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For a state that rarely sees snow, California does not want for Christmas cheer. It lines the shelves at every retail store, lines the streets with offers of early tree sales, and it only gets worse by the time November passes and Time marches forward into December. Beverly Hills is no exception; if anything, one might go so far as to imply the Hills want to establish itself as the epitome of Christmas enthusiasm.
For Hank, Christmas means something a little extra special. It’s the holiday which meant very little in childhood – as much a childhood as one is afforded on cold Russian streets where the closest one gets to the holiday is a store window brightly illuminated with toys one will never be able to afford and can’t bear to steal in the name of Christmas spirit – but means infinitely more in America, where even the absence of a proper snowfall doesn’t dim the notion of goodwill towards man. Charities line street corners and the exterior of grocery stores. Toy drives work overtime. Parents who tease that the presents will be minimal always manage to pull a little Santa-magic at the last minute and make children’s eyes light up brighter than the tree.
Oh, and that’s another thing: the Christmas tree. Trees, everywhere! Store shelves are lined with lights of every color and ornaments in all shapes, sizes, and beautiful sparkling design. Hank can easily spend half a day in the Hallmark store and another solid eight hours in Hobby Lobby – and he will proudly drive the distance to get there early, even if it means waking up at an hour that even Mr. Early-to-Bed-Early-to-Rise groggily declares as unholy.
But Barry does look so charming: first thing in the morning, before ‘morning’ has technically started, with hair tussled, face-down in his pillow, and jerking the covers back in place with one hand while the other waves away whatever good cheer Hank is trying to bestow at an hour Mr. Cranky Pants isn’t ready to receive it.
“Looking for something special, honey?”
The saleslady looks like a grandmotherly type: round-faced with dark eyes that sparkle with her smile, and appropriately adorned with a white-fur-trimmed Santa hat. Wreaths made of tiny jingle bells hang from her ears and twinkle their chimes every time she moves.
“Oh, yes.” Hank sighs, “But he is SO hard to shop for. Very much the, ‘Don’t get me anything’ type. You know? Like, he insists I not get him anything when I just know he’s counting on the most perfect gift.”
People usually have one of two reactions about this time, but sort-of-not-quite-but-close-enough Mrs. Claus doesn’t even bat an eye. “Well, what’s he like?”
Perfect strangers will learn it’s not always wise to ask Hank about Barry, especially when no specific filters or time constraints are put on the requested description. This nice lady gives neither of the above, so Hank gets on a roll in about two minutes that – not unlike a snowball – shortly thereafter cannot be stopped with anything shy of a tractor trailer.
She’s a good sport, this nice lady with Santa hat and jingle bells, and she listens without an interrupting word until Hank is officially out of breath. “Hmm. He does sound a bit tricky.” She says it like someone talks about things which have a tricky solution but he (or she) don’t shy away from tricky-anything. She leads Hank away from the Christmas sweaters (which he’s still coming back to, because Barry does not actually own a Christmas sweater and that simply will not stand) and through a few other sections. Each one is followed by Hank’s commentary.
New snow boots – negative. Barry has three back-up pairs.
New suit – definitely not. He can barely get Barry into a pair of corduroys (and he does NOT care what the man says – those are still in style!) let alone an actual evening suit. He’ll wear denim to Hayley and Joe’s wedding; Hank is convinced of it.
New bedroom set – Hank’s best work is done in the bedroom. Figurately and literally.
Something fun for the car – Barry thinks a new air-freshener (not that he ever needs one, as clean as he keeps the darn thing) is an exciting accessory. Anything else is ‘an unnecessary and trivial expense’. Cheap skate.
The nice lady has the patience of a saint. “Think about this,” she says, without any loss of good cheer, “is there something he’s talked about, even in passing, that seems to come up often enough that you thought it wasn’t actually ‘in passing’? You know, something he talks about and seems to enjoy talking about – before he suddenly changes the topic?”
Hank opens his mouth a little too quickly, then leaves it hanging for a minute or two while his brain works overtime. Then he snaps his jaw back together, throws his arms around the nice lady, and sprints out the door.
***
“Hank,” Barry calls, exasperated, from the living room, “I am stringing this popcorn because you insisted it was tradition. You think you could get in here and help me out?”
“Sorry!” the voice comes from the garage, and Barry can’t imagine what Hank can be doing back there; similar to the laundry room, it’s an area from which Hank has been expressly exiled on account of creating more damage than being productive, “Be there in half a minute!”
‘Half a minute’ averages out to between twenty and eighty minutes, so Barry resigns himself to finishing this little project by himself. Truthfully, it isn’t that he strictly minds indulging Hank’s childlike joy for the holiday; he just would appreciate a little group participation. Between stringing the popcorn and getting the tree adorned with the number of lights to satisfy his partner’s pleadings, Barry’s back is loudly protesting the treatment of the last three days.
Not to mention, he’s already cringing at the thought of their electric bill when this is over. The tree has enough lights to be seen from the space station at this point.
“Oh! This looks awesome, man!” Hank claps his hands together and bounces slightly in place with unashamed delight, “Plug it in, plug it in! We have to see the full effect. Like, IMAX version!”
Barry rolls his eyes, admittedly with too much affection to be genuinely annoyed, and plugs the cord into the outlet. The resulting exposure half-blinds him.
“Perfect!” Hank proclaims, “One-hundred-ten-percent, man! This is awesome!”
“So you said already.”
“You are SO not going Cranky-Pants on me, Mister!” Hank grins and waves him over to the couch, “I have a surprise for you, and you are going to enjoy it like a big boy. Now, sit – sit, sit, sit!”
“Hank, breathe,” Barry can’t help but crack a half-grin, “You’re going to combust.”
“Christmas combustion, man! Now sit!” Hank physically pushes him all the way down into the cushions; by now, Barry is used to being manhandled and doesn’t pop Hank upside the head for it, “Okay, now close your eyes!”
“Hank…”
“I have special surprise for you! Just play along, please? Pretty please?”
“It’s not even Christmas day, Hank. We agreed we were waiting for our presents – which, by the way, you weren’t supposed to get for me.”
“Like you actually expect me to follow that.” Hank rolls his eyes with high dramatics, “Talk about a rule with ‘Meant to be Broken’ written all over it. Like, in neon.” He waves his hand in an odd pattern, “Now, sit there and I will be right back!”
Barry doesn’t have much choices except to sit and obey. Hank will give him grief to Judgment Day if he doesn’t.
“Okay,” Hank’s voice calls from around the corner, again from the garage, “close your eyes!”
He obeys.
“Are they closed? Like, super tight??”
“Yes, Hank.”
“You promise?”
“Yes, Hank.”
Ears finely tuned to the slightest interruption of noise, Barry can hear Hank literally tiptoe across the floor in his socks, then pause…pause some more…and finally come closer. He’s very close now. Barry can smell his knock-off Old Spice – a transition from his preference of fruit-scented body wash after an accidental mix-up with Barry’s personal products convinced Hank the scent was, to quote, ‘ten-thousand times better’.
Then there’s a weight in his lap. It’s not Hank. Barry instinctively puts both hands up to brace the new whatever-it-is, and feels…fur?
Then he feels something warm and wet start licking his face. His eyes snap open in half a second.
“Hank!” the grin that splits his face is almost painful with such intensity; he’s staring down into the biggest pair of chocolate-brown eyes, a soft black nose, and the pink tongue which is currently laving his cheeks with affection, “Hank, what did you do??”
“So, you mention, like more than once, how nice it would be to have dog around the house.” Hank perches on the edge of the couch, grinning at the sight in front of him, “How you had puppy when you were little boy. How strays follow you around in Marines. Your eyes, like, totally light up when you talk about it. As bright as Christmas tree. Knew it was not coincidence.”
Barry grins at him, arms cradling the squirming little bundle of fur and fluff – a German Shepherd puppy, probably not more than three months old – in his arms like a kid with a brand-new toy. The proverbial bow on top of this happy package is the collar proudly fastened around its neck: pink camouflage pattern and all.
“Does she have a name?”
Hank shakes his head, “She’s yours. Well, ours. I’ll help you feed her and take her for walks and teach her to roll over and do fun tricks. But she’s mostly yours.”
“No.” Barry shakes his head, “She’s ours. So let’s name her. As long as it’s not Fluffy or Princess.”
“Oh, God no.” Hank looks horrified at the idea, “So does not fit.” He reaches over and rubs the puppy’s ears, “She is itty-bitty now, but she is going to be a total bad-ass when she grows up. Just like her daddy.”
Barry honestly doesn’t remember the last time he smiled this much, or this openly, or this genuinely. But he also can’t remember being this happy in a long, long time. He rubs behind the puppy’s left ear, watching the content expression on her face, then kisses the tip of her nose. “Sofia.”
“Sofia?”
Barry kisses her nose again and gets a tongue right up the center of his face, “It was my mom’s name.”
“Then it is perfect.” Hank sinks down onto the couch and squishes himself between Barry and the armrest. “You are happy, right? Like, really happy? I mean, you look happy as a clam right now, but I just—”
He quickly stops talking. The fact that Barry’s mouth is currently occupying his own might have something to do with it.
And they didn’t even need mistletoe.