Chapter Text
Eddie hears the door open, and something thumps against the frame as Buck comes into the house. He’s not sure what a cast iron skillet sounds like on a doorjamb, but he’s got a feeling that it’s what he just heard. Because he knows Buck is cooking dinner tonight, can’t help but roll his eyes fondly at the empty kitchen when he remembers how Buck had gasped when he said that they usually just boiled them for Christmas Eve dinner.
“Eddie,” Buck had clapped a hand against his chest dramatically. “Hot dogs on Christmas Eve is a valid, time-honored tradition, and I respect that. But boiled? Are you kidding me?”
He’d insisted on bringing his own skillet, assured Eddie that he’d be able to taste the difference between a pan-seared hot dog and a “boiled sausage tragedy.”
Eddie had just kissed the next protest from his mouth and promised that Buck could cook them, as long as it was OK with Christopher.
Christopher, who Eddie can hear in the other room, leading Buck by the hand into the kitchen.
“Dad! Dad, look! It’s Santa! On a unicorn!” Chris is right; tonight’s sweater is black, flecked with tiny white stitches that Eddie thinks are meant to be stars. In the middle, sure enough, is Santa Claus sitting atop a unicorn. Presumably, they’re flying through space, if the candy cane-swirled planet on his shoulder is anything to go by. And … fighting aliens? There’s a toy bag in one of Santa’s hands, but the other is brandishing a bright green sword, like he’s getting ready to ride into battle.
“It sure is!” Eddie isn’t sure what else he’s supposed to respond, but agreeing with the exclamation feels like a safe answer.
“Do you think Santa will bring my toys on a unicorn tonight?” He’s bouncing on his toes, balanced between his crutches, and Eddie thinks he might actually launch into the air if he doesn’t settle down before long.
“He might,” he replies, trying to keep his tone level without negating Chris’ enthusiasm. “But I think unicorns like reindeer food too, so Santa won’t have any trouble finding us.”
Chris accepts it without question, and the conversation turns to dinner. Buck lets him help every step of the way, passing the hot dogs over for Buck to slice down the middle, helping carefully flip them over in the skillet when the open sides are perfectly crisp and buttering the buns to toast in the oven.
Eddie has to admit that he’s right: the pan-seared hot dogs do taste better than boiled. It’s the best Christmas Eve dinner he can remember, but he knows that goes beyond the food. It’s in the memories they’re making, how excited Chris is for Eddie to taste the hot dog he helped cook, how seamlessly their lives all fit together.
And after dinner, it’s in Buck presenting Christopher a set of brand new Christmas PJs, flannel button-up printed with red and green fair isle. It’s not quite an ugly sweater, but definitely reminiscent of Buck’s wardrobe the last few weeks.
Chris is so excited to wear them, to the point that it’s all Eddie can do to get him in the bathtub to scrub off before he changes clothes. Finally, Buck points out that new jammies feel even better when you’re nice and clean, and Eddie is once again grateful for the role Buck has taken in both of their lives.
Once he’s cleaned up and dressed, Eddie helps Chris toss the sparkly oatmeal “reindeer food” on the front porch – and makes a mental note to go sweep some of it up later – and pick which of the homemade cookies he wants to set out with the glass of milk Buck is helping pour for Santa.
At Chris’ urging, they agree that Santa probably would like chocolate milk better, and Buck lets him squeeze in a healthy squirt of syrup, wipes up the milk that sloshes over the rim of the glass as Chris stirs. They hang all three stockings from the oven door (the closest compromise Buck was able to help them reach when Chris remembered that they don’t have a fireplace.
“It’s a gas oven,” he’d pointed out. “There's a flame in the bottom, just like a fireplace. We’ll leave the door unlocked and I’m positive that Santa will know exactly where to look.”)
All three of them pile onto Chris’ twin bed and together, Buck and Eddie read The Night Before Christmas. Buck has a knack for character voices, some innate ability to make his Santa sound gruff and no-nonsense, but still like a jolly old elf, while Eddie’s narrative skills could be lifted right out of a movie trailer.
Once Santa has driven out of sight, shouting “merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night,” they exchange hugs and kisses, flicking the lamp off as they leave Chris to his sugarplum dreams.
Eddie pulls the door closed as he and Buck turn back toward the living room. Buck eats his way through the plate of cookies, careful to leave half a cookie and lots of crumbs on the plate, and drinks the milk. There's nothing to prove, so he doesn’t even try to hide his grimace at the sheer volume of chocolate flavoring thick at the bottom of the glass. Meanwhile, Eddie takes care of the reindeer food and fills Buck’s stocking. Buck tosses a tea towel over the top of Eddie’s when it’s finished, covering the top opening so Eddie can’t see what’s inside until tomorrow.
Together, they fill Chris’ stocking and arrange the last few surprises underneath the tree, then collapse onto the couch together. Eddie settles himself against Buck’s chest and brings one hand up to trace across the design on his sweater. He connects the stars, runs his finger around the planet and smiles where his face covers the sword.
“You know,” he murmurs, breaking the silence between them. “I think I might actually miss seeing you in all these holiday sweaters.”
“Mmm?” Buck slowly processes what Eddie’s just said, opening his eyes and fighting off the edges of sleep. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, they’ve started to grow on me. In fact,” Eddie tips his chin up far enough that he can see the side of Buck’s face. “maybe I'll have to get one next year.”
At that, Buck starts shifting underneath him, and Eddie sits up entirely.
“Buck?” They face each other.
“What if … you didn’t have to wait for next year?” Buck wrings his hands, twisting and untwisting his fingers as he tries to look Eddie in the eye. Eddie’s not sure why he’s suddenly so nervous, but he reaches out and wraps his hands around Buck’s, stilling them as he squeezes gently. “I mean, it’s not a sweater, but I … I might have picked something up for you too.”
“Oh?”
“Well, it’s as much for Christopher, but I figured we could surprise him again in the morning.”
Buck stands up and goes to rummage behind the tree. He’s clearly looking for one present in particular, and after a moment, he holds it up in triumph, then passes it to Eddie.
Whatever it is, it’s squishy, slack in his hold, but still wrapped up neatly with a shimmery gold bow on top.
“What is this?”
“A present,” Buck rolls his eyes playfully. “Generally, people open them to find out what’s inside.”
Eddie laughs as he tears at the paper, already knowing that he’ll love whatever’s inside, just because Buck picked it for him.
And when he sees what’s inside, he knows that Chris will love it too.
Sure enough, he wakes them up at 6 o’clock sharp, gasping as soon as they both sit up in bed and he’s able to see what they’re wearing.
And first thing on the 26th, Buck finds himself standing at the Walgreens photo counter, flipping through the stack of prints he’s just picked up.
There’s the three of them in the king sized bed, plates of pancakes balanced on their laps as Buck holds the phone and Eddie tickles Chris’ sides. Then a candid of Eddie, struggling to figure out the wires on Chris’ new video game console. Buck holds up the book Eddie had given him, a storm chaser memoir he’d picked up at the bookstore after their ill-fated Christmas date, beaming as he points at the cover. The next picture is Chris, laying on the floor in a pile of wadded up wrapping paper, making haphazard snow angels on the carpet.
Every picture is a little different than the one before it, but in every single one, they’re all dressed the same, in matching red and green Christmas pajamas.
Buck slides the pictures back into the envelope, and starts to make his way toward the exit. He stops in front of the half-off Christmas shelf, though, reaches for an ornament that catches his eye.
It’s a picture frame, in the shape of a brightly colored sweater, and Buck knows exactly which picture he wants to put in it. He tucks the ornament in his hand and heads back for the photo kiosk to get a smaller copy of the pancake selfie, where all three of them are matching in PJs and smiles.
It’ll be the perfect memory of their first Christmas as a family, of the new memories they’ve built together, ugly sweaters and all.