Archive of Our Own ^beta

Somehow, they all reached December 2026 relatively intact. Except for Marshal Pentecost. He didn't quite go out in a jaeger, as he'd asked Becket to do, but close enough. He lasted longer than anyone thought he would, the stubborn bastard, and Miss Mori got to say a lingering, loving goodbye, and that's really all any of them could ask for.

Thus, Chuck couldn't figure out why it pissed him off so badly that Becket was acting weird. Weirder than usual. Or, at least, a different kind of weird than--

Fuck it. The bloke was weird, and he kept getting weirder all the time.

Just after Pitfall, whilst they'd all been recuperating in the med bay and going out of their minds with boredom (or the hell of physical and occupational therapy), Raleigh Fucking Becket had just been the regular kind of weird. Forgiving of angry outbursts, quietly determined to help no matter how hard Chuck pushed him away, and generally a good mate all around. Though he'd never admit it, Chuck appreciated the bastard's stoic loyalty. Relied on it, even.

He had especially -- and absolutely secretly -- appreciated the times when the therapy was too much for him and Becket would put that strong right arm around Chuck's waist and hold him up. The bloke was solid, and having that much solid strength at his back was a thing Chuck never once took lightly. It felt... reassuring. Even comfortable.

Okay. So maybe he didn't always need the help. He wasn't used to anyone supporting him, okay? It felt fucking normal. Like how normal, non-jaeger-piloting people interacted. He hadn't had that in a damn long time.

So that kind of weird, Chuck could get behind. Unfortunately, when he was finally discharged from the med bay, Becket got a different kind of weird. The "hang around randomly, trying to talk about things" kind of weird that wasn't nearly as pleasant as being gently coaxed to finish a lap with an arm around his back or eased down onto a bench with strong hands keeping him from falling.

No, Chuck didn't remember what it was like to be a carefree kid. No, Chuck had no idea what people did for fun when there were no kaiju on the horizon. No, Chuck had never tried Belgian waffles -- weren't all waffles just regular waffles? -- or French toast or Swiss chocolate or any other nationalized treats. At least, not that he remembered.

But Becket kept asking until Chuck finally snarled at him one too many times, and the poor sod backed off. Almost completely, which wasn't what Chuck intended at all and didn't know how to apologize for. So, for a while there, they'd barely talked at all, and it sucked.

But there the wanker stood, looking entirely too pleased with himself, a tiny, twisted, sparse-looking travesty of a plant in his grasp.

"Oi, you lost what's left of your mind, then?"

It was probably a low blow, what with the minor brain damage the bloke had suffered as a result of piloting solo two too many times -- not to mention however long he went without oxygen in his escape pod -- but, apparently, Becket was too chuffed at his find to be insulted.

"It's a pine tree, Chuck." He gave it a gentle shake. "Do you have any idea how hard it was to get a pine tree anywhere on the Rim? I had to have Chau import it from inland."

Frowning, he eyed the shitty little scrub tree up and down. Didn't take long. The damn thing barely reached Becket's waist. "That's the best he could do?" He shook his head. "Being eaten by a kaiju must have really fucked him up. He's slipping."

Some of the bloke's smug fell. "I... huh. I guess it is a bit... scraggly."

Well, shit. Now he just felt like an asshole. Sighing, Chuck geared himself up to fake enthusiasm. It was not his strong suit.

"Don't suppose he thought to throw in some black market ornaments to make up some volume?"

Blue eyes lit up a bit, and Chuck was pretty sure he'd said something right. "Are you kidding? He charged me full price and half again because I refused his kaiju bone ornaments."

A laugh snuck out of him, and Chuck resigned himself to decorating a Christmas tree -- no matter how shitty, stunted, and twisty -- for the first time since he stopped being a normal human being and started being a guided weapon of revenge.

There were worse ways to spend a lazy December day, he supposed.

--

"Oi, what's this now?"

Becket snorted. "Don't even start with me, Chuck. You would drown yourself in chocolate if you had the chance. This is as close as you're ever gonna get."

Okay, Chuck was pretty sure he hadn't been that obvious about his chocolate addiction. He'd only eaten, what, one Tim Tam in the nosy bastard's presence? Okay, one sleeve of Tim Tams. Same difference.

"Jesus, Hansen, it's just a cup of cocoa. I didn't even spit in it."

Rolling his eyes, he grudgingly took the steaming mug -- and where exactly had Becket dug up cups the size of a Kaidanovsky's fist? -- and gave a suspicious sniff. Chocolate. And... cinnamon? Some other kind of spice? He wasn't used to spices that weren't salt or pepper, which were about the only two things a shatterdome mess hall used.

And... floaty white things. Marshmallows. Good God, he hadn't even seen marshmallows since he was ten.

But Becket was watching him smugly, like a dare, and Chuck was not good at ignoring a look like that. So, he took a sip.

Of bliss.

It was liquid chocolate. It was creamy and smooth. It went down his throat like velvet and warmed him from the stomach out. It tasted like comfort, like curling up in a fuzzy blanket before a crackling fire whilst the snow fell down in fluffy white flecks outside.

Smirking full-on now, Becket took a sip of his own monster cup of cocoa. "It's the nutmeg that really makes it."

"Fuck." Another swallow of velvety delight, and Chuck damn near moaned. "Fuck, mate, I gotta sit down."

"Toldja."

"Shut up. I'm trying to enjoy myself."

Still smirking, Becket took the half-ass invitation to come in when Chuck backed away from his door and slumped down on the edge of his bunk, carefully cradling the massive cup so it didn't spill. The bloke sat in the only chair -- the beat-up, metal rolly chair that went with his beat-up, metal workdesk -- and grinned as he sipped his chocolate.

"This is not regular hot cocoa." He took another long, slow sip. "I vaguely remember hot cocoa from about a million years ago, and it did not taste like this."

The silly sod shrugged. "My mom had a secret recipe."

"Yeah?" Despite himself, he grinned. Smirked. Definitely smirked, because grinning was right out. "If it was so secret, how'd you get it?"

That pleasant grin became a bit strained. "She died of lung cancer, Chuck. It wasn't over fast. We... had time."

Well, fuck. How did he always say exactly the wrong thing every goddamn time?

Sighing, Chuck took another luxurious sip and tried to say something right for a change. "Well, it's a good thing, mate, because this is the best thing I've tasted for as long as I can remember."

And it must have been at least close to the right thing, because those baby blues lit up again, and they finished the rest of their over-indulgent desserts in relative peace.

--

"Ray, you got a fucking explanation for this?"

Barging right into Becket's room without knocking, Chuck brandished the knotted rawhide bone like a weapon. Then, he stopped cold, because Becket was damn near naked and looked like a deer caught in oncoming headlights.

After a long, really fucking awkward moment, he realized the bloke at least wore a towel, but only because it was off-white whilst the rest of him was beet red with an embarrassed flush.

"Jesus, Chuck, can you knock?"

Mortified and hiding it under much more easily accessible anger, he blustered. He couldn't help himself. "Can you not give my fucking dog murder treats?"

Blinking those big blues, Becket looked less embarrassed and more confused. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Reminded of his mission, he brandished the godawful deathtrap again. "Do you know what happens when Max gnaws one of these fucking things down far enough? He tries to swallow it whole and chokes on it. He almost fucking died as a puppy, you asshole!"

His panic as he'd seen his beloved fur brother with one of the forbidden treats had him snatching the rawhide away and demanding his father tell him who was trying to murder Max. All he'd heard in response was "Raleigh, but--", and he'd been out of the mess hall like a shot, fully intending to rip the bastard a new asshole.

However, instead of looking ashamed of himself, Raleigh merely tilted his head like a curious puppy -- like Max had when his new toy was snatched away just as he'd really started to gnaw. "Chuck, I know. Herc told me. He also told me that if we switch it out before it gets chewed down too far, it should be fine."

Uncomforted, Chuck took a menacing step forward to get right up in the bastard's face. "Switch it out with what, dumbass? He won't let it go for just anything!"

Jaw clenching, the bloke turned and headed for the drawers in his closet and pulled out... oh.

Oh, shit.

Two more rawhides in separate, air-tight packaging.

"I asked your dad if there was something Max had been doing without for a while, and he explained the whole thing. I bought the last three on the shelf at the one pet store I found still open. Chau's ordering more for when these run out." Shrugging like it didn't mean anything, the confusing wanker tried to look casual. "The marshal gets a discount, apparently."

Fuck. Fuck. Becket was making it like Chuck's explosion of panicked temper wasn't a big deal, but... it felt like a big deal. Here, the silly sod had just been trying to do something nice, and Chuck had ripped him up one side and down the other. And for no reason.

Fuck if he could sort this one. Tactical retreat was his only option.

Blustered out and confused and more than a little ashamed of himself, Chuck looked down at the rawhide in his hand and sighed heavily. "Shit, Raleigh, I--"

"It's okay." The bloke fidgeted with his towel, probably chilly, what with still being damp from the shower. "I know you're protective of Max."

Feeling worse, he scruffed a hand through his hair. "Fuck that, mate. I shoulda known you wouldn't do anything to hurt him. I just...."

Becket shrugged. "He almost died. I get it."

And, dammit, the sympathetic bastard probably did get it. Unfortunately, that only made Chuck feel worse for his outburst. He was trying not to be so much of a dick these days. Now that he knew he had something of a future and might actually want other people in it.

So, he sighed again. "I'll just... yeah." He gestured toward the door -- which he'd left wide open, because he was that kind of asshole -- and headed toward it, refusing to admit he was buggering off. "Let you get back to it."

And that should've been that. Becket, because he was a good sort, didn't stop him.

Which, yet again, made him feel worse.

So, he stopped just outside the door, his hand on the latch to pull it shut behind him. "Oi, Ray?"

"Hm?"

Weakly, he waved the slightly soggy rawhide. "Thanks. For the...."

Becket nodded, a faint grin twitching his mouth. Chuck, giving up completely, completed his tactical retreat by shutting the door behind him and slinking away to give Max his treat back.

--

Okay, now he didn't know what the weird fuck was up to.

As he strode up into the common room and found Becket... doing whatever the hell he was doing on the couch next to the shitty, scraggly Christmas tree, Mori suddenly twisted to her feet and gave the bloke a nod before walking out without a word. Though she did tip Chuck one of her little smiles as she went, so he apparently hadn't done anything wrong. Yet.

"Oi, what the fuck was that?"

The bloke looked up from his... whatever... and raised his eyebrows in that curious puppy look. "Hm?"

Chuck rolled his eyes. "Never mind. The fuck are you doing, Ray?"

Unperturbed -- and probably used to Chuck's piss poor attitude these days, sadly -- Becket lifted what looked like nothing more than a knotted mess of yarn. "Crocheting. You?"

"What the fuck is crocheting?"

Chuck's tone must not have been as harsh as it sounded to himself because the bloke gestured him over. He went readily enough, surprised to think how long it had been since they'd been side by side like this. Since... well, since Chuck had hollered the poor sod away for trying to talk about stuff.

Well, shit.

"Occupational therapy."

Chuck blinked.

Becket shrugged. "My left arm isn't what it used to be, so my OT says I need to work on my fine motor skills before I start losing function."

"Oh." Put like that, it made sense. "Uh... how's it going, then?"

Grinning a little, the silly sod held onto his work in progress with one hand, freeing the other to pick up two soft, fuzzy things and toss them over into Chuck's lap. "You tell me."

Sceptical, he picked up the multicolored... things... and tried to... oh. "Oi, mittens? Really?"

"Hey, those weren't easy to figure out from the pattern. It's just a bunch of initials and numbers." But the bloke's cheeks were a little pink as he went back to his careful ravelling. "And don't get me started on all the counting. I think the doc must have teamed up with my OT, since I was sort of ditching my cognitive therapy."

Grinning a little and not sure why, Chuck looked over the mittens again. One was a little crooked with a weird sunken-in place that probably spoke of a missed stitch or two. The other actually looked pretty good. They were fuzzy and soft, probably warm as hell. The yarn was a creamy off-white with little flecks of dark blue and green and brown.

"Honestly, mate?" He tossed them back into Becket's lap, careful not to drop them on any loose yarn being woven into the mitten the bloke was currently working. "They're better than I could do. Not gonna lie: I don't have the patience for that shite."

Becket tossed him such a quick look that he might have imagined it. "'S why I made those for you."

Eyes wide, he blinked at the silly sod and his tatting. "Oi? For me?"

The bloke shrugged.

His mouth worked before consulting with his brain. "You know it doesn't really get that cold in Hong Kong, right?"

The pink tinge deepened. "It was either mittens or a potholder."

But he had a better hold on himself now and figured he could work some damage control, even as he snatched up his... gifts? Earnings?

"Oi, mittens are fine, mate. Just taking the piss, yeah?" He fingered the soft yarn, grinning a bit. "But I hate to take your only pair, just in case it does get that cold."

Wordless and still blushing, Becket picked up another mitten, this one in the same soft tan as the one he was currently working.

"Oh, sure. Give me your first, flawed efforts so you can keep the more professional ones for yourself."

Though he was secretly pleased. Becket had made him something, had given him the first fruits of his efforts. Chuck... liked them. Even with the weird dipped-in place where the bloke had missed a stitch or two on that first one.

"You can have these instead--"

"Nope." He clutched the stupid mittens to his chest. "Too late now, mate. You're stuck with your ugly brown mittens forever. These ones are mine."

Snorting -- and looking pleased, maybe? -- Becket gave him a shove, careful not to lose his grip on his project. "Get out of here, you jerk. You're wrecking my concentration."

Smirking, Chuck left. And if he tried on his new mittens in the privacy of his room later, well... no one but Max would ever know.

--

Okay, so it all started when Becket made what he clearly thought was an obscure Star Trek joke and Chuck matched it with the next line. After one awed, jaw-dropped moment, the bloke started an interrogation during which he discovered what no one alive besides one Hercules Hansen knew -- that underneath all the jock swagger, under all the defensive fury and abrasive personality and shitty attitude... lay the closely-guarded heart of a true nerd.

In his excitement, Becket had them set up for a marathon -- complete with fresh, buttery popcorn and actual cans of ice-cold soda, which were not easy to come by even eleven months post-kaiju -- within a day. The silly sod even built them something of a blanket fort over his bed, piling the mattress with even more blankets and a truly ridiculous number of pillows.

Settling into the veritable cave and lying on his stomach, his cheek propped in his hand, Chuck wondered if he'd ever done anything like this as a kid. He honestly couldn't recall. All he really remembered was that his mum loved to watch the original series reruns whilst sitting on the couch so they could lurch to one side or the other when the Enterprise took a hit, flinging a much smaller Chuck this way and that until they were both laughing too hard to breathe.

A mixed memory, that one. One that both hurt and felt warm and close at the same time.

"Do you mind if we start with The Wrath of Khan?"

Chuck snorted. "Do kaiju smell like roses and summer when they start to rot?"

"...Wrath of Khan it is."

To his relief, Becket apparently subscribed to the general fandom acknowledgement that the even-numbered films were the best, because he skipped directly to The Voyage Home after Wrath of Khan finished. However, after they both took a piss break from slurping their way through a six-pack of Coke, Becket queued up The Final Frontier. The fifth movie instead of the sixth.

Chuck's raised eyebrows must have asked the question for him because Becket looked uncomfortable for the first time.

"Last time I watched it was with Yancy. We... uh... we both kinda agreed that we were glad we'd never die alone, like Kirk always knew he would."

And then Yancy Becket had been hauled, screaming and alive, out of Gipsy's head whilst Raleigh screamed with him, the broken neural bridge scalding his brain even as Gipsy's damaged exoskeleton charred his drivesuit's lines into him from the feedback.

Yancy had died alone, for all intents and purposes, and Raleigh... well, the poor sod had probably thought he would, too. It wasn't fair. Pilots were supposed to die together or not at all.

And yet, the crazy fuck had been brave enough to eject Mori and stay in the Breach himself, to risk dying alone all over again.

So, Chuck only nodded and settled in a little closer to the bloke's side. Maybe he could reassure the poor bastard that he wasn't alone, anymore than Kirk had been when the Bird of Prey hovered overhead with Spock manning the guns.

Plus... it really had been a while since he'd felt the bloke's solidity close enough to gain any comfort from. He really shouldn't have mouthed off to him all those months ago. Could've been snuggling close and soaking up the bloke's warmth all along.

He just... hadn't had a lot of that. Closeness. Even now, he and his father were... awkward and didn't hug. Or spend that much time together, really, what with Herc being the marshal.

And Raleigh was just so damn sturdy. Even when the bloke clearly wavered toward the end -- not because the movie upset him but because it was inevitable that thoughts of his brother would settle in during the pertinent parts -- Chuck never felt like Becket wanted him to scoot away. In fact, unless he missed his guess, the poor sod nudged a little closer still.

And then, it was over, and they went back to the formula without having to consult on it, though Raleigh fell asleep for a good half hour during The Undiscovered Country and Chuck didn't quite make it through First Contact.

And when they both woke up in the wee hours of the morning, Chuck pretended that Becket's arm around him to help him stumble sleepily to the door wasn't an actual cuddle, although at one point, both of them used both arms.

--

"Deck the halls with boughs of holly! Fa-la-la-la-laaah la-la la laaah!"

Sighing heavily, Chuck looked up from his tablet and wondered why he'd thought he'd be safe from rampaging morons in the mess hall. Admittedly, it was an off hour and he'd had it to himself for quite some time now, but still. Mess hall.

"Oh, hey! I got a better one. Just watched my favorite Christmas movie this morning." That was Becket, sounding a little tipsy.

"A Christmas Carol?" That was Mori, sounding much more sober, but still a little softer than usual. What the hell?

"God, no." Becket sounded appalled. "Die Hard."

Chuck snorted and waited for the pair to make their appearance. Mori had been closeted in meetings with Herc most of the day, and it sounded like she'd raided the Russians' secret stash to wind down afterward. And shared with Becket. And they'd both left Chuck out, the rotten sods.

"Oh, the weather outside is frightful," Raleigh crooned.

"But the fire is so delightful," Mori continued, laughter in her voice.

"And since we've no place to go...." Raleigh's turn again. The bloke actually had a decent voice.

"Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!"

And that was both of them, not quite on key with each other as they stumbled merrily into the mess hall, glasses held high.

"Oi, working here, ya drunken sods."

Not that he was really irritated. In fact, they looked like they were having a bonzer time -- eyes as bright as their smiles -- and he rather wanted to join them. Especially if illicit hooch was involved.

Becket grinned brighter still. "Chuck!" Oh, yeah. The bloke was at least three sheets to the wind. "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy!"

Unimpressed -- but amused -- he raised an eyebrow. "I don't recall that The Shining was a Christmas movie."

Unruffled, Becket shrugged. "There was plenty of snow. It was probably Christmas at some point."

"True enough."

Mori snickered. Actually snickered, out of nowhere. It was fucking adorable. "Jingle bells, Slattern smells, Otachi laid an egg!"

Raleigh burst into surprised laughter, nearly falling over with it. Chuck couldn't help but join in, equally surprised that the ridiculous lyrics had come from Mako, of all people.

"Okay, I need a drink if I'm supposed to deal with you two lushes. Hand it over."

Cheeks glowing -- either with high spirits or from bottled spirits -- Becket handed over a flask from his hip pocket. Chuck unscrewed the cap and took a whiff. Oh, yes. A good, smooth whiskey. The Russians always got the good stuff. Glad he'd just made himself a new cup of tea, he poured in a hefty dollop and got himself started with a generous swig right from the flask.

"Gross!"

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, please. That shit is strong enough to disinfect a dead cat. It can handle a little spit."

"Still gross." But, despite his obvious tipsiness, Becket caught the thrown flask easily enough and tucked it back into its pocket. "You gonna carol with us?"

He snorted. "That's a pass, mate. The only one I know even a few lines of is Rudolph, and I refuse."

Mori, giggling a little, chimed in. "They wouldn't let poor Rudolph... join in any reindeer games."

Far from offended, he still tried to save face. "Oi, I'm the one refusing! Not the same thing!"

Plus, Becket actually chuckled, so Chuck considered it a success. Then, out of nowhere, the bloke went abruptly serious and started really crooning.

"City sidewalks, busy sidewalks, dressed in holiday style. In the air there's a feeling of Christmas."

Chuck blinked. That wasn't a decent voice. That was just plain good singing.

"Children laughing, people passing, meeting smile after smile, and on every street corner you hear... silver bells. Silver bells. It's Christmas time in the city."

Even Mori looked impressed, though surely she knew the bloke could sing. The two spent much of their limited spare time together, it seemed. And they'd Drifted, of course.

"Ring-a-ling, hear them ring. Soon it will be Christmas day."

When the bloke opened his eyes -- when had he closed them? Chuck was too gobsmacked to remember -- he realized both Chuck and Mori were staring at him, quietly impressed, and blushed a deeper red.

"What?"

Throat suddenly dry, Chuck swallowed hard and tried to speak intelligently. "Don't think I've heard that one before, is all."

Mori discreetly cleared her throat, giving him a strange look. Becket grinned a little.

"Probably before your time. Honestly, it's before mine, too, but my dad loved Bing Crosby."

"No idea who that is, mate."

Raleigh snorted, and the spell broke. "You poor, lost soul." Smirking, he offered his arm to Mori, who crowded up against him under it, and Chuck couldn't help but wish he was in her place. "Well, if you're not in, we'd better move along."

Mori grinned happily from her comfortable, safe place. "Plenty more people to annoy before we sober up."

Despite his wistfulness, Chuck snickered. "At least you're honest about it. Go on with you, then."

And they did, stumbling only a little on the stairs and singing loudly again as they reached the hallway.

"Up on the housetop, reindeer pause! Out jumps good ol' Santa Claus!"

Shaking his head, Chuck went back to his engineering journal with a grin. God only knew what he'd done bad enough to suffer Christmas in a shatterdome with those two silly sods leading the celebrations.

But he had to admit: whatever it was, he'd probably do it again.

--

Chuck... had a package.

Chuck never got packages. For the past ten years, just about everything he really needed -- shelter, clothing, three squares and a snack per day, toothpaste, soap, etc. -- had been provided by the PPDC, either trickling down from Herc or given directly into Chuck's hands. Even Chuck's leather jacket and boots had come from the Shack's coffers after Striker's fifth straight kill.

So yes, he'd occasionally seen other personnel receive packages or mail and had rather wondered what that might be like, but since everyone he knew was in the PPDC in some form or fashion -- Uncle Scott didn't count; he wouldn't likely be sending mail any time soon -- he doubted he'd ever really know what that felt like.

Until now.

He... he almost didn't want to open it. The anticipation was just about killing him -- what the hell was in the box? who was it even from?? -- but... he rather liked it. If he opened it now, the thrill would be gone. Sure, he'd have whatever was in the package, but the anticipation? Over and done and not likely repeated.

Should he open it? Should he not?

"Oh, good!" Where the fuck had Becket come from? And when had the bloke developed sneaky ninja skills? "You did get it. I was starting to worry."

"Oi, the fuck, Becket?"

The bloke was all smiles, but Chuck knew him well enough by now to see the wariness creeping into those baby blues. It made him realize he was practically throwing out aggressive vibes, as if he thought Raleigh would open the mystery package for him and ruin both the surprise and the anticipation. Logically, he knew Becket would do no such thing, so he forced himself to dial it back a bit.

"I got you something and had Chau ship it over. I was too busy this morning to pick it up myself."

Okay. This Christmas thing was getting way out of hand. He understood, on some level, that Becket was trying to celebrate with everything he had because he finally had people to celebrate with after all these years, but really. The shitty tree -- that, okay, actually didn't look so bad when fluffed out with tinsel and over-strung with lights and shiny metal ornaments that Chuck only yesterday discovered were made with bits of jaeger scrap Becket had meticulously saved -- the miracle cocoa, the mittens, all the damn caroling....

Chuck wasn't used to this. It wasn't how he expected the whole Christmas thing to go. Surely, the non-jaeger-pilot normals out there didn't go this lavish every year.

Did they?

But Becket was looking at him expectantly, so he figured he ought to say something. Swallowing hard, he tried to... express himself. Talk about stuff.

Without shouting the bloke away when he was just trying to be nice.

Yeah. Fine. In hopes of getting a few more cuddles in the near future. Whatever.

"I... uh... never got mail before, mate."

Becket's eyebrows rose in that curious puppy look. Goddammit.

"It's... kind of a new thing for me, yeah?"

And somehow, he just knew the rotten sod knew exactly what Chuck wasn't saying. That he wanted to savor the moment. In case it never happened again.

So Becket didn't push. "I remember getting Christmas cards as a kid. They were for the whole family, but Mom used to let me open them, and it was like getting another little present every single time."

He swallowed hard again and tried to make light. "So, this is a present? Should I wait to open it--"

"No." The bloke looked surprised at himself. "Sorry, just... if you want to open it now, you can. It's nothing so special as a present. Just... something I saw and thought...."

And that right there? That gave Chuck the warm fuzzies something awful. Like when he'd tried on the mittens Becket had given him a few days back. Like that first sip of miracle cocoa that had tasted like a warm blanket feels on a cold day.

It also gave him the courage to risk giving up the anticipation for the chance at warmer fuzzies still, so he whipped out his multitool, cracked it open to the thinnest blade, and slit through the brown paper packaging.

For a moment, he was nine years old, and the kaiju had never existed, and his mum and dad were sitting on the couch in their pajamas, waiting to see how he reacted to whatever they'd bought him.

Then, the box lid was out of the way, and he let out a grunt. "Oi, really? T-shirts?"

Okay, so maybe the anticipation was better. He really shouldn't feel disappointed because it was a gift of some sort, no matter what Becket said, but... seriously? T-shirts?

But Becket scoffed and hauled out the first one, shaking out the creases. "Not just t-shirts, Chuck. These--" He presented the top one with a flourish. "--are not-grey t-shirts."

Chuck's eyes narrowed. "You got something against PPDC-issue, then?"

Rolling his eyes, the rotten sod actually dumped the whole box on the bed. An olive green shirt. A faded-looking blue one that looked... really soft, actually. A deep, almost bloody crimson, which would probably clash painfully with his hair, thanks. Rustic orange, which would probably also clash, because being a ginger fucking sucked. A multi-colored one that almost made him dizzy, just looking at it. And, more simply, two v-necks -- one black and one white.

Oh, and... they had designs printed on them. AC/DC on one. A large, obnoxious-looking 'STRAYA on another. I HEART NY on the orange one. Striker's emblem on the olive green one. Thank God, but the multi-colored one didn't have a design, because Chuck was pretty sure he wouldn't have been able to pick it out, anyway.

Of course, that's the one Raleigh picked up and made with the pleading puppy eyes. "Try it on?"

Crossing his arms, Chuck put on his best glare in hopes of countering the evil power of that look. "That fucking thing makes my eyes bleed."

Becket smirked. "What, you've never seen a tie-dye before?"

"The fuck is tie-dye?"

Giving up suspiciously easy, the bastard picked up the soft, faded blue one. "Then how about this one?"

Gipsy. Fucking. Danger.

Because of course it was.

Worse, Becket looked sincerely pleading this time. The bloke had always been proud of his best girl. And even Chuck could admit it was for damn good reason.

So, grudgingly, he hauled off his grey shirt -- one of the ten he currently owned -- and pulled on the stupid Gipsy shirt. It felt like a caress on his skin, it was so soft. He couldn't stop himself from looking down at it as he stroked his hand down his stomach, feeling the difference between the stiff paint and the incredibly soft cotton of the shirt.

When he looked back up, Becket had the strangest look on his face. Almost... hurt, although he was grinning softly instead of grimacing in pain.

"Looks good." The bloke swallowed hard. "The color suits you."

And, just like that, the bastard turned to leave.

"Oi, Ray!"

He hadn't meant to call out. Honestly, he had no idea what to say, right up to the point that Becket turned around, his eyes suspiciously sparkly but not in the same way they'd been yesterday with the Russians' whiskey.

"Just... thanks, mate. For the shirts. They're... thank you."

Becket nodded. Then, he was gone.

Chuck wore the Gipsy shirt the rest of the day anyway.

--

Chuck had another package, and he wasn't sure he was up to opening it this time. Admittedly, he was currently wearing the black v-neck tee with the AC/DC logo on it -- a quick 'net search revealed this to be not a statement of the two kinds of common electrical current, but the name of a metal band from the eighties, and Chuck was now addicted to their music after less than a day -- so he knew packages could be good things.

But Becket had been mysteriously absent since the fateful opening of the last package, and Chuck found himself reluctant to push the bloke further away. He still wasn't quite sure what had happened. Thus, he had no idea what might cause it again or make it worse.

But the anticipation eventually won out, and he again brought out his trusty multitool to slit the packaging and the tape. He took a deep breath, then opened the box.

"Oh, sweet baby Jesus."

Tim Tams. He'd only had the one package in the entire last year, because Hong Kong was a cultural wasteland of all those other cultures that didn't have Tim Tams, and getting anything imported these days was an act of God.

How the...? Who the...?

A note huddled under the first row of sleeves, and he took it out as soon as he saw it, the anticipation rushing back and strong.

Chuck,

Your dad helped. And there were ten sleeves, but we both felt obliged to taste-test, so now there are eight. I'm not sorry. I blame you.

Ray

Just like that, it occurred to him that the packaging paper hadn't been plain brown, like last time. He glanced over at the discarded wad, and it was white. Almost shiny white. This box hadn't been shipped directly to him. This box had been received, opened, a note added, then rewrapped in... giftwrap.

This was a present.

Shit, should he have waited until Christmas to open it?

Too fucking late now. Without so much as a qualm, he succumbed to the siren call of Tim Tams and slit open the first sleeve. The first bite was bliss. The second, almost orgasmic.

Becket was a fucking saint.

...Wait. Becket wasn't a fucking saint. He was just some bloke who was going all-out for the first Christmas after the closing of the Breach, and thus far, Chuck had been reaping all the benefits.

Should... should he be... gifting in return? Wasn't that how the normals did it?

Your dad helped.

Shit, did he have to get his old man something, too? This shit just got complicated.

The Tim Tams still tasted fucking perfect, though, so he didn't get too fussed about it. But he should probably ask the old man for advice. If he should be buying Becket something. And if so... fucking what?

What the hell did Becket even like?

Jesus. He hated Christmas.

His wandering glance fell on the mittens crossed over each other on his desk. He looked down at the AC/DC logo on his shirt. Remembered the dog bones for Max. The little fucker was already down by one.

Okay, he didn't hate Christmas. But he had no fucking idea what to do. How did people know what to get other people?

For that matter, how did Raleigh know what to get him? Thus far, the bloke had been pretty spot on in his gift giving. How? As far as Chuck knew, he didn't particularly like anything, so how the fuck did Becket seem to know things Chuck liked that even Chuck didn't know about?

Had they really talked that much during PT and OT? Had... had Chuck maybe done a little more "talking about stuff" than he'd realized before hollering Becket away?

Or had the trip to another dimension made the fucker psychic? Honestly, that seemed as rational an explanation as any.

Scowling, even as he worked his way toward the middle of the first sleeve as he strode through the hallways, he decided he definitely needed advice. Unfortunately, the only person he could even conceive of asking was the one person who would likely have the least intelligent advice on the subject.

Herc Hansen wasn't exactly well-known for his gift-giving skills, after all.

No. Chuck was done with bitterness. Surviving Pitfall had shown him that, anyway. Herc may not be Father of the Year, but he was Chuck's father, and he'd done the best he could. He knew that.

So he was a bit less thunderous when he shoved through the new marshal's door. Though he hid the half-empty sleeve of Tim Tams behind his back because the fucker had already gotten a sleeve of his own, apparently.

"Oi, Chuck." To his surprise, his old man actually looked pleased to see him. "Nice shirt. Your mum loved that group."

Because of course she did. The woman had taste.

"Thanks. Look, Dad, I got a problem."

Uh-oh. That was Herc's patented "Concerned Parent" face. Unfortunately, it also looked just like Herc's patented "Chuck Done Fucked Up And Now I Have to Sort It" face. Chuck had seen both entirely too many times in his youth.

"Oi, fuck. Just... Raleigh keeps giving me shit, and I don't know what to do about it."

Herc blinked, apparently surprised. "What's he giving you shit about, then?"

Chuck blinked. "What?" And then it struck him, and he clapped his hand to his forehead. "Jesus, no! Giving me... stuff. Things. Like... almost presents but not quite. I... fuck, I don't even know. And that's the problem."

Raising his eyebrows, Herc leaned back in his chair. Pentecost's chair. "Things?"

And just like that, Chuck felt himself blush. "Yeah, things. Like... big, giant cups of hot cocoa. And mittens. And those rawhide things for Max. He said he asked you about those."

Herc nodded, his mouth twitching.

"And... all these fucking t-shirts. And now a fucking huge box of Tim Tams, which he only fucking knows about because he saw me stress-eating my last sleeve back in March after a particularly bad PT session."

His asshole father's mouth twitched again. "And... this is a bad thing?"

"Yes!" Grunting, he flung himself down into one of the chairs across from his old man. "No, I mean. It's... nice... to keep getting things I didn't even know I liked, yeah?"

"So what's the problem, again?"

"Fuck if I know!" He was so, so tempted to just get up and walk out. This was obviously a tactical error on his part. He should've known better. "I just... what the fuck am I supposed to do about it?"

Herc's head tilted a bit. "Has Raleigh asked you to do anything about it?"

Other than asking him to wear the Gipsy Danger shirt? "...No."

"Then don't."

Scowling, he pulled out the Tim Tams and snapped into one. "Hardly seems fair, yeah?"

"Chuck." Shaking his head -- fondly, the bastard -- Herc leaned forward and crossed his forearms on the desk. "Good people don't give other people gifts because they want something in return."

Suspicious, Chuck eyed his old man whilst taking another vicious bite.

"Oi, you think I wanted anything from you when I gave you Max?"

Okay, that was just low. "Fuck that, old man. You got Max for the both of us."

"Exactly. Because it felt good to give you something I knew you'd love. Something I knew you'd take care of and enjoy for years to come."

Well. Fuck. He'd... never thought of Max quite like that before. He'd thought... fuck, they'd both been so goddamn lonely after... and Herc loved Max just as much as Chuck did... but....

Maybe his old man wasn't a shit gift-giver, after all.

"Maybe it just makes Raleigh feel good knowing he's giving you something you'll like. No other reason than that. He hasn't exactly had anyone to spoil for a good, long while, ya know?"

Muttering and fiddling with the plastic wrapping on his Tim Tams, he shrugged. "He's got Mori, yeah?"

"But Miss Mori doesn't deny herself the little things because she doesn't think she's worthy of them or hasn't earned them."

"Oi, I don't--"

"Yes, son. You do." Fuck, but Herc looked almost in pain. Like Raleigh had yesterday, actually, down to the little hint of a grin instead of a grimace. "You deserve frivolous things, Chuck. You always have."

Unable to think of a response to that, Chuck nodded silently, stood, and left. He wasn't angry or stalking away. He just... needed to think. To... reevaluate.

With Tim Tams.

Thanks, Becket.

--

"Chuck?"

Sweat poured off of him, his adrenaline singing as he went after the big bag like it had personally kicked Max. He heard someone talking to him, but he was in the zone. Focused. Anything else was unimportant.

"Jesus, Chuck, are you--"

A hand settled on his shoulder, and he turned and latched onto it before thinking about the motion. If he hadn't taped his hands, limiting his fine motor control, he'd have thrown his attacker into the wall and would already be beating the shit out of him.

Said attacker proved wily, however, and instead of getting yanked off his feet, the bastard twisted in the clumsy grasp, hauled Chuck's fist up between his shoulder blades, and shoved him face-first into the wall beside the punching bag.

Quick little fucker.

"Okay, so maybe I shouldn't have grabbed you by the shoulder."

Oi, fuck. It was just Becket. The adrenaline didn't die out, but the urge to pummel did, and Chuck slumped against the wall.

"Jesus, Becket. You trying to get me to rip your arm out of the socket or what?"

The rotten sod snorted. "I'm the one with the leverage here." It was true enough, but the bloke immediately let him go. "That said, I really didn't mean to surprise you like that. Thought you heard me."

Suddenly, Chuck missed the weight of that body against him. It hadn't been a cuddle, obviously, but... Jesus, was he really so touch-starved that a body slam gave him the warm fuzzies?

Grumbling to himself, he turned to face the silly bastard and leaned back against the wall to peel at the tape on his hands. "I did, I guess. I was just...."

Becket nodded. Because of course he did. "No worries."

A hint of a grin quirked his mouth. "You trying to speak 'Straya, there, Ray?"

That got a chuckle. "Ha! No, actually. Although I did watch Crocodile Dundee as a kid, and Yancy noogied me every single time I busted out a quote from it." As always when talking about his brother, the bloke softened and looked a little melancholy. "For a while there, I figured I'd go bald."

He had no idea what to say in response. He figured it was probably safest just to keep quiet this time. Sure enough, Becket got ahold of himself soon enough.

"Anyway, I was just seeing if you were up for lunch."

As if on cue, his stomach woke up and roared, and he realized he'd skipped breakfast this morning. And dinner last night. He'd been a little sick to his stomach from all the Tim Tams. He wasn't used to over-indulgence, and he figured a little upset was well worth the bliss of two full sleeves of Tim Tams in less than an hour.

So, he grinned ruefully, nodded, and shoved away from the wall, only to damn near fall over as a wave of dizziness swamped him. Strong arms caught him and eased him to his knees. Traitorously, he felt his stupid, weak body clinging and... made no move to stop doing so.

"Whoa, shit! Chuck, you okay?"

Becket was sturdy. Becket was solid. And this was as close to a hug as Chuck was probably gonna get without straight-out asking for one.

"Chuck?" The bloke sounded pretty damn concerned. "Jesus, when's the last time you ate?"

Grunting with his chin hooked over the silly sod's broad shoulder, Chuck shrugged. "Your fault, mate. You made me choose between real food and Tim Tams."

Becket sighed. "Dammit, Chuck. Did you at least eat supper last night?"

Instead of answering, he tightened his grip a bit and hid his face against the bloke's shoulder.

A soft chuckle. "All right, all right. On your feet, soldier. You need a shower and a sandwich, STAT."

Groaning -- okay, whinging -- Chuck let go only long enough for Becket to haul him to his feet, then slung his arm around the bloke's strong back. For support. Because he didn't want to hit the ground again.

Not that Becket had actually let him fall that far.

He was tempted to play weak and sucker the bloke into holding him up all the way into the shower, but he had his pride. He did, however, use the bloke's sturdy shoulder as a grip when he stepped back into his boots afterward. His knees were a little watery still, so he actually did rather need the support. Especially when Becket obligingly put a hand on his lower back when he wavered a bit.

And because he had his pride but he was still oh, so weak in spirit, he let the bloke's strong arm lower him down on a bench seat in the mess hall and sat there like a useless lump whilst the silly fuck filled a plate for him. Being treated like a child ought to piss him right off, but... it didn't. Felt pretty damn good, actually. He'd probably fuss if it was his old man making over him, but with Becket, he didn't mind so much. The bloke was just being nice.

And it was more physical contact than he'd had since the bloke had joined him for PT all those months ago. He really had missed it and had no intention of stemming the sudden tide.

Better still, when Becket returned with two over-filled trays, he sat right down beside Chuck instead of across the table, and for a while, they were just two good mates, elbowing each other (both accidentally because they sat so close and on purpose because they were secretly five years old) and stealing off each other's plates.

Eventually, Chuck's ravenous appetite stemmed and he was suddenly exhausted. He found himself slumping a little to his right, leaning into Becket's sturdy bulk. Good bloke that he was, Becket didn't shove him off but stayed still, reliable and strong, until Chuck's head actually clunked down on his shoulder, his eyes drooping.

"You need a nap."

He grunted, not moving away. "Shaddup."

Becket snickered softly. "You're getting cranky. It's fucking adorable."

Okay, elbowing the jackass in the ribs didn't count as moving away. "Shaddup!"

"C'mon, little Charlie. I just got--OW!"

"Don't fucking call me Charlie!"

Laughing -- because Becket was no one's fool and, even with a vicious pinch to the sensitive skin over his ribs, he knew Chuck wasn't actually mad -- the bloke retaliated by standing away so suddenly Chuck almost fell off the bench.

Before he could flail in earnest, though, Becket caught him, still chuckling. "You really are tired, aren't you?"

Grinning a little and trying to hide it under a scowl because the smirking jackass had caught him around the neck and basically had him in a very gentle headlock now, Chuck tried to sound as pitiful as possible. "My body pillow abandoned me."

The chuckles faded, and Becket regarded him with the strangest look yet, reminding Chuck that his good mate Raleigh was one weird bloke all the way around.

"You really do need a nap, kid. You look so tired you're making me tired by proxy."

He wanted to protest being called a kid, but Becket looked so... and gentle but strong hands eased him back onto the bench properly.

"Stay put for a second while I put up our trays, okay?"

So maybe he was a little sleepy, because all he could do was nod dumbly whilst Becket gathered everything up and whisked it all away. In fact, he was pretty sure he zoned out for a bit, because the next thing he knew, the bloke was hauling one of Chuck's arms up over his shoulder and slipping a strong arm around Chuck's waist.

And when they reached Chuck's room, he was weak again and silently asked Becket to stay by tugging at his arm as he slumped down on his bed. Obligingly, the bloke settled back against the wall and, only a little ashamed of himself, Chuck lay down and scooted until his cheek rested on a solid, warm thigh. Strong fingers began to stroke through his hair, feeling so damn good and comfortable and right.

Before he knew it, Chuck was asleep with a smile on his face.

--

"There you are."

Blinking as he wrestled his attention from the jaeger maintenance manual he'd been trying to read for the past hour -- with indifferent success -- he looked up at Mori. "Who's been looking, then?"

She smiled a little, and he suddenly remembered why they'd never been particularly close, though Herc and Stacker were all but besties. Mako Mori just had this way of looking at a bloke that made him wonder how many of his secrets she saw. And what she thought of them behind that mask of politeness that hid her fierce intellect.

She was a good sort. He never doubted that. But that look... made him uncomfortable. Always had.

"We all have. Raleigh has outdone himself." The smile deepened. "He's waiting for us all in the common room."

He perked up but tried not to, knowing Mori would see it and... analyze it. He didn't want to be analyzed right now. He'd been doing it enough himself lately, and he still wasn't sure what to make of his own data.

"Oi, what's that silly wanker up to now?"

Her head tilted a bit, her dark eyes glowing. "Come and see for yourself."

Grumbling less than he usually would at being interrupted, he put aside his tablet and scruffed a hand through his hair. No reason. Just because. No reason to look a shambles in front of everyone, was all.

"Have you been having a good Christmas?"

The question caught him off-guard, and he abruptly wondered what Raleigh had been giving her in his seemingly insatiable desire to draw the whole holiday thing out. He shot her a piercing look, but that polite mask was impenetrable.

"Why do you ask?"

"It's just a question, Chuck."

His eyes narrowed. "Your questions are never just questions, Mori."

But at that, she looked suddenly delighted. "Do you think so?"

Oddly enough, he found himself smirking softly. Almost grinning, but not quite. "It probably shouldn't make you so happy that I suspect you of ulterior motives, ya know."

This time, her smile was entirely too prim to not be bullshit. Smirking back, he strode beside her in surprisingly companionable silence. Had she unbent, or had he? At this point, he wasn't even sure.

Maybe Chuck was the weird one all along.

But his smirk remained undiminished as they strolled through into the common room. The pathetic -- but thoughtfully decorated -- little tree glowed like a bonfire from all the lights twisted in its sparse branches reflecting of all the jaeger metal, but all the other lights in the room were off, so it was pleasantly dim as he glanced around to get an idea of why he was here. His dad was present, chatting with Becket and Tendo over in one corner. The Wei triplets were plotting on the couch by the tree, and Chuck dreaded whatever plan they would later unleash on the hapless shatterdome occupants. Finally, the Kaidanovskys gave him shark smiles that he returned with a nod.

Everyone was holding a mug, and Chuck perked up a bit, hoping for more of that miraculous cocoa. Thus, when Becket noticed him and smiled brightly, reaching behind Tendo to pick up another mug from the little table jammed in the corner, Chuck couldn't help but return the happy expression. He felt like a dope, but it was hard to resist that kind of good cheer when it was directed fully at him.

"There you are!"

Various greetings were called out, but Chuck had eyes only for the mug in Becket's hand. "Is that what I think it is?"

"If you think it's hot spiced cider, then yes."

Some of his anticipation faded. "So... hot apple juice? That sounds fucking disgusting, mate."

Becket rolled his eyes and handed off the steaming mug. "Don't knock it until you try it. But before you do... a toast!"

Everyone perked up, raising their mugs, and Chuck abruptly realized they'd all been waiting for him. To complete the group. The frontline survivors, as it were.

Suddenly, Chuck felt a lump crawl into his throat and lodge there.

"In memory of everyone we lost, and in celebration of everyone we saved."

Abruptly solemn, everyone raised their mugs a bit higher, then took a sip. Chuck was no exception. He wasn't used to feeling like a part of something, but... here he was. Sharing a toast with... friends. And family. Maybe both at the same time.

The lump didn't go away, even as the spiced cider tried to wash it down.

Honestly, he wasn't terribly fond of it, despite the obvious splash of rum, but as Becket led him around the room -- not literally; Chuck just... followed where the bloke went -- and traded idle chit-chat with the Weis and the Kaidanovskys about various international Christmas traditions they should try for next year, Chuck quietly drank every last drop without prompting. He didn't care for the drink itself, but he fucking loved the feeling of being included. Of being part of something.

And, yes, of being... close.

To Becket.

Because the bloke didn't let him sit out any of the conversation. Blue eyes alight with simple happiness, Raleigh constantly turned to Chuck to make sure he was engaged, to make sure he was enjoying himself. And he was.

He was.

And when he caught Mori's eyes on him and that little smile on her face, he thought maybe he understood better what she'd meant by asking if he was having a good Christmas. Because this?

This was a good Christmas.

Nudging Becket with his elbow, he smiled softly. "Got anymore of this shite, mate?"

Becket's smile was equally soft. "I'll see what I can do."

"Good."

And he meant it, because Chuck wanted to feel this way as long as possible. Even if it meant drinking hot apple juice with rum.

--

"Why the fuck did I agree to play strip poker with you?"

Grumbling, Chuck tugged off his right sock and tossed it over the edge of his bed. Becket, smirking, shuffled the cards without comment.

"Keep smiling, asshole. I'm onto you now. You look like a puppy, but you're a fucking shark. You won't bluff me again."

Blue eyes met Chuck's. "Who said I was bluffing?"

"Fuck off and deal."

The second hand went only slightly better than the first, but Chuck still lost his left sock. But, strangely, not his temper. He knew well the rotten sod was baiting him, but it was... amusing instead of irritating.

Or maybe Chuck was finally getting used to being in frequent contact with another human being.

Three more hands left Chuck without his shirt and Raleigh barefoot. The wanker looked a little less smug when he realized Chuck wasn't a rube, after all, and had a few of his own shark teeth to display.

"Not as much fun when you're not the wanker what's winning, eh, Becket?"

"Still one game up on you, Charlie."

Snorting, Chuck threw a pretzel at the bastard, pegging him right between the eyes. "Don't call me Charlie, Ray."

"Don't call me Ray, Charlie."

Another three games, and Chuck had somehow lost his belt and his trousers, whilst Becket only lost his jumper.

"Oi, that's not fair!"

"Rules are rules, Hansen."

"You're wearing two shirts! It's an unfair advantage!"

The bastard smirked. "Not my fault you underdressed for the occasion."

"How the bloody hell was I supposed to know you meant strip poker?"

Trying to look innocent -- which was patently impossible with that fucking smirk -- Becket shrugged. "What other kind is there?"

Grumbling, Chuck pulled his t-shirt back on to even things back up. "You worry me, mate."

Two more hands and Becket was down a belt and his trousers, and Chuck could not stop smirking if a kaiju crashed into his bunk. They eyed each other in their boxer briefs and t-shirts. This was, potentially, the penultimate game. Someone would literally lose their shirt next, and then....

Suddenly, his throat felt dry and he decided he'd damn well better win.

Then, out of nowhere, Becket backed down. "Last hand?"

Raising an eyebrow and leaning back to get a better look at whatever the bloke's face was doing, Chuck grunted. "You so sure you'll lose, mate?"

A hint of a smirk. "It's getting late, is all. It's Christmas tomorrow. Gotta get up early to open presents."

Narrowing his eyes, Chuck watched for... he didn't even know. "Fuck that, Becket. I've been opening presents all week, seems like. I wanna win."

Becket sighed, slumping a little. "It's almost midnight."

"So?"

The bloke swallowed hard. "Never mind. Okay. Whatever you want, Chuck."

Frowning now, Chuck continued to eyeball the silly sod. For whatever reason, Becket wasn't in the game anymore. And, really, Chuck didn't particularly wanna strip buck naked, either.

"Maybe you're right. It's... it's late. Next win takes it all."

Those broad shoulders relaxed from more tension than Chuck had initially seen. "Good. Thanks, man."

"No worries."

And it really wasn't a problem, until he remembered that aces and eights were the Dead Man's Hand for a reason because Raleigh Fucking Becket beat him with a shitty trio of duces.

"Oi, fuck!" Grumbling, he tossed off his shirt and crossed his arms, blushing. "One more hand, mate. C'mon."

Oddly relieved, the bloke grinned. "You agreed to the terms, Chuck." Then, weirdly enough, the bastard glanced over at the display over Chuck's desk, his face going blank. "Huh. It's... it's after midnight."

Raising an eyebrow, he reached out a bare foot and nudged the bloke's knee. "What, you worried you'll turn into a pumpkin, then?"

Some of the blankness faded. "I don't have the hair for it."

"Fuck off, Becket!" But he was laughing, even as he sat defeated in his boxer briefs. "So what's the big deal about midnight?"

Becket shrugged. "It's Christmas."

He raised an eyebrow again. "So?"

Sighing, the wanker scooted off the bed and dug around in his discarded trouser pocket. "I was having fun, is all."

"I thought that's what Christmas was supposed to be about."

"It is." Becket sat back down where he'd been during the game, a small, white bag in his hand. "But it's almost over now."

"Oh." He thought he understood a bit. "All the build-up was nice, but now that it's the day of, you know it's all over tomorrow."

"Something like that." He stared down at the bag, then abruptly handed it across the scattered cards between them. "Merry Christmas, Chuck."

Another present? "Jesus, Becket. You haven't gotten one goddamn thing from me, but I've got all sorts of new shit I didn't even know I wanted."

But he opened the bag, just the same, and... oh. Oh, sweet Mother of Mercy.

"Where the fuck did you get Hershey's Kisses?" He had one unwrapped and popped into his mouth almost before the question was out, and the sweet, creamy, chocolatey goodness tasted like heaven itself as it started to melt on his tongue. "Seriously, Becket, you're a fucking saint, but the company bottomed out the second year of the war, and these fuckers aren't that old."

"Yes, they are."

Chuck was already four kisses down, but that stemmed the tide. A bit. "Oi, fuck, you're trying to kill me, then?"

Suddenly, he realized Becket was blank again. "Kept 'em in the deep freeze."

"What the fuck are you on about? You didn't have a deep freeze on the Wall, mate. Moved around too much for that shit."

"They were Yancy's. He'd been rationing out the last big bag for years, keeping them hidden in the back. He... he left them in the freezer when we went out to fight Knifehead."

The sweetness turned to bitter gall in his mouth, and he wished he hadn't already downed six of the little emotional time bombs.

"He always hid them in the big freezer in the basement because that one had a generator in case the power ever got cut. It was a few years before they actually closed the Icebox, so the generator was still running when... when Pentecost came for me."

Slowly, Raleigh reached over and took one of the treats, peeled away the foil, and popped it into his mouth. His eyes were suspiciously bright, but not with joy. Chuck knew what joy looked like in those baby blues, and this wasn't it.

"Part of the bargain was stopping at the Icebox so I could get a few of the things I left, but... mostly... I just wanted these."

Swallowing hard against the cloying sweetness in his throat, Chuck handed the bag back. "I can't, mate."

Becket, that melancholy fuck, didn't take it.

"I'm serious, Raleigh. I'm not eating your brother's goddamn sweets. They're yours, mate."

The sad fucker's eyes swam for a moment, but Becket turned his head slightly before anything got away from him. "There's four left. Will you... split them with me?"

He wanted to protest. Fuck, he half wanted to throw up the ones he'd already practically inhaled like a rabid, starving dog.

"Please, Chuck?"

Fuck. He hadn't gotten Becket a goddamn thing besides a fucking hideous Christmas jumper because one, he had no idea what the bloke wanted, two, it was a jumper and Becket still tended to wear them more often than not, and three, he felt like he had to give something back to the good mate who'd been slipping him nice little surprises almost the whole damn month and was trying so hard to make everyone else happy.

If this was what Raleigh Fucking Becket wanted for Christmas, Chuck was by God going to oblige.

So they switched off, Chuck taking one, then Raleigh taking one, then Chuck, then Raleigh again, and then the bag was empty. It seemed... anti-climactic.

So... almost panicking with the sudden urge, Chuck leaned across the space between them and kissed the sad sod right on the lips. He wasn't even really aware of what he was going to do until it was already done.

And when it was over, he sat back and stared, surprised at himself but not at the outsized look of shock on Becket's face.

To his credit, the bloke didn't get angry. "Chuck... why? You... you don't have to... that's not what I was...?"

Uncomfortable now, he shrugged. "I honestly don't know, mate. Just... wanted to."

And he had, he realized as soon as the words were out. In fact, he was pretty sure he'd wanted to do that for a good, long while. Probably should have checked it was okay first, though.

His dad had drilled the rules of consent into his head the first time he caught a fourteen-year-old Chuck making out with a sixteen-year-old tech's daughter. On that matter, Herc had been absolutely clear, no matter how muddy the waters between them had already been.

Chuck still didn't want to know why it had been so important to his old man. He'd never once asked.

But Becket was still looking at him, almost hurt, and he suddenly wondered if he'd just broken one of his father's only iron-clad rules.

"Oi, Raleigh, I... sorry, mate, I know I should've asked--"

"No, that's...." Shaking his head, the poor sod tried to gather himself. "I just... you made yourself pretty clear months ago, and I don't want you to think I did all of this just to win you over."

He blinked. "The fuck are you on about, Becket?"

A pink tinge colored the bloke's cheeks, erasing some of the hurt look. "Oh, so you don't remember when you told me to back the fuck off or you'd cut my dick off and feed it to Max?"

Oh, shit. He... yeah, he'd said that. But not....

...Wait.

...Wait just one goddamn minute.

"Jesus Christ, Becket, were you fucking hitting on me that whole time?"

A strangled laugh choked the poor bastard, and he covered his face with his hands. "Oh, my God, you didn't even fucking know."

"Raleigh Fucking Becket, you absolute wanker!" Snatching up his pillow from behind him, he smacked the dumbass over the head with it. "Why the fuck didn't you just say something?"

"Because I didn't want you to feed my dick to Max!"

"No, before that! Jesus, I thought... you're so goddamn... fuck!"

Practically howling with the mortification that Becket had been trying to get his attention and Chuck, the fucking oblivious moron he always managed to be, had shouted him away, Chuck pummeled the dumbass with his pillow until Becket started to laugh and fight back, and suddenly, there were feathers everywhere.

Almost looked like a snowstorm.

And they were both panting, the feathers wafting about on the little gusts of breath.

And then, they were kissing, desperate and deep, and Raleigh's mouth tasted like home and like sweetness, and Chuck decided there was one last chocolate kiss to share between them, and then he pulled back to laugh at himself because he was a fucking moron.

"Jesus, Becket, I've been sneaking cuddles from you this whole goddamn time."

"I know." Even his breath smelled like chocolate. "Didn't know why, but... I figured it couldn't hurt. Unless you nutted me."

Chuck started to kiss the fucking wanker again, but pulled back at the last moment. "Oi, wait. You said you didn't do all this Christmas shite to win me over."

Becket blinked his eyes open, the blue hazy and fucking gorgeous. Chuck could admit it now.

"I said it because I meant it. I didn't do this to... get your attention or whatever."

Frowning, he sat back on his heels. "Then...?"

The bloke shrugged and spoke with simple honesty. "Just wanted to see you happy."

Well, fuck. The goddamn lump in his throat was back, and he was fresh out of hot apple juice to wash it down.

"Goddammit, Ray." Slumping forward, he leaned his forehead against the silly bastard's, pleased to feel the answering pressure as Becket leaned into the touch, too. "All I got you was a fucking awful jumper."

Grinning, Raleigh shook his head, rocking his forehead against Chuck's. "Best Christmas ever."

"Fucking sap."

"Shut up and kiss me, asshole."

So he did.

And he was pleased to discover that Raleigh Fucking Becket still tasted like home, even without the lingering hint of chocolate.

THE END