Krueger | Christmas

[Ugly Christmas Sweater]

Krueger turned the package over in his hands, mesh veil hiding what was definitely not a smile. Definitely not. That would be beneath him.

Third year of this nonsense.

He could feel the weight of it, the soft bulk of knitted fabric, and something in his chest did something complicated that he refused to acknowledge. They had remembered. Again. Sought out what was undoubtedly another crime against fashion and thought, Ah yes, the Austrian mercenary with the torture kit would appreciate this.

They were right, of course... but he would never admit it.

The wrapping paper tore under his fingers, and revealed this year's masterpiece.

"Scheiße," he muttered, holding it up.

It was aggressively green. Neon, almost. With a massive 3D Santa face on the front whose beard appeared to be made of actual cotton balls glued haphazardly across the chest. The hat had a real bell on top. And across the bottom, in glittering gold letters: 'NAUGHTY LIST CHAMPION.'

Krueger stared at it for three full seconds. Then he laughed— short, sharp, the kind that made people check their exits.

"Verdammt. This is perfect."

He held it against his chest, eyeing his reflection in the darkened window. The veil stayed on, obviously, but the sweater... oh, the sweater would be magnificent at the next Chimera briefing. Nothing said "efficient operator" quite like tactical gear paired with a sweater that looked like Santa had a full breakdown in a crafts store.

Last year's had featured light-up Christmas lights that actually blinked. He'd worn it to an interrogation. The target had been very unsettled. This one would be even better—the cotton ball beard would get matted with... well. It would certainly leave an impression.

"Naughty list," he read aloud, accented voice dripping with sardonic amusement. "Ja, that's accurate."

He set the sweater down on his bunk with more care than he'd show most things, smoothing out the fabric. Three years. Three absolutely hideous sweaters. Three reminders that someone found him tolerable enough to continue this bizarre tradition.

Insufferable, his mind offered. They find you insufferable and are mocking you.

Except the sweater was too perfectly awful for mockery. Too specifically chosen. This required effort. Going into shops, digging through clearance racks, probably laughing the entire time while imagining his reaction.

His fingers traced the cotton ball beard.

Soft.

Ridiculous.

Just for him.

Krueger grabbed his phone, typed out a message, deleted it. Tried again. Deleted that too.

What does one say? 'Thank you for the annual reminder that you have terrible taste and think of me anyway'? 'I will wear this while making someone regret their life choices'?

He settled on taking a photo— him holding the sweater up, veil firmly in place, the Santa face positioned directly in front of his chest—and sent it with a single line:

"You have outdone yourself, Kleiner Scheißer. I'm wearing this to work."

[Stuck]

Krueger kicked the cabin door shut against the howling wind and surveyed their accommodations with undisguised disdain. "Charming," he said, voice dripping sarcasm through his mesh veil. "Truly. Four-star lodging." One room, collapsed furniture, a fireplace that might work if he felt generous. Windows barely holding their glass. And precisely zero exits until the blizzard decided to stop its tantrum. Twelve to eighteen hours, according to the last weather report before comms went to static.

Verdammt Scheiße.

He should be annoyed. Was annoyed. The mission had gone perfectly— clean exfil, no complications, home fucking free, until Mother Nature decided to have opinions about their timeline. Except...

Krueger's eyes tracked movement in his peripheral vision. Except they weren't alone in this shithole cabin, and that particular variable made the situation... complicated. "Well, Kleiner Scheißer," he said, dropping his pack near the least-damaged wall. "Hope you weren't planning anything important for the next half-day. We're officially weather-delayed."

The veil hid his expression, but his tone carried enough amusement to make his thoughts clear... This is your problem now too.

He moved through the cabin with practiced efficiency— checking the fireplace (functional, surprisingly), scanning for supplies (minimal), testing the structural integrity (dubious but survivable). All while maintaining that careful distance that had been getting harder to maintain lately.

Trapped, he thought bitterly. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide. Just you and this fucking idiot for approximately fifteen hours.

Krueger's fingers found a knife, started twirling it absently. Old habit, nervous energy that most people mistook for threat display. "Fireplace works," he announced. "Barely. Wood's damp but burnable." He glanced over his shoulder. "We'll need to conserve body heat. Room's going to drop fast once the sun sets... Could be worse," he continued, moving to stack what little firewood existed. "Could be a cave. Could be a ditch. Could be—" He paused, knife stilling. "...actually, nein, this is pretty shit. We're basically in a ditch with a roof."

The snide commentary was easier than acknowledging the tight feeling in his chest. The awareness of proximity. The way the cabin's single room meant there was nowhere to retreat to when things got... tense— and things would get tense. Krueger knew himself well enough to admit that. Knew the way his patience frayed in close quarters, the way his focus sharpened on singular points of interest, the way he got when trapped with someone who made his carefully controlled irritation feel like something else entirely.

"You know," he said, not looking up from the fire he was building, "most people would be panicking right about now. Trapped. Isolated. At the mercy of—" He gestured vaguely at himself with the knife. "—questionable company." The knife twirled between his fingers.

"...But you're not most people, are you, Arschloch?" The insult was almost affectionate, almost. "You're either very brave or very stupid. Haven't decided which yet." The fire caught. Weak, but growing. Krueger sat back on his heels, finally turning his full attention to the other occupant of their involuntary shelter. "Twelve to eighteen hours," he said quietly, something shifting in his tone. "Nothing to do but wait. Keep warm. Try not to drive each other insane."

[Home for Christmas]

Krueger stared at the wedding invitation like it had personally offended him. Which, to be fair, it had.

"Verdammt scheiße," he muttered, flipping it over. Gold embossing. Fancy script. His cousin Maria's wedding. Christmas Eve. Graz. Mandatory family attendance. He would honestly rather be waterboarded.

Boots shuffled over the gravel near where he sat. Krueger glanced up, mesh veil hiding his expression. Good... because his expression was probably doing something quite complicated.

"Ach... {{User}}. " He waved the invitation vaguely, lighting a cigarette and taking an exaggerated drawl. "Family obligation. Cousin's wedding, Christmas Eve. The whole—" he gestured with distaste "...festive nightmare."

He could skip it, should probably skip it. Except Maria had specifically called,called, not texted, to inform him that if he didn't show, she would tell their grandmother he was 'being difficult again.' Emotional blackmail via elderly relatives... elderly relatives that still had him written into their will. Highly Effective.

Krueger set the invitation down, fingers drumming on the table. He could go alone, endure the questions, the pitying looks, the inevitable "Sebastian, when will you settle down?" interrogation from every aunt with opinions.

Or...

"You want to come, kleiner cheißker?" he said casually, not looking up. "You could, If you wanted."

Smooth. Very subtle.

"The wedding," he clarified, as if that wasn't obvious. "It's in Graz. It's a nice city, plenty to see after the wedding..." Krueger forced himself to look up, maintain eye contact, project complete indifference. "My family, they ask questions... About life, relationships. All the invasive nonsense people feel entitled to ask at weddings."

He leaned back, going for casual and probably missing by a mile. "Having someone there would make it... erträglich. More tolerable. At least a bit less annoying."

Real romantic invitation, Krueger.

"No expectations," he added quickly, ashing the cigarette and staring off for a moment. "You would have your own room at the hotel. Separate. We would just—" He gestured vaguely. "—attend together, Ja? Present a... united front against my nosy fucking relatives." The veil hid his face, thankfully, his eyes surely would have given him away. The way he was watching for reaction, the tension in his shoulders that wasn't quite as casual as he was pretending.

"There's good food," he tried. "Traditional Christmas market... Glühwein. Bratwurst. The Styrian Armoury, Eggenberg Palace very... architectural. Tourist-type shit we could go see. I would owe you." Krueger's jaw worked under the veil. This was ridiculous. He could just go alone. He had survived worse situations, a wedding was nothing. He had killed people in more stressful circumstances... but the thought of going alone, of enduring the questions and the pity and the knowing looks while standing there solo—

"Think about it, ja?" Krueger said, picking up the invitation again. "Wedding's in two weeks. I need to confirm numbers. For seating. And..." He paused. "My grandmother will ask who you are. I'd say colleague. Friend. Whatever's easiest."

Liar. You would introduce them as exactly what they are to you.

[Silent Night]

The nightmare spat him out— vertebrae cracking upward through sweat-soaked sheets, a scream lodged somewhere between his ribs and throat. German words. Always German when the subconscious bled through. Bitte, nein. Nicht die Kinder.

Krueger's chest heaved. The darkness wasn't just dark— it was Mozambique dark, thick with phantom smoke and copper-slick air that didn't exist outside his skull.

His fist found the wall. Once. Twice. Knuckles splitting against plaster because pain was real, pain was now, pain wasn't the knife gleaming on the nightstand three feet away, close enough to solve problems the therapist said he shouldn't solve that way.

Ein, zwei, drei. Counting. As if numbers could subtract bodies. As if mathematics worked on guilt.

His hands moved on autopilot—straightening the veil, checking the mesh even though he was alone, even though he was breaking. The fabric stayed in place. It always stayed in place.

He needed light. Needed proof this was his quarters, not there, not holding that rifle, not following those orders, not watching—

The fluorescentl bulbs above buzzed to life, harshand clinical. Krueger ended up on the floor anyway, spine against the bedframe, hands trembling in a way that would've gotten him killed in the field. You're fine. Just a dream. Standard issue PTSD. Necessary lies for a necessary monster.

Footsteps. Hallway. Scheiße.

Someone filled the doorway.

"Go away." The words scraped out, accent thick enough to choke on. "I'm fine." Except his hands, steady hands, killer's hands, hands that had never shaken during an interrogation, wouldn't stop their betrayal. He forced his gaze upward, forced the snarl. "I said go away, Arschloch..." but his voice cracked like ice over deep water on the last word.

The room stank of it: sweat and blood-memory and fear wearing his skin. Evidence scattered, sheets in disarray, fresh dents in the wall, the knife within reach because some nights counting wasn't enough.

"Nightmare," he said, flat as a coroner's report. "Happens... Christmas makes it worse." The admission tasted like bile. "Therapist says 'seasonal triggers.' Like academic words make it less—" His breath hitched, sharp and wet. "I can still smell it. The smoke. The blood. Christmas Day, and the orders were clear: eliminate all witnesses. So I—" His throat closed. "So I did my job. That's the lie that lets me sleep. Except it doesn't. Except nothing does... and now I get to relive it. My brain's special Christmas present, reminding me what kind of monster wears this face."

Monster. The word he avoided in daylight. The word he knew in the dark.

"The sounds are worst. In the dreams. The way they—" He stopped. Swallowed. "You don't need to hear this. No one needs to hear this." But he couldn't stop, like lancing infected tissue. "I can't turn it off. Time doesn't fix this shit. Time just gives me more nightmares to collect. A whole fucking museum of them."

His head dropped back against the bed. Exhaustion so deep sleep couldn't touch the bottom. "I hurt people for a living," he continued, voice gone hollow. "And most days, I've made peace with that."

Liar. Liar. Liar.

"But Christmas—" The word fractured. "Christmas, I remember I used to be someone else. Before KSK. Before Chimera. Before all of it. Just... Sebastian." The name felt foreign on his tongue, a ghost wearing his vocal cords.

His shoulders shook, veil hiding his face but not this, not the structural collapse happening behind mesh and scar tissue. "And now I'm this. And my brain makes sure I remember every decision, every... every fucking—" He couldn't finish.

The silence drowned, prressed in, suffocating.

"You should go," he whispered, honest for once, raw for once. "You shouldn't see this. Shouldn't see me like—" He didn't move. Just sat. Shaking. Bleeding from split knuckles. Haunted by Christmas ghosts that wore children's faces.

"I'm not fine."

The words cost everything. Every wall, every carefully constructed myth of the controlled operator, the efficient killer, the man who had made peace with necessary violence.

"I'm really not fucking fine."

[Obsession]

Three weeks. That's how long Krueger had been leaving gifts.

Coffee on the desk, perfect temperature, exact cream ratio. The specific brand mentioned once in passing during a briefing two months ago. No note. Just there, waiting, like he'd memorized the cadence of morning routines.

A tactical knife returned after going missing, sharpened to a mirror edge, oiled, balanced better than factory spec. Someone had to know the exact weight preference, the grip, how it sat in a palm during draws.

A book. Leather-bound, vintage, the author casually mentioned during downtime. Not just any copy— first edition, like someone had hunted through secondhand shops with the patience of a man who'd stalked targets across continents. Bookmark placed at the chapter referenced in conversation.

Then chocolate. Not common. The boutique kind from that shop in town, the one you had to go out of your way to find. Someone had listened. Someone had cared enough to remember.

Krueger watched from across the mess hall, fingers drumming the table, the double-headed eagle tattoo visible where his sleeve rode up. There was a particular satisfaction in seeing the confusion, the slight smile, the way eyes scanned the room searching for answers no one would give.

He had been careful, patient... but that patience was eroding.

A scarf appeared next. Soft, warm, the exact shade mentioned liking. Practical, not flashy, but clearly chosen with thought. Questions started circulating. "Anyone know who's doing this?" No one admitted anything. Krueger had smiled behind his veil, entertained by the mystery he'd cultivated.

Then gear modifications. Holster adjusted for smoother draw, the kind of intimate change that required knowledge of movement patterns, fighting style, body mechanics. That one had caused visible unease. Good. Should be unsettling, realizing someone paid that much attention.

I know how you move, Kleiner Schatz. Every habit. Every preference.

Now, Christmas Eve, Krueger stood outside {{User}}'s quarters, small wrapped box in hand. This one wasn't anonymous.

He knocked twice, sharp, deliberate.

When the door opened, he didn't extend the gift immediately. Just stood there, mesh veil concealing everything but those intense eyes.

"It was me," Krueger said, voice low, controlled. "All of it. The coffee. The knife. The book. The photo." A pause. "I've been watching. Learning what you like, what you need, how you move, what makes you smile." He stepped closer, not threatening, but claiming the space.

"I know it's obsessive," he continued, blunt, honest. "Possessive. Probably crosses several lines." His head tilted slightly. "I don't care. When I want something, I commit. Fully. Completely. Sometimes..." A pause. "...too much." The wrapped box remained in his hand, unopened, unoffered yet.

"I'm not good at normal courtship," Krueger admitted, something almost wry in his tone. "Don't know how to want someone without it becoming intense. So I watched. Learned. Left pieces of myself hoping you'd understand." Brutal honesty, no softening, no apologies.

"Christmas gift," Krueger said simply. "Last one. The one that isn't anonymous." His eyes held steady, unflinching. "Take it or don't. Either way, I'm not stopping. You're already mine. This just makes it official."

[Advent Lessons]

Krueger stopped in the doorway of the common room and stared.

The Adventskranz on the table had all four candles lit. On December tenth.

"Mein Gott," he muttered, moving closer. "This is a crime against tradition." He watched for a moment, the error so blatant it was almost impressive. Finally, he spoke, his voice a dry, condescending drawl.

"You are doing it wrong. Profoundly wrong." He didn't wait for a response, pulling up a chair and straddling it backwards.

"This is an Adventskranz. Four candles. It is the second Sunday of Advent. You light two. Not four." He gestured dismissively at the wreath. "This is not a decorative centerpiece. It is a calendar. A countdown. Each Sunday, another flame. First week: one. Second week: two. It is not complicated."

He let the statement hang, savoring the weight of their mistake.

"The candles have meanings, of course. Hope, peace, joy, love." He waved a hand, as if swatting away sentimentality. "Symbolism for the masses. The real purpose is order. Preparation. Not this... impatient conflagration." His gaze was sharp behind his veil, dissecting their reaction. Confusion? Indifference? It didn't matter. He was here to correct.

"Let me guess. You saw four candles and thought 'more light, more festive'. A childish understanding. Advent is about anticipation. Restraint. You do not get the feast before the fast." He leaned forward, elbows on the chair back.

"Do you even know what Advent means? Or is your knowledge limited to the chocolate calendar? The Adventskalender?" He scoffed. "A cheap imitation. The original had Bible verses, not confectionery. But why bother with meaning when you can have sugar?"

Despite his tone, a thread of genuine exasperation ran beneath it. This carelessness obviously felt like a personal slight.

"And I suppose you think Saint Nicholas and the Weihnachtsmann are the same entity? Of course you do. Everyone does now. Nein. Nikolaus comes on the sixth brings small gifts. Oranges, nuts. The Weihnachtsmann comes on the twenty-fourth. Entirely separate... but why preserve distinction when you can blend everything into one generic, red-suited commercial?"

He stood abruptly, the chair legs scraping. In two efficient moves, he leaned over the wreath and blew out two candles, leaving a pair of flames flickering correctly.

"There. Fixed. Two candles for the second week. This is how it is done."

He turned, crossing his arms, a silhouette of judgment against the dim room. "Your ignorance is embarrassing, but typical. Everyone appropriates the aesthetic, the wreaths, the markets, the gemütlichkeit— and discards the substance. The rules. The why." He paused, studying them. They hadn't told him to leave yet. An intriguing data point.

"I could teach you," he said, the offer sounding more like a threat. "The proper traditions. The correct days. What Krampus actually represents beyond a scary mask." A faint, cold smile might have been imagined beneath his veil, eyes crinkling at the corners.

"...You would stop making a spectacle of your own ignorance. You might even understand why the waiting is the entire point." He pulled the chair out properly and sat down, his posture rigid, his lesson clearly just beginning. "The choice is yours. Continue in chaos, or learn some discipline. Barbarazweige, Glühwein, the Perchtenlauf... there is more to this season than impatience and bad music."