The place was completely decorated for Christmas. Tinsel and lights draped the spiral staircase, the bay window was decorated with a festive--if fake--snow scene, and red velvet bows had been tied onto anything that didn't move, including Micky's drum kit and the hapless Mr. Schneider. Most surprising of all, their modest tree had been replaced by a huge pine, one that bore a striking resemblance to the one Peter had glimpsed in Mrs. Purdy's front window.

"Guys?" Peter said to the empty room. "Where is everyone? And what's going on here?" His voice was still a bit scratchy, but much better than the night before.

Suddenly the upstairs bedroom door opened, and Micky ran out, sliding down the stair railing to land with a thump at the bottom. "Hey, Big Peter! Merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas...What's going on here, Micky?" Peter looked at the drummer's strange attire. "And why are you dressed like that?"

Micky looked at his green tunic, with it's matching tights and pointy- toed ankle-boots. "Don't you recognize an elf when you see one?"

"Yeah, Petah!" Davy came down the staircase carrying an armful of wrapped boxes. "Santa's got to have some help, you know." He was dressed identically to Micky.

"Santa's not coming this year, remember?"

"Oh yes he is," Micky countered. "We've got it all worked out." He took the presents from Davy, piling them underneath the tree. "The kids are coming here, and Santa will give 'em these gifts!"

"But what about Mike?" Peter asked. "He's not gonna want a bunch of kids running around here."

"It was Mike's idea. Even if he's not wild about his costume." Micky rolled his eyes as the Texan's grumblings drifted down from the upstairs bedroom. "Mike, we could use the rest of those presents down here!"

"I'm comin', I'm comin'..." Peter nearly choked as long, skinny legs, encased in forest-green tights began to descend the stairs. "Mike?"

"Not a word outta any of you!" he growled as he carefully maneuvered the last of the stairs, peering around the stack of boxes in his arms. "Not one word!"

"This was your idea, Mike?" Peter relieved Mike of some of the gifts so he could see his face. "But why? And how?"

Mike wouldn't meet his eyes. "I know what it's like to not have a Christmas," he said by way of explanation. "As for how, all we did was stay up all night decorating, and calling everybody we knew to donate gifts, beg Mrs. Purdy to make refreshments, and arrange to have all the kids to come here instead of the center."

Peter's grin was dazzling. "I don't believe you guys! You thought of everything!"

"Almost everything," Davy said. "The most important thing is up to you."

"Me? But what can I do?"

"Have you forgotten?" Micky asked in amazement. "You're Santa Claus!"