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Chess is a bad metaphor for strategy.
Sure, look at it from the right angle and there is a lot of strategy involved: what piece goes where, guessing what the other player will do, figuring out your angle of attack; but at the end of the day the best player in the world could still lose to some guy with too much time on his hands who memorised every board position. Or so he’s heard. He prefers doing things that won’t be wiped from existence the moment the game ends.
Mechanics aside, though, everyone knows chess as the strategy game that smart people play, so it still works as a metaphor for grand strategies and playing things just right to get what you want. So that’s what Houston calls his approach to Christmas presents: like playing 4D chess.
There’s a million and one things to consider when you’re buying presents for people that everyone just seems to know . (Not like that’s the first time he’s experienced that.) Emotional weight, relevancy, anything else you wanna say with it, how long thanks are gonna take (ie how long until he can leave) or are supposed to, because everyone has a billion different Christmas traditions and he’s sick to death of having to try and work with every last one. This is why he used to run by himself: no fucking social bullshit.
Even wrapping the things has strategy. Whether to go for paper or just dump it in a bag, whether to bother with ribbons or anything like that (no), and the big question: where to even wrap them at all. He’d do it at his apartment, but he’s not gonna bother lugging a bunch of crap home just to carry it all the way back to the safehouse to hand them over, especially when the safehouse has more space than the place he managed to talk Bain into finding for him in a way the cops couldn’t track.
So, the safehouse is his best bet. He’s not throwing gift wrap all over the garage, not just because Rust would kill him (that biker asshole should be grateful Houston’s not doing worse after the tools he keeps stealing), not just because there’s always oil on the floor and he’s not wasting his money after it stains everything, not even because he’d have to take the van out to make room to work: it’s because last year some of the other heisters wrapped the entire van in gift wrap and it was a pain to clean up.
The kitchen is the best space besides the garage: while people will actually be around in the kitchen, no one leaves their shit everywhere without someone else biting their head off, unlike, oh you know, the living room. And he’s not sitting on whatever’s on the floor in there just to wrap some boxes in nice paper.
But, while the safehouse is pretty much empty with everyone either in their own rooms or raising hell elsewhere in DC, there are still… issues with using the room.
“You’re buying Chains a fucking toy car ?!”
Cue example A.
“Mind your business, teabag.”
The prick in question is currently sitting on the kitchen counter in his pjs, nursing a mug of tea and contributing absolutely fuck-all besides commentary to helping Houston wrap everything. If what Dallas had told him was true the man probably hasn’t even wrapped his own gifts yet. Typical.
The Hot Wheels isn’t even the point of the gift. Houston doesn’t know shit about the cars or guns Chains likes, and he knows everyone else has the movie shit covered so he had to improvise: the car’s a model of one he knows Chains has his eyes on and there’s a note in the back about an underground racing place he found, ‘cause he knows Chains would be on that like a sticky grenade on a civ.
Hoxton shrugs. “Just seems more your thing, is all. Sure you’re not just projecting or summat?”
“Sure you couldn’t shut up and let me do this in peace?”
At least the box isn’t so hard to wrap, it’s close enough to square that he can get away with just a little weird angling and writing Chains’ name on the paper in sharpie. Simple, but clean. Just how he likes it.
Next is Wolf’s: a couple of those build-your-own-whatever kits that are mostly metal sticks with a bunch of holes and fifty different kinds of bolts. Knowing Wolf they’ll probably end up as part of his next turret modifications, but he thought maybe the man could use building something that wasn’t more guns or his turrets, y’know, use that knowledge for something a little different. Variety’s something you need in everything, from your diet to your hobbies. Also he saw them while he was buying the Hot Wheels, sue him.
Hoxton keeps his mouth shut while Houston measures out the wrapping paper for the boxes. Maybe he’s actually already bored, or maybe the bullet wounds in his shoulder and leg that are keeping him off the heists everyone else is on are bothering him. Last he heard he’s supposed to be on bedrest, but their resident medics are out and Houston’s mom didn’t raise a snitch.
“Who’s that for then? Got a little brother you didn’t tell me about?” Hoxton finally interrupts once Houston starts taping up the paper.
Houston doesn’t even bother looking at him as he keeps wrapping. “It’s for Wolf, actually.”
“You’re joking.”
“What, you don’t think he’d like it?” Houston raises an eyebrow, on to taping up the gift wrap. Boxes are good to wrap, nice and easy.
The responding silence is long, and annoyed. “...Fuck, you’re right. He’ll love that.” Hoxton finally responds, more than a little begrudgingly.
Perfect, Hoxton knows Wolf better than Houston could hope to. Sure, he’d rather die than genuinely ask the man for advice, but when he offers it up himself he won’t turn it down, especially when it means Hox has to admit he had the right idea.
Wolf’s present goes in the pile of Chains’ and a few other heisters’ smaller gifts (casual workplace acquaintance gifts, nothing too personal beyond the stuff you pick up from sharing a safehouse and a couple firefights with someone). Onto Nate’s present: the shittiest gift he could think of. Sure, he’s mostly accepted why Nate faked his death and vanished for a decade and a half, but that doesn’t mean he’s letting go of the grudge anytime soon.
So. A “world’s best brother” mug, with the “best” scribbled out with pen and “okayest” written over it. Probably more effort than it’s worth, but it’s not like you just can walk into Walmart and get a mug like that.
It’s getting bagged, because mugs are an impossible shape to wrap no matter how hard you try. He knows. He has experience.
“World’s okayest-?” Hoxton reads as Houston rifles through the bag packet for one that’s the right size, eventually finding a shiny red one that’s roughly mug-sized.
“World’s okayest brother. He doesn’t deserve a best brother mug.” Houston tells him in a businesslike manner as he puts the mug in the bag and starts taping it shut. Nate doesn’t deserve a best brother mug, but if he comes home on Christmas to find the broken coffee machine in his apartment is finally fixed, with a post-it note from Houston on it so he doesn’t freak out, then that’s none of Houston’s business.
Hoxton snorts. “You’re stealing my ideas, I was gonna mess with him for leaving me in jail for two years.”
“I’ve got dibs, he faked his death for a decade and a half.”
Hoxton tells him to fuck off, but it’s warmer than usual. Maybe he’s on pain meds or something. Maybe it’s the Christmas spirit.
The other gifts go by much quicker. Whiskey for Bonnie, a game Joy had her eye on for Joy, a set of tools for Rust (so he stops fucking stealing Houston’s), an MP3 player for Jacket, all neatly bagged and put in the pile. Then, as he pulls out what he got for Sydney, he realises something.
“Hey, Hoxton, I got Sydney two packs of earrings by mistake. You want one?”
Hoxton snorts. “I’m touched, but my ears aren’t pierced.”
Houston’s gonna strangle him before the day’s over. “To give to her , limpdick. Thought I could save you some Christmas shopping.”
“Oh.” Looks like he genuinely wasn’t expecting that. “Sure, thanks.”
Houston passes him the earrings and it’s another few gifts (one of those stupid little miniature cannons for Sokol, and a travel cushion for Clover because she’s gonna break her neck with that sleep schedule on out-of-country heists one of these days) before Hoxton speaks up again.
“You wrap things too neatly, I swear. It’s like watching someone do origami.”
“It’s easier to do it right first time than leave it all fucked up.”
“Takes too long if you ask me.”
“Good thing I wasn’t.”
Houston finishes taping shut the wrapping on Sokol’s cannon and tosses it into the pile with a loud rustling of paper. Almost done. Just one last asshole to wrap a gift for.
“Hey, assface. It’s your turn, so get out.”
Hoxton snorts and takes another sip of his tea. “It’s a free country, dickhead. You get out.”
“Sure, if you want me wrapping your shit on the garage floor.” Time for the big guns. “And telling Dallas you were out of bed.”
“You wouldn’t.” Hoxton’s eyes narrow.
“I would. I’ll tell Chains too.”
“Prick.” Hoxton spits as he finally gets off the counter and leaves, dumping his empty mug in the sink and presumably heading back to his room before Houston can snitch.
Houston would say it’s a shame to see him go, but that’d be a lie, even if he’s taking Hox’s Christmas gift out of the shopping bag. It’s a variety box of artisanal teas, fancy Chinese stuff that you’re supposed to drink for the flavour. Hox’ll hate it, start drinking it out of spite and then take three months to admit to himself that he does actually like it and start buying more. Joke’s on him for only drinking that Yorkshire Tea crap.