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“Y/NNNNNN…” Raiden’s voice came out in a heroic slur, like your name had suddenly gained twelve extra letters and a vowel tax.
You stared at him.
Then at the others behind him.
Then back at him.
He swayed.
They snickered.
Your soul left your body.
“…The fuck?” you muttered under your breath.
Raiden brightened—brightened—like your confusion was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
He stumbled toward you, arms half-open, nearly tripping over a decorative pillow someone definitely shouldn’t have left on the floor.
“You made it,” he said, smile extremely wide, “Great. I missed youuu.”
You blinked.
Your lips twitched.
Then you turned your death glare on the peanut gallery behind him.
“Alright,” you said, voice deceptively calm. “Fess up. Who did it?”
Instant silence.
Eye contact?
Nonexistent.
They suddenly found the walls, ceiling, and floor fascinating.
Kung Lao examined the corner like a gecko.
Johnny studied the ceiling fan like it held the secrets of the universe.
Kenshi straight-up turned his back, traitor-style.
Raiden, meanwhile, leaned dangerously toward you like gravity personally requested his attention.
This.
This was a setup.
A trap.
A war crime.
And someone was going down for it.
“Come on. Who did it? Who did it, and what did you give him?” you asked again, eyes drilling holes into each of their skulls with enough force to make even Liu Kang consider pretending he didn’t know you.
Silence.
Painful, guilty, “I’m not snitching, ask the Elder Gods” silence.
You flicked your gaze to Liu Kang.
He only shrugged, a polite smile tugging at his lips like he was very amused and absolutely not going to intervene.
Traitor.
You sighed, resigned to your fate, and wrangled Raiden—who had draped himself over you like a weighted blanket with legs—into the kitchen. It took actual effort to get him upright on a barstool. He slumped immediately, forearms sliding across the counter until you caught him.
“Stay,” you said slowly, raising a warning finger like you were talking to a disobedient golden retriever.
Raiden pouted. POUTED.
Then whimpered softly, which was—frankly—unnecessary and kind of adorable.
“I’ll be right back,” you sighed, turning toward the fridge in search of a water bottle before he accidentally fell off the stool and cracked his skull open.
You definitely had not planned on walking into the holiday party and immediately getting drafted into Drunk Raiden Babysitting Duty… but with your group of friends? Yeah. This was practically inevitable.
You grabbed a water bottle, took the deepest inhale known to mankind, and returned to the adorable disaster slumped on your barstool.
He perked up at your approach like you were returning from war.
You unscrewed the cap, stepped in front of him, and gently cupped his chin, tilting his head back.
“Open,” you murmured.
His jaw dropped instantly.
“Aaaahhhhhhh.”
You snorted, snatched your gaze away to compose yourself, then turned back with whatever dignity you had left.
“No sounds, sweetie,” you said, amused. “I need you to drink some of this. Slowly.”
You tipped the bottle toward his mouth, and Raiden obediently swallowed in small gulps, cheeks still flushed, eyes glassy, looking every bit like a Fengjian farm boy who got knocked out by the adult concoction recipe.
Meanwhile, the boys in the living room were trying—and failing—not to cackle like hyenas.
And you?
You were about ready to throw them all off a cliff.
When he finished the water, you coaxed him onto the couch, guiding him down like he was an elderly grandpa instead of a twenty-something with zero alcohol tolerance. He flopped dramatically, limbs everywhere, and you stood over him with your hands on your hips.
“Whatever you gave him, I need a cup of it,” you muttered.
That was apparently the magic phrase, because within minutes Johnny popped up next to you with a cup filled to the literal brim with the world’s most suspiciously strong-smelling eggnog. It practically radiated danger like a cursed artifact.
Your eyes slid to him.
You narrowed them.
“Guilty,” you said flatly, snatching the cup.
You didn’t sip it.
You didn’t test it.
You straight-up DOWNED half of it like you were challenging a demon.
Johnny froze like he’d just watched you defuse a bomb with your teeth.
“I— NO— THAT WASN’T— WHAT YOU DRANK WAS— LOOK—” he stammered, then bolted away like you’d pulled out a belt.
You shook your head, exhaling through your nose, and turned back to Raiden.
“GRANDMA GOT RUN OVER BY A REINDEER!”
You flinched so hard you nearly spilled the eggnog.
Raiden was sitting straight up, eyes wide, chest puffed out with the confidence of a man who forgot what shame was thirty minutes ago.
You blinked at him, unsure whether he was about to sing or summon something.
He grinned.
“WALKING HOME FROM OUR— OUR— UH— HOUSE, CHRISTMAS EVE!” he cried, voice cracking so violently it sounded like he was being exorcised.
Every single person in the room stopped dead.
Kung Lao had to clutch the wall, shoulders shaking from silent laughter, tears gathering in his eyes. He looked about two seconds from collapsing.
You backed up a step, hands raised like Raiden was a feral raccoon about to attack.
“Raiden,” you tried gently, “sweetheart... you good?”
He inhaled like a Disney protagonist about to hit the chorus.
Because he was absolutely about to hit screeching mode again.
And you were not emotionally ready for Round Two.
“YOU CAN SA—mmf—MMF—MMFFF—”
You slapped your hand over his mouth before he could hit another note capable of killing braincells.
“Raiden…” you said, voice strained like you were handling a hostage situation. He continued “singing” under your palm, muffled and pitiful. “My sweet summer child, please. Stop screaming.”
He pulled back dramatically, gasping like you’d just silenced the voice of a generation.
“I’m NOT screaming! I’m SINGING!” he wailed, absolutely betrayed.
Before you could respond, Kung Lao popped up behind him, grinning like the menace he was and clapped a hand on Raiden’s shoulder.
“Bro… you’re definitely NOT singing.”
Raiden whipped his head between the two of you, face contorting into the most offended expression imaginable.
Betrayal.
Agony.
Shock.
Crumbling dignity.
“You— BOTH of you—” he sputtered, pointing at you like you’d personally sabotaged his imaginary record deal. “You don’t appreciate TALENT.”
Johnny was on the floor wheezing. Kenshi looked like he regretted having functioning ears. Liu Kang was politely hiding a smile like a worried kindergarten teacher.
And Raiden?
Raiden was now dramatically inhaling again.
Because he was absolutely about to start Round Two.