The New Year
Cisco was usually a good kid. (Everyone was a kid at Christmas.) He didn't go looking for the presents; when his parents had the same writing as Santa Claus, he'd pretended not to notice; he always behaved himself in front of the Elf on the Shelf, and sometimes everywhere else, too, just in case the guy was particularly wily; he'd put out cookies, and he had ever so carefully avoided shaking the wrapped presents.
But in this case, this particular case, when presented with such a spread of generosity and an admittedly somewhat intimate conversation, he couldn't quite leave it alone.
So after the truck made its magical reappearance -- Cisco being fully capable of hitching a ride with one of the Pack during its temporary absence -- he walked a slow appreciative circle around it. He pulled out a clean tissue from a pack he kept in his tidy jean jacket pocket, and wiped his eyes with it. Then he gave a good, long sniff around, questing for familiarity of scent and the gender and health of his oh-so-generous secret Santa.