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You're jolted awake by a scream and an impact. You roll out of bed and grab the knife from your bedside table and stand poised, ready to fight, scanning the room with your good eye and trying to figure out what happened. As your vision clears, sleep falling from your eyes, you begin to process the scene around you:
Ryan is on the bed looking like a kid fresh off a roller-coaster, giggling and terrified. Your wife is clutching him to her, glaring daggers at you. You hear Buster at your feet telling you to p-p-p-put the kn-n-nife down Earving, it's jjjjjust your s-s-sson, p-pu-ut it d-down. You blink slowly, looking down at the knife in your hand. You place it back on the bedside table and sit back on the bed just as your legs give out. You're shaking. Ryan has stopped giggling.
"Daddy...?" he says, untangling himself from his mother. "Daddy are you okay?"
Your heart is pounding in your ears. You nod, but you feel a million miles away. You almost hurt him. You almost hurt your son. You hear the shaking in your breath and you can't steady it. A soft hand slides into yours and squeezes. You hear a voice (not hers but close) telling you, "In four, hold four, out eight. Come on Noir. It's okay, breathe. Count with me." Because you can't do anything else, you breathe. You count. You feel your son looking on, alarmed. —two-three-four— You feel your heartbeat slow. —one-two— Your breath steadies. —six-seven-eight— You do a final slow inhale, a slow exhale, and open your eyes.
You turn to face Ryan and give him the most reassuring smile you can manage.
"It's okay, honey," you say. His eyes are large and afraid. "You just scared me." You lean your head forward and tap the most prominent scar there. "I got confused. You just scrambled my eggs for a minute," you finish, tipping him a wink with your bad eye. You hold your arms open and he climbs into your lap. You kiss the top of his head.
"Are you okay?" It's your wife's voice. You look up at her and nod. Thank you, you mouth at her. "Good," she says, getting out of bed and smiling. "Now....
"Who's ready to open some presents?"
Ryan jumps up, bumping his head on your chin. Your head is thrown back, and the only thing keeping your teeth from making a sickening click inside your head is the fact that they came down around your tongue. You let out a silent whimper.
"Sorry," Ryan says, pausing for just a moment to look apologetic. You can see the excitement dancing behind his eyes though, and you give him a little go on gesture with one hand as the other one clamps over your mouth. He dashes off to the living room, with the Homelander following him. In the corner of the room you see Hayley and Hayden trying (and failing) to contain their laughter. You scrunch your face up into an expression of irritation before swinging your feet off the bed before joining your family in the living room.
Ten minutes later, it's over. The Homelander is indulging in the milk and cookies that Santa left behind, and Ryan is happily barking back at a little robotic puppy. Two or three video games lay next to him, and a couple of books have gotten kicked under the coffee table. Your wife is wearing the ring you gave her the night before. ("We didn't have a proper engagement, so you never got a proper ring," you told her.) A pair of cheesy light-up antlers adorn your head.
"I picked them out," Ryan had proudly told you. "I even made sure they fit over your helmet and everything!"
They feel like they're going to fall off any minute and you know you look ridiculous, but that's okay. Your son picked them out for you, and that's the only thing that matters. You set your coffee down as Ryan brings you over another box. This one is to you, from Homelander.
You peel back the paper with as much grace and finesse as Ryan--a stark contrast to Homelander's careful removal. You pop the tape on the sides of the box and feel your breath catch in your throat as you remove the lid.
It's... a T-shirt. Not just any T-shirt, it's a Buster Beaver Kid's Club Jamboree shirt, from the 70s. They don't make these anymore, and by the time the Kid's Club Jamboree was a thing, you were too old to join it. It's in perfect condition, like it's brand new. You look at Homelander, your mouth open like an idiot. You want to ask her about it, how did she know, you've never told her about your friends or about your odd relationship with the chain or any of it, but you can't let go of the shirt, either.
"Is it okay?" she asks, like she's suddenly uncertain. You nod frantically. Of course it's okay, it's more than okay. "I just... did some snooping? I saw you browsing some memorabilia, and... come on. We both know that Ryan's not the one watching those old cartoons over and over again on Voughtflix."
You drop the shirt and hug her tightly.
"Noir," she gasps dramatically, "Can't breathe... Ryan come help..." She makes a goofy strangulated sound, and Ryan immediately ignores his puppy to head-butt his way between the two of you. He screams a war-cry, but the giggle has come back.
You look around. Your partner and son sitting with you on the couch. Your face, bare and exposed and treated as normal. Your friends beneath the tree, arguing over the last candy cane (lord only knows where that came from). Your--
You look down, alarmed that Ryan's wiggling has suddenly stopped. He's fast asleep again, with his head in his mother's lap and the rest of him in yours.
What a hell of a Christmas, you think. The fight-or-flight reaction, almost stabbing your kid, nearly biting your tongue off, months of shopping demolished in minutes....
You look over at Buster. You look at the Homelander. You look at your son.
Honestly, I think this has been the best one yet.