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York’s last few Christmases have been significantly less than stellar. Then again, he’s got high expectations - one of his moms was Catholic, so she always went all out. Tree, candles, gingerbread, Christmas Eve services, the whole nine yards. Then Christmas in college had just been drinking with his buddies, and Christmas in the army had been even more drinking with his buddies. Christmas when he went back to school was drinking on his own, and it’s a tradition he’s proudly continued ever since.
He’s probably going to honor it this year, too. Mother of Invention is a big ship with a lot of personnel, enough of them Christian to warrant a Christmas service in the non-denominational chapel. York’s not feeling church this year, though, and without all the traditional trappings of Christmas - no decorations, no music, the only change in food some shitty holiday-themed sugar cookies the cafeteria puts out - it’s hard to get in that festive spirit.
And then Montana breaks her neck in a training exercise gone wrong and has to be sent home for extensive surgery and physical therapy, and that really puts a damper on everyone’s mood.
So Christmas Eve comes around and York’s wandering through the darkened halls with a bottle of whiskey, the good stuff, a Christmas present to himself. He could get someone to join him - North, maybe, or Alabama, or maybe that Wash kid that keeps hanging around, York’s pretty sure he’s never gotten flat-out drunk before, and has a perverse desire to pop that cherry. But then he remembers that North’s gone on shore leave with his sister, and Alabama’s probably hooking up with that officer from Resource Management, and on second thought the idea of getting Wash drunk and having to deal with him probably crying and puking doesn’t sound so fun after all.
So on his own it is, then, and York hums an off-key rendition of “All I Want For Christmas Is You” in between swigs of whiskey as he meanders down a hallway, somewhere in the vicinity of the gym. Secretly he’s glad the Counselor didn’t take the holiday season as an excuse for some more fucked-up “team building” exercises. The question now is where to take his booze and enjoy his Christmas Eve in peace; his bunk isn’t an option, with two of his roommates currently asleep and snoring, and he has a feeling that the freelancer rec room is going to be a haven for those seeking some kind of holiday camaraderie. He is close to the gym, though, and that actually sounds like a decent idea. He can do some Christmas curls.
Quietly pleased with his brilliance, York enters the gym. The main lights aren’t on, just the ubiquitous baseboard ones, it’s nice and dark and quiet and York scans it for the appropriate place to lay his ass down and enjoy his Christmas whiskey -
There’s someone else in here.
York has a very brief moment of irrational panic before realizing it’s just someone doing bench presses, a guy. He hasn’t noticed York, and York considers backing out before fuck it, maybe it’s Christmas serendipity. “Hey,” he says.
There’s a clunk of metal and the man sits up, light falling on his features and - oh. That’s North. “Hey,” he says, surprised.
“What’re you doing here?” says York, walking over. “Thought you were planetside with South.”
North shrugs; now that York’s closer to him he can see circles under his eyes, a weary, strung-out look. “Didn’t work out as planned.”
“Where’s South?”
“Planetside.”
“Huh.” York sits down on the bench opposite North, and because he can tell North needs it, he holds out the bottle of whiskey. North takes it and drinks without even looking at what the label is. “Sorry to hear that.”
North swallows with a slight gasp, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. “Eh,” he says, handing the bottle back to York. “It’s okay.”
“You sure?” The whiskey burns pleasantly going down his throat, York’s hands and face beginning to tingle with warmth.
Looking anything but sure, North shrugs. “What about you?” he says. “Drinking on your own?”
“It’s a Christmas tradition.”
“Ah.” North nudges the bottle out of York’s hand, fingers brushing his. “Good tradition.”
They pass the whiskey back and forth a couple of times in companionable silence, until York says, “So you do Christmas?”
“Yeah,” says North, with half a laugh - he’s looking marginally more relaxed now that he’s got some alcohol in him. “Yeah, me and South, we had the - the traditional American Christmas…”
“Oh nice.” York sloshes the remaining liquid around in the bottle, it’s about half-full now. “I had… I had a month of Christmas…”
North tugs the bottle away for another drink, frowning at York. “How so?”
“Well, Mom is Italian and Catholic, so like… Christmas is a big deal for them...There’s fuckin’ Advent and you do Christmas stuff until like, January…”
“Sounds nice,” says North distantly.
“Was goddamn nice as a kid. Whole month of festivities.” He stumbles slightly over the last word. “Bet it was stressful as fuck for Mom though, all that family stuff.”
“Family,” snorts North, and drinks again.
“So what’s up with South?” says York. “You wanna talk about it?” They probably wouldn’t be having this conversation if he was sober, but hey, it’s Christmas.
“Not really.”
“Okay,”
They drink in more silence, York having passed from buzzed to tipsy at some point. “You know what,” announces North, voice sliding bitter, “I’m tired.”
“Not enough sleep?”
“No, man, no -” North waves a hand through the air. He looks exhausted and hollow again. “Like… of everything. Bone tired. Deep tired.” Sighing, he drops his face into his hand, rubs his forehead. “I’m fucking exhausted.”
Because it seems like the right thing to do, York reaches out and puts a hand on North’s knee, patting it clumsily. North is warm through the polyester micro-weave mesh, and solid. “Then take a break,” York says. “It’s holidays.”
North snorts again, swallowing down more whiskey, and hands the bottle to York. There’s not much left, and York downs the rest of it with a heady burst of warmth. “Wish I could,” says North. “But it’s just… every time I think I’m done, I can rest, something else comes up…”
“Shit, I’m sorry,” says York, with as sympathetic a face as he can muster.
“It’s fine.” But by the tone of North’s voice, it very much isn’t.
It must be the booze that leads York to say, “Do you need a hug?”
“Fuck no,” says North. “Maybe.”
“C’mere,” says York, and reaches over and pulls North into a hug.
It’s clumsy and awkward and North clearly doesn’t know what do with his hands, but York just hangs onto him tight because everybody could use a good hug, hugs are great. After a couple brief squirms North sighs and settles, and then there’s the heavy weight of his head on York’s shoulder.
“Merry Christmas,” murmurs York.
North grunts, muted; he’s warm and heavy in York’s arms, though there’s still an awkward space stretched between them, seated on two separate benches. When it’s clear North’s not pulling away anytime soon, York shifts his hands down North’s back and tugs. “Hmm?” says North.
“Get over here,” says York, and tugs again.
But North straightens and sits back with a sigh, shadows pooling under his eyes. “It’s okay,” he says. “Thanks.”
York feels intensely disappointed in a way he can’t put his finger on. “No problem.”
“Any of that whiskey left?”
York lifts the empty bottle at him ruefully. “Nah, sorry.”
“It’s all right.”
York glances up at the clock on the wall out of habit, and look at that, it’s after midnight. “Hey,” he says, nudging his knee against North’s. “Merry Christmas.”
North smiles a little. “You said that already.”
“Well, now it’s true.”
Running a hand over his jaw, North chuckles - it’s a quiet, comforting laugh. “Merry Christmas, York.”
“And a Happy New Year.”