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last week, you walked around the city’s farmer’s market, searching for the perfect gift. Christmas-themed pep in your step, you purchase a warm red and brown pair of oven mitts. Your intention to embroider, and embroider you would.
you smile to yourself with warm cheeks for the remainder of the day after that, knowing exactly who it’s for. It’s snowing for the first time this year and your breath turns to fog when you exhale.
it’s finally winter.
you buy your usual fresh blueberries and leave. They were $6.99 this time. You hate how expensive it gets during the cold season.
you walk back home on stone-bricked roads, boots making a hollow noise against each stone as they pass. You’re trying desperately not to slip on any ice. The chill is bitter, and you’re shivering. Soon enough though, you’ll be drinking hot cocoa in your nice, warm bed.
but that was last week, today’s christmas eve.
the company headquarters is decorated head to toe, courtesy of dima, who greets you on top of a ladder once you come in through the door, snow melting off your boots. Daily chores for earning reputation weren’t always easy, but you were glad to pitch in and do your share.
“ah, you! how is decoration?” he gestures around at the over-decorated living room, almost falling off the ladder in the process. It eventually wobbles still and he sighs a breath of relief. You laugh at him.
“it’s perfect, dima.”
“where is everyone?” you ask, it’s oddly silent. It appears as if it’s just you and dima in the whole apartment complex.
“either on today's co-op or christmas shopping,” he hums, nailing stockings into the marble of the fireplace with his prosthetic, which seems to have enough mechanical strength to do so. It shines ruby-red under the warm lighting from various candles. There’s holiday music softly wafting in from the halls.
dahlia’s gonna be pissed after seeing this. Some of the rock crumbles onto the floor.
you head to your apartment and spare another longing look towards your neighbor's door. You turn back to unlock yours though, with a sigh.
6 reads the door. There’s a wreath on it this time. Also, a note.
‘ on today’s co-op, will be back late. Sorry. -chaac ‘
always, the notes have perfect punctuation, grammar, and phrasing. The handwriting is nice but shaky, he puts too much care into these notes and you know it. You can’t help but be disappointed though, they stuck your best friend with a mission on christmas eve! celebrating will be hard together, and chaac will also be exhausted at that. Dead tired perhaps?
how are the two of you supposed to have a nice evening now?
~
it had become a tradition for you two, get hot cocoa together during the early part of the night and exchange presents. Then, come back to the loud party the rogues threw.
the tradition started the first year you joined the company. Chaac was one of the first rogues you were paired with, much to his dislike. It was never personal, he was just… a socially awkward man.
he didn’t make connections because he thought he was a burden. A curse that war follows. So out of never wanting to hurt a soul again, he tried staying away from you as hard as he could.
you thought he hated you, he actively avoided you and was grumpy. It was quite the opposite though, and once you cracked the facade, the man was like putty in your hands. You enjoyed the challenge, and wouldn’t quit until the two of you were friends. You would always talk to him specifically after missions, and make sure he had drunk enough water afterward.
you could tell he secretly loved the company from the light in his eye and twitch in his half-smile but decided to not tease him over it. You’d rant to him in a rage after bad missions, and give speeches of triumph when you had good ones. Every time he would just listen intently and carefully.
you figured you were considered friends when he would specifically ask for you to partner with him on missions. It wasn’t soon after that your conversations stopped being one-sided. He’d speak of his memories of mexico or older missions before you came to the company.
you’re not exactly sure what was meant to be tall-tales or genuine, but you’re grateful for the sentiment.
your tradition started two christmas eve's ago, after you saved him from a shotgun to the face. You took down more jackal foot soldiers than he did that day.
he then gave you a pair of gold cuff-links at your doorsteps.
“but i don’t have anything to give you back, chaac.”
“better try twice as hard for next year then.”
the cuff links were nice, too nice.
~
you go back to help dima decorate, frosting cookies for the party on the counters while you watch him try to not fall face-first on the ground.
the couches have embroidered red throw-blankets over them, and plenty of plump pillows. The trees have been decorated and the stockings hung, there wasn’t much else to do besides stall until the rogues came back.
unlike chaac, dima became your friend on day one. He was chatting it up with you, enamored with whatever you were doing and you. Dima just likes you, in that pure friendship way. Somethings wrong though, as he sits watching you on the stool, leaning on the counter.
“what are you up to dima?” he perks up. You accidentally pour too much frosting on some poor cookie’s head.
“i wanted to give you this.” you stop dead in your tracks, cleaning will have to be done later. It’s a red envelope with your name on it. Rogue company insignia embroidered.
he tries too hard to sit still as you open it, you can tell he’s super-excited. You smile goofily as you open it.
it’s your rogue company id card. You gasp as you open it, the envelope falling to the ground. You’ve officially been recognized by the company as an official rogue, before this moment, you’ve only been a rookie in training.
“how on earth did you get this dimitri!!” he looks smug and proud.
“i made paper lady advance paperwork!” you run over and hug him. You almost cry.
“thank you so much.” you’re squeezing him so hard.
“you’re very welcome! but please stop crushing dima.”
it’s not soon after until saint arrives. He’s brought a vegetable platter and a ton of bags. You help him get out of his coat and with the many bags. Then, after seeing the mess you two made, lectures you both as he makes you clean it up.
“is everyone coming this year?” you ask him. Saint handles invitations during rogue events, making sure certain people are invited and a certain few aren’t.
“mack, ronin, and umbra aren’t coming this year.” he sighs and rubs his temples. Dima pulls another stool out for him to sit with the two of you.
“ronin?” dima inquires.
“on a 3-day mission. Wouldn’t wanna be her right about now.”
“umbra… obvious reasons. And mack is a cop. How are we supposed to party properly with him here?” you nod, you’ve finished the cookies, and you hide the best two for you and chaac later.
not even 20 minutes later, 10 people show up. Half come from other rogue-owned locations and the other from their apartments.
there are hugs, smiles, and a newfound massive pile of presents that made their way under the christmas tree.
when you're in a room with 20 plus mercenaries that make more than 10-figures a year, there tends to be more leniency with material objects. You laugh at the irony of it. Most the rogues have forgotten where they've come from, now living false realities of lavish lifestyles. It reminds you of a certain someone who never forgot their roots, and the missing ache returns.
it's normal to miss your best friend like that, right? you're overthinking this as lancer talks your ear off. You hug her and travel out into the crowd. You already feel socially drained.
half the crowd was either wasted or telling some sort of overzealous story of conquest, gold, or love. It’s comforting seeing everyone so human for once, and not in the middle of a battlefield.
at midnight it starts to quiet down, which was the opposite of what you expected. Usually things get more turn’t after midnight, especially with the drinking and hardcore drugs laying around. There’s a mysterious needle on the coffee table you’ve been eyeing. This year everyone made a pact to not hire any strippers, after an incident with the fixer thinking it was more of a rowdy party. Now he comes to parties in sweaters and his night-glasses, black classy designer frames.
you’re too drained, and dima looks too drunk. Once he throws up you figure it’s time to get your buddy to bed. You carry him around, his arm over your shoulder as you haul his weight around.
dima wasn’t a light-weight by any means, so the man had to nearly give himself alcohol poisoning to get this wasted. You make him drink 3 whole cups of water, take an advil night-length pill, and wish him goodnight. You tell him his present from you is in his stocking.
you know you’ll have to tell him again tomorrow, only reason you didn’t give it to him tonight was that you knew he was gonna party. You run your fingers over the crisp, opened envelope and smile hard, heart and lungs constricting from pure happiness.
it was a nice gift.
~
it’s two am and chaac still hasn’t come back. Just how late was late? you’re starting to fall asleep, and leaving your door unlocked wasn’t an ideal idea. But if anyone broke in you knew chaac and dima would help. You need to go lock it, but you’re falling asleep, eyes heavy.
you give up hope, it’s heartbreaking but you’re an adult. It’s just christmas eve… you put your pajamies on.
you fall asleep on cool marble counters, drooling into the cool rock. You’re in your sleep shirt and pants, which is a matching button-up and top with stripes that run from bottom-to-top in light purple and white. If you had one of those old sleep-hats you’d look like a cartoon. Your envelope sits on the counter, followed by some plants and a speaker that’s playing christmas-themed softcore jazz.
it’s an awfully cute sight, chaac thinks, looking down at you with two hot-cocoas in hand. He feels awful, it’s 3 am and the two of you haven’t gotten to your neighborly hangout sesh. He puts your hot cocoa next to you and pulls a chair out to sit next to you.
should he wake you? he debates it. He studies you and your frame, the pjs are such an adorable contribution to the scene.
“hey…” he nudges you and you wake slowly, like when you wake up from a hard, deep nap. There’s drool on your face and your hair’s a mess. You make a questioning noise, blinking.
“finally.” you run a hand through your hair. He’s wearing a burgundy bomber-jacket. It has white fluff at the top and metal accents. He has his usual black mask but no face-paint. You notice a black box with a red bow.
“guess i woke you. Your apartment was unlocked. You know how dangerous that is around here?” he scolds, but it’s not harsh by any means.
“are you calling your fellow rogues dangerous?” your brow lifts. He sighs.
“what kinda hot cocoa is this?” you smile and take his hand in yours. His skin is dead-cold, so your own heat radiates back at you. He completely is taken off-guard and scratches his neck, looking away.
“peppermint for you, cinnamon for me.” he coughs.
“whaaat… lemme try yours too.” he lets you taste-test them both, despite the indirect kiss it leaves. Sharing drinks, you’ve gone from almost enemies to being able to live in each other’s space. He pulls his mask down. Sure, covid was a thing, but you’ve already drank out of his drink. Plus, you hang out daily and are vaccinated.
“if you get me sick i’ll be mad.” you tease,
“you’re the one who drank out of my cocoa already.” he snaps back, valid point. You’re eyeing the present and he can totally tell. You can’t help yourself. You get up, open a drawer with the mitts and return to him.
“here’s your gift, not-so-stranger neighbor.” you hand them to him, making sure to flash off the custom-embroidered sugar skeletons you did. It’s a little sloppy but it’s the best you could do. He takes them in his calloused hands.
your smile immediately falls as he doesn’t react, just studying them with a concerned look. A look that turns worried as he notices your expression, eyes darting from your face back to the mitts.
“do you not… like them?“ you ask, you’ve never been this nervous before. It’s just chaac, your neighbor. Don’t freak out over this.
“don’t like them?? i love them, you’ve sewn this yourself, haven’t you?” he flips them over, still examining but his face is still low.
“then what’s wrong you doof!” he sighs and goes to the couch making sure to take both the gifts with, you follow him.
“i’m dead. Remember?” he takes both your hands, you shiver from how dead-cold he is.
“ok! ok point made. You can still burn your skin…?”
“sure but i’ve been caloused since i can’t feel it.” he’s starting to laugh.
“don’t make fun of it! i worked hard on it.”
“i’ll use them every time from now on, how about that?” he smiles gently down at you. The look makes your heart skip a beat. Your eyes nervously dart around and settle at your gift, sitting between the two of you on the plush couches.
“you better use them.” you grump. He hands you yours. You almost rip the ribbon plain off but he gripes at you, so you do it nicely.
it’s a beautiful, white-gold thin chain, long and high quality. There’s also a pair of silky-smooth gloves. You ‘ooo’ as you examine the two presents, they look crazy expensive.
you’ve given him oven mitts, and he’s given you expensive gold again. For the third year in a row. You stop dead in your tracks as you realize.
you start to cry, it starts with two tears and morphs into more, chaac sits up in a panic.
“are you ok??” he asks, unsure exactly what to do. Should he hug you? talk you down? get tissues—wait yeah that sounds like a smart idea so he jumps up to get them, and immediately tries to make you stop crying. A million anxiety-fueled thoughts whirl around his brain.
“i’m ok—it’s ok. No no, your gift is amazing! that’s the problem actually-“ you raise your hands to gesture around, starting your rant and he listens with a sympathetic look.
“you’ve gotten me gold cufflinks, a tie clip, a chain and gloves. I’ve given you a heated blanket with candles, a record player, and oven mitts…?? which you can’t even use because you’re dead and can’t feel heat!” you slam your hands into your face. He laughs.
“don’t laugh at me, i’m having a breakdown.” you groan into your fingers. He pulls them down so you can meet his eyes.
“just because i can’t get burned, doesn’t mean i can’t feel warmth at all. I’ve used and enjoyed your gifts over the last two years. A little too much. He looks away with that last comment. You wipe your snot and tears away with your sleeve, which he ews at.
“well you’ve gotten me such nice things… does blankets and oven mitts really equal that?” he scoffs.
“you’ve hand sewn them both each time, and you thought about how cold i got since i was undead. It’s thoughtful and cozy. I loved them and your efforts more than you know.” he sighs. Your hot cocoa is long gone now, empty tim hortons cups sitting on your ottoman.
“look at the bottom of the box.” you pick it up again, thumbing the side ribbon and there’s two pieces of paper there.
tickets for la corazón, in regene’s theatre, a telenovela you two have been watching together for a year now. It’s the last season premiere and they’re showing it at one of the most beautiful theatres in the world. Basically a trip to spain.
what the fuck.
“what the fuck!” you yell, he’s smiling like an idiot.
“really! are we really going?” you’re bouncing like an idiot, you’re going to spain. Your head spins and it’s a lot. It’s a lot.
“it’s not for another year but you get the picture.” you shove his shoulder.
“like that matters! oh my god?? what did i do to deserve this.” you gasp at the paper, trying to see if you’ve missed any text. You pick up the chain aswell, it glimmers in the light from your christmas tree.
“it’s kind of a selfish gift, i’m asking you on a date there.” he’s suddenly very nervous. Your gaze shifts from the chain to him.
suddenly, it all makes sense. The premiere is a black-tie event. The gold cufflinks, the gold tie clip, and now pearl-shaded silk gloves and gold chain. It melts together in your brain in a mush of loving, warm, yellow clarity.
you tackle-hug him, falling against the arm of the couch with a loud ‘thud’
“is—oof, that a yes?” you wanna cry again, but his sweet and shy smile makes it too hard to.
“of course it is! you’re crazy.” you start to talk to yourself. Fidgeting with his t-shirt hem.
“if you wanted to ask me on a date, you didn’t need to ask me on a vacation…” you laugh. His idea of a date was a world-class vacation. It’s mind-blowing. This isn’t even a near fraction of what he probably makes either. You’d spoil him every year if you could too, but rookie rogue doesn’t really make the big bucks.
but now you’re a rogue.
“can i help you put it on?” the position, you realize, starts to become embarrassing for the both of you. He’s a reserved kind of man. The previous year you took the step to hold his hand at tim hortons and he stumbled over his words ordering your hot cocoa.
it’s cute he can ask you on what normal-peoples honeymoons would be but get flustered over having his hand held or hugged like this. He’s kinda pinned to the couch here. You immediately stop thinking about how your legs fit so well together.
“duh. C’mon.” you fluster and get off his chest, dragging him by the sleeve to your bathroom.
he lifts the back of your collared shirt, two buttons undone and slipping off your shoulder. Dipping the cool chain around you, and connecting again behind you. His fingers are cold and you shiver. He coughs, but the chain locks. You both look up into the mirror.
even in your pajamas, with bed-head hair and hot cocoa-cream on your lip, the chain looks absolutely stunning against your skin, it compliments and matches the tone perfectly. You blush furiously, he must have spent so much time on this, making sure it matched perfectly. You’re sure he can see the blush on the back of your neck and shoulders.
“oh my god.” you breathlessly say. You turn to him. He’s zoning out and comes back to earth a second too late. You raise an eyebrow.
“thank you.” you say, tracing your fingers across the smooth gold. You start to feel the exhaustion bore at your under eyes.
“you got your rogue papers.” you gape at him. How the hell…
“how did you know??”
“i got the same letter years ago. It’s on your counter.” you’re walking out of the washroom now, back to the living room.
“i cannot believe i’m a rogue now, just yesterday i was training everyday in the shooting range and doing your paperwork…”
“well deserved.” he says, smug as anything. He’s proud of you and you know it. You smile like an idiot.
“toast?” you ask him. Honestly? you could use a drink to process all this.
“hell yeah.” he laughs. You go to your champagne cupboard to find it empty. You had nearly five vintages you haven’t broken into yet, all mysteriously gone…
only one man is guilty of such a crime.
“dima….” you groan. That man’s alcoholism would be the death of you. Chaac snickers.
“i’m not much of a drinker.” he shrugs.
“i know.” you say in a hushed tone, your mind is thinking elsewhere. You know all too well about his vendetta against liquor.
he has a vendetta for everything…
you feel his eyes on your back.
“i had to tuck dima in tonight as well. If he doesn’t let up he’s gonna kill his damn liver.”
“i think he was just born immune.” chaac sighs. You think of the wine cellar.
“wine cellar?” he nods. The two of you leave your apartment, which he makes sure you lock this time. Down to the living quarters you go. There’s a few passed out rogues and holes in the wall from punches that weren’t there before. Various drugs are scattered around, along with bottles and used cigarettes.
you make your way to the cellar. The tension has built between the two of you, and you’re sure he feels it too. The floor is stone brick and the walls wood, you can’t believe this is what the basement has been turned into. There’s even string lights around the barrels, you smile knowing it’s the work of dima. You fill the emptied bottle ( also work of dima.) and you’re both talking about the trip, various plans, etc. Chaac glances up and immediately stills.
“what?” you look up. You stop the tap as your eyes widen.
mistletoe. Oh.
you both hesitate and awkwardly shift.
“do you—“
“i—“
you’re both trying to make sense of it. You feel pressure in your head all of a sudden.
“yeah.” you say. He steps closer. You cradle his face, his hands lower to your waist and your eyelids drop, your breaths intertwine, just that is almost as intimate as kissing. Both your hands tremble. Nervous but happy. You could almost kiss his skin with your eyelashes from how close you are, noses touching. The hesitation on his part saying “ are you sure?”.
but you are sure.
it’s a soft kiss, his browned pale lips against your chapped ones, you can taste the faint sweetness of cinnamon hot cocoa, and he smells smokey. Not in that cigarette way, but in that fire way. Your bodies are pressed together and you almost feel his warmth this time. When you break away the look he gives you makes you wanna kiss him again. Warm blue eyes that clearly want another kiss, you’re both breathless.
you do kiss him again, he just looked so sad. You pushed his face back into yours with your cradling hands. It catches him off-guard and he stiffens, then melts into the touch. He tugs you closer. It’s more of a hug now, along with the sweet kiss. You love the way your bodies fit together, you were made for this.
you break away. It’s over now, but you’re still hugging, the bottle of cherry wine is in one of his hands now, however that happened a mystery. He doesn’t remember grabbing it either. You smile, and suddenly wished you wore lipstick tonight. It would have looked great on him.
you go back to the apartment. The wine tastes great.
“cheers.”
“cheers.”
he coughs, it’s not strong at all but he clearly hasn’t drank in years. You worry.
“sorry. Maybe only i should have toasted.”
“it’s ok, sometimes new things… are good.” three years ago he’d rather be dead again than say that.
“is toasted even a word?” he laughs.
the night is over, if it was like any other year, he’d go back to his apartment and sleep off the heavy holiday missions.
but you don’t want him to leave. You want him to lay with you, give another cold kiss with those dead lips, that taste too much like cinnamon coffee.
“stay?”
“i’ll stay.”
it was a cuddly morning.