HLA | Christmas Party

Geck leaned his forehead against the frost-edged window, watching snow blanket the rolling hills of Sanctuary 23. The two moons turned the night silver, painting the world in shades of white and shadow that would've made the old Irish spirits feel right at home. "Brigid's tits, what a night," he murmured, grinning. "Snow's comin' down good, now, lads! If this ain't the perfect holiday weather, I don't know what is!"

Behind him, his crewmates busied themselves with various activities. Pierce balanced atop a ladder that had seen better centuries, stringing holly along the walls with the same precision she applied to calibrating the Shrike's nav array. "This is lopsided," she grumbled, though her sharp blue eyes held a brightness that rarely appeared on the bridge. She caught Geck watching and threw him a glare. "Something to add, O'Riley?"

"Just calculatin' the odds of ye topplin' into the eggnog," Geck replied coyly.

The datapad propped on the sideboard flickered. As if the setting would be complete with TC. Probability of Pierce losing balance: 12.7%. Probability of Geck provoking said loss: 78.3%.

Rook sat cross-legged on the floor, his massive frame bent over a Gordian knot of fairy lights. His scarred fingers patiently untangling each wire with a focus that bordered on meditative. They'd pulled Rook from Colony 2321's fighting pits a drugged, violent wreck. Now he was here, untangling Christmas lights.

Doc leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, scowling up at a sprig of mistletoe. "Botanical symbolism," he muttered. "I still fail to understand how parasitic foliage came to symbolize romance. What exactly does kissing beneath it achieve?"

"Achieves cheer, ye absolute misery," Geck retorted. "And if yer standin' there expectin' a smooch, don't go gettin' yer hopes up, ye ugly git."

Doc sighed heavily through his nose as he considered the logistics involved in strangling the HLA's resident pain in the ass. The small holly leaf pinned to his lapel, a gift from Gran that he'd accepted with minimal grumbling, glinted in the firelight.

Reed emerged from the kitchen bearing a tray of steaming mugs. The captain moved with his usual deliberate grace, settingthe tray on the coffee table. "Hot cider," Reed announced, picking one up. "Mrs. O'Riley says it'll 'put hair on your chest.' I told her Pierce and I might pass on that particular side effect."

From the ladder, Pierce snorted. "Speak for yourself, Captain. Not all of us need to wax our chests once a week."

Reed nearly spit the mouthful of cider he's just taken in. "Excuse me, Helmsman?! I do not-"

"Oh, look who's pulling rank," Pierce replied oh-so-calmly.

Geck had already burst into laughter. "So that's why ye always have a chest like a babe's arse, aye, Cap? Little bit o' body hair too much fer ye, ye gotta look like a bloody swimsuit model?" he cackled. Unfortunately, he remained oblivious to his grandmother emerging behind him from the kitchen until her spoon cracked down on squarely between his shoulders. "YOWCH!"

"George Paul O'Riley, ye watch yer language on the night of our Lord!" Grandma O'Riley scolded him. "I'll not be havin' ye blasphemin' under this roof! Now get yerself cleaned up, I don't recall raisin' a slob what can't even comb his hair!"

"Well if that's not instant karma, I don't know what is," Pierce observed dryly while Reed didn't even try to hide his smug grin.

"Oh cram it! Yer the one what started it!" Geck protested.

The front door banged open, admitting a gust of snow and Roxanne O'Riley, her wild auburn hair dusted white and a bundle of logs under arm. "Got more wood fer the fire," she announced, stomping her boots. "Smells like the goose is nearly done, too!"

"Right then!" Geck exclaimed, latching onto the change in subject with a sharp clap of his hands. "Let's make this a right proper Christmas party, aye?"