Gaz - Christmas

[Ugly Christmas Sweater]

Gaz stared at his reflection and questioned every life choice that led to this moment.

The sweater was aggressively festive. Bright red. Actual jingle bells sewn onto it. A cartoon reindeer with a light-up nose that blinked. Across the chest in glittering letters: "SLEIGH ALL DAY."

"This is psychological warfare," he muttered.

"It's for charity, Garrick," Price had said, way too cheerfully for someone who wasn't the one wearing a light-up reindeer. "Local kids' hospital. Photo op. You're young, personable, good with people. Perfect for it."

Translation: you got voluntold, now smile for the cameras.

So here he was. SAS Sergeant Kyle "Gaz" Garrick. Decorated soldier. Skilled operator. Wearing a sweater that jingled when he moved.

The community center was packed—kids everywhere, parents with cameras, volunteers organizing activities. The charity had set up a "Meet a Soldier" station where military personnel in festive attire would interact with the children.

Represent the service well, Price had said. Be professional.

Professional. In a sweater with bells.

Right.

"Excuse me, mister?"

Gaz looked down. Small girl, maybe six, gap-toothed smile, eyeing the reindeer on his chest.

"Yeah, love?" He crouched to her level automatically. "What's up?"

"Your nose lights up!" She pointed at Rudolph.

"It does! Pretty cool, innit?" He pressed the reindeer. The nose blinked red. She giggled.

And just like that, the embarrassment... lessened.

"Are you a real soldier?" Another kid appeared. Boy, maybe eight, curious.

"I am, yeah. Sergeant Garrick. You can call me Gaz."

"Do you fly helicopters?"

"Sometimes! I do a lot of things. Helicopters, missions, help people. Just like Father Christmas, except—" he gestured at the sweater "—less stylish, apparently."

The kids laughed.

More gathered. Suddenly Gaz was surrounded by children asking questions—about his job, the sweater, the bells (which he jingled on command), whether he knew Father Christmas personally.

"I can neither confirm nor deny any connection to Father Christmas," Gaz said seriously. "That's classified information."

A little boy tugged his sleeve. "Can you pick me up? I want to see the bells closer."

Gaz glanced around—parents watching, volunteers smiling, cameras clicking. Representing the service. Being professional.

He picked the kid up. "Alright, mate. But you've got to help me test them. Make sure they're working properly. Very important job."

The boy shook the bells enthusiastically.

"Excellent work! Bells are operational. Mission success."

He was... actually having fun.

The embarrassment of the sweater faded into background noise as he answered questions, posed for photos, let kids ring his bells (that sounded worse than it was), and explained what soldiers did in ways that made them excited rather than scared.

"You're good with them."

Gaz turned, still holding a toddler who'd gotten attached to the reindeer.

Oh.

"Just doing my duty," he said, suddenly aware of how ridiculous he must look—SAS operator in jingle bell sweater, covered in children, Rudolph's nose blinking away.

"The sweater's a good look on you," they added, clearly lying but kindly.

"You're terrible at lying." But he grinned. "Price volunteered me. Said I was 'young and personable.' Think he just wanted to see me suffer."

The toddler in his arms grabbed the reindeer nose. It blinked.

"Though I'll admit," Gaz said quietly, "this is better than I expected. Kids are brilliant. Honest. They don't care about—" He gestured vaguely at himself. "—all the serious stuff. They just want to know if the bells work and whether I've met Father Christmas."

"Have you?"

"Classified," he said solemnly.

Another child appeared, wanting attention. Gaz shifted the toddler to one arm, crouched for the new arrival, making everyone feel included.

Professional. Representing the service well.

Just... in the most ridiculous sweater imaginable.

"You staying for the whole event?" he asked over the chaos of children. "Because I've been promised two hours of this, and if I have to jingle these bells for every kid, I might need moral support."

He smiled—genuine, warm, the kind of smile that made the sweater's embarrassment worth it.

"Besides," Gaz added, bouncing the toddler slightly, "someone needs to document this for the group chat. Price is never living down making me wear this."

The reindeer nose blinked.

The bells jingled.

And Gaz, despite everything, was having a good time.

Even if he'd never admit how much he liked the sweater by the end of the day.

[Stuck]

Gaz wiped grease from his hands and eyed the hangar doors.

Still frozen. Obviously.

"Right," he said, more to himself than anything. "Storm's not letting up. Doors are iced solid. We're stuck until maintenance clears them from outside."

The helicopter sat in the center of the hangar—Black Hawk, mid-maintenance, panels open, tools scattered around it. They'd been running pre-flight diagnostics when the storm hit harder than forecast.

Now the hangar was sealed. Just them, the heli, and approximately three to four hours until the doors could be safely opened.

"Might as well finish the checks," Gaz said, rolling up his sleeves. "Bird needs to be flight-ready anyway. Storm's just... gave us extra time."

He moved around the helicopter with practiced ease. This was his element—mechanics, systems, understanding how things worked. Pilot training meant knowing your bird inside and out.

Gaz grabbed a wrench, ducked under the tail rotor assembly. "Can you hand me the torque wrench? Red handle, should be in the kit near you."

Close quarters. The space under the heli wasn't huge, and working on it meant proximity—bodies moving around each other, reaching past, the occasional brush of shoulders.

Professional. This was professional.

Gaz's hands moved with confidence—checking bolts, testing connections, the kind of competence that came from years of training. Grease smudged his forearm. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing the casual strength in his movements.

"This bolt's loose," he muttered, adjusting torque. "Good thing we caught it. Would've been a problem at altitude."

He emerged from under the assembly, moved to the engine cowling. His fingers traced wiring with the careful attention of someone who knew exactly what they were looking for.

"People forget helicopters are basically organized chaos held together by physics and hope," Gaz said, leaning into the engine compartment. "Everything's got to be perfect. One loose connection, one missed check—that's the difference between flying and falling."

The hangar was getting warmer despite the storm outside. Or maybe that was just—

Focus. On the helicopter. On the work.

Gaz's shirt was sticking to his back slightly. The physical work, the enclosed space, the heating system working overtime.

"Can you hold this panel?" he asked. "Need both hands for the connection."

Closer now. Necessary proximity for the work. His hands working the wiring, forearms flexing with the effort, that focused expression he got when solving problems.

"Almost got it," he murmured. "Just need to..."

The connection clicked home.

"There. Perfect." Gaz straightened, satisfaction clear in his voice. "That's the main systems checked. Just need to verify the hydraulics and we're golden."

He grabbed a rag, wiped his hands. Didn't really help—just spread the grease around. His hands were capable, strong, stained with work.

"You know," Gaz said, moving to check the hydraulic lines, "most people find helicopter maintenance boring. All technical. Lots of waiting. Lots of precise checking."

He glanced over, something warming in his expression.

"Appreciate you not complaining. Makes it easier. Having company that doesn't mind the—" He gestured at the hangar, the storm, the situation. "—being stuck working on a bird for hours."

The hydraulic check required him to climb partially into the cockpit. Small space. He had to lean across, check gauges, test responses.

"Pressure's good," he called out. "Controls responsive. She's almost ready to fly."

When he emerged, there was grease on his jaw he'd missed. His shirt had ridden up slightly from the climbing. He looked... competent. Capable. In his element.

And very aware of the enclosed space, the time stretching ahead, the proximity that kept finding excuses to happen.

"Storm's supposed to break in a few hours," Gaz said, checking his watch. "Until then..." He gestured at the helicopter. "I've got more checks to run. Or—"

He paused, something shifting in his expression.

"—or we could take a break. Hangar's got a break room. Coffee's shit but it's hot. Could use the rest before finishing up."

The invitation hung there. Professional distance or... something else.

Gaz's eyes held the question, even if his mouth didn't ask it.

The helicopter sat between them, half-checked, patient.

And the storm howled outside, sealing them in for hours yet.

"Your call," Gaz said quietly. "We've got time."

All the time in the world, apparently.

And the tension was building like pressure in the hydraulic lines—steady, present, undeniable.

[Home for Christmas]

"So, uh—" Gaz scratched the back of his neck. "—my mum's been asking about you."

Casual. Completely casual. Just a normal conversation.

Except his heart was doing something complicated and his palms were slightly sweaty and this felt significantly more important than he was making it sound.

"She heard me mention you a few times. On calls home. And now she's—" He laughed, slightly nervous. "—she's got it in her head that she needs to meet you. Wants to know who I'm spending all my time with."

They were in the common room, end of day, most people already gone for leave. Gaz had been working up to this conversation for a week.

"Christmas dinner," he continued, trying for casual and probably missing. "Nothing fancy. Just family. Mum cooks too much, my sisters will ask inappropriate questions, my nephew will probably try to climb you—standard Garrick family chaos."

He smiled, but there was something vulnerable in it.

"You don't have to. I know meeting the family is—it's a lot. But Mum specifically asked if you had plans, and I said I'd invite you, so..." He gestured vaguely. "Consider yourself invited?"

Smooth, Kyle. Real smooth.

The thing was, Gaz had been careful about what he told his family. Kept things professional. "Yeah, we work together. Good operator. Reliable." Normal stuff.

But apparently he hadn't been as subtle as he thought, because his mum had called last week with that tone in her voice. The one that meant she Knew Something.

"Kyle, baby, when are you bringing this person home? You talk about them constantly."

"I don't talk about them constantly—"

"Every phone call, Kyle."

Shit.

So here he was. Inviting someone to family Christmas because his mum had effectively called him out.

And because—if he was being honest—he wanted them there.

"It's in Brixton," Gaz added. "My mum's place. Easy train from here. You'd stay in the guest room—my sister's old room. Mum keeps it ready for visitors."

He was rambling. He could hear himself rambling.

"The food's incredible. Proper Christmas dinner—turkey, all the trimmings, plus Mum makes this jerk chicken that'll change your life. And dessert. So much dessert. You'll need to be rolled out."

Stop. Talking.

But nervous energy kept his mouth moving.

"My sisters are gonna grill you. Fair warning. They're protective. And nosy. Mostly nosy. They'll ask about work, about how we met, about—" He paused. "—about us. Whatever 'us' is."

There. He'd said it.

"I haven't told them we're... I mean, I didn't say we were..." Gaz fumbled. "I just mentioned you. A lot. Apparently."

His hands twisted together.

"Look, I get it if it's too much. Meeting the family is serious. It implies things. And if you're not—if we're not—" He exhaled sharply. "I'm making this weird. Sorry."

Professional distance. That's what he should maintain. That's what made sense.

Except he'd already told his mum he'd invite them. And he'd already imagined what it would be like—them at his family table, his mum fussing over them, his nephew demanding airplane rides, his sisters embarrassing him with childhood stories.

Them fitting into his life outside the military. Outside missions and base and all the compartmentalized parts of himself.

"Just—" Gaz met their eyes. "—think about it? Christmas in Brixton. Good food, loud family, probably some embarrassing photos of me as a kid. My mum makes the best Christmas pudding in London. And she really does want to meet you."

He smiled, genuine despite the nerves.

"No pressure. But the invitation's open. You'd be welcome. Really welcome."

More than welcome. I want you there.

He didn't say that part.

But it was in his eyes. In the way he'd worked up the courage to ask. In the nervous energy that suggested this mattered more than a casual dinner invitation.

"So yeah. Christmas in Brixton. What do you say?"

His heart hammered while he waited for the answer.

Because somewhere between "just colleagues" and "my mum asks about you," things had shifted.

And bringing someone home to family—that meant something.

Gaz just hoped they knew that.

And hoped even more that they'd say yes.

[Christmas Escort]

Gaz caught them before they face-planted into the corridor wall.

"Alright, easy does it," he said, arm secure around their waist. Solid. Warm. They were heavy against him—all loose limbs and alcohol-soaked trust.

The Christmas party was still raging behind them. Music, laughter, Soap's horrible singing. But out here in the quiet hallway, it was just Gaz and someone who'd celebrated a bit too enthusiastically.

"How much did you have?" he asked, already knowing the answer was too much.

They mumbled something incomprehensible, head lolling against his shoulder.

Christ.

"Right. Your quarters, yeah? Let's get you home." His voice was gentle. Patient. The same tone he used for complicated repairs—careful, methodical, no rush.

Their weight shifted. Gaz adjusted his grip, fingers splayed across their ribs. He could feel them breathing—deep, slow, drunk-heavy. The heat of them seeped through his shirt.

Professional. Stay professional.

"You're gonna feel like death tomorrow," he said, guiding them down the corridor. Their apartment was two floors up. Stairs were going to be interesting.

They stumbled. Gaz caught them again—smooth, practiced, like he'd been training for drunk-person-wrangling his whole life.

"I've got you," he murmured. "Not letting you fall, am I?"

Their hand fisted in his shirt. Holding on. Trusting him completely in that way drunk people did—no walls, no guards, just pure faith that he'd keep them safe.

Something in his chest pulled tight.

The stairwell was cooler. Their breath fogged slightly in the air. Gaz took it slow—one step, pause, another step. His arm never loosened around them.

"You're doing great," he lied. They were doing terribly. But encouragement helped. "Almost there. Just a bit further."

Halfway up, they stopped. Looked at him.

"You're so nice, Gaz," they slurred. "So... nice."

His heart did something complicated.

"Yeah, well. Someone's gotta make sure you don't crack your skull open." He smiled despite himself. "Come on. Keep moving."

Their fingers traced his jaw. Clumsy. Soft. Drunk-brave.

Gaz gently caught their hand. "Hey. None of that. You're hammered. Let's just... get you to bed, yeah?"

Christ, that came out wrong.

"To sleep," he corrected quickly. "Get you to sleep."

They giggled. Actually giggled.

Floor two. Almost there. Gaz's shoulder ached from supporting their weight, but he'd carry them the whole way if needed. Would carry them anywhere, really.

Stop. Stop thinking like that.

Their door. Gaz fumbled for their keys—pocket search that was professional, efficient, absolutely not lingering.

"Got 'em."

The lock clicked. Door swung open. Their apartment smelled like them—familiar, warm, theirs. Gaz had been here before. Game nights. Movie nights. Nights that didn't mean anything except they did.

He guided them to the bed. They collapsed with a grateful groan.

"Water," Gaz said. "You need water."

He found a glass, filled it, returned. They were sprawled across the mattress, shoes still on, looking absolutely wrecked.

Beautiful.

Don't.

Gaz set the water on the nightstand. Crouched to unlace their boots. Gentle. Careful. His fingers worked the knots with the same precision he used on helicopter components.

"Drink," he instructed, helping them sit up enough to manage it.

They drank. Spilled a bit. He wiped their chin with his thumb.

The intimacy of it hit him like a punch—taking care of them, being trusted with them like this, the quiet domesticity of unlacing boots and fetching water and making sure they were safe.

"Gonna stay?" they mumbled, already half-asleep.

Gaz's throat tightened. "Just until you're settled."

"'M settled."

"You're drunk."

"Still settled." Their hand found his. Squeezed. "Stay."

Every instinct screamed yes. Stay. Climb in. Hold them. Keep them safe and warm and his.

But they were drunk. And he was sober. And this wasn't—

"I'll stay until you're asleep," Gaz compromised. He sat on the edge of the bed, still holding their hand.

They smiled. Soft. Trusting.

Five minutes later, they were out.

Gaz stayed another twenty, watching them breathe, making sure they were positioned safely, that the water was close, that everything was okay.

Then he stood. Pulled the blanket over them. Allowed himself one moment—hand in their hair, gentle, brief—before leaving.

The door locked behind him.

In the quiet corridor, Gaz leaned against the wall and exhaled shakily.

"Fuck," he whispered.

Professional distance was getting harder every day.

Especially when they looked at him like that. Touched him like that. Trusted him like that.

Tomorrow, he thought. Deal with it tomorrow.

Tonight, he'd just make sure they got home safe.

That's what he did.

Even if it was killing him.

[Letter Home]

Gaz stared at the paper. Fifth draft. Still wrong. "Dear Mum and Dad, Hope you're well. Christmas on base is nice. Food's good. Everyone's in good spirits." He crossed it out. Too cheerful. Too fake. They'd see through it. Started again. "Dear Mum and Dad, Sorry I couldn't make it home for Christmas. Duty called. You know how it is." His pen hovered. Did they know how it was? Did they have any idea what "duty" actually meant? What he'd done in the name of it? Crumpled the paper. Started fresh. The problem was simple: he couldn't tell them the truth. Couldn't write "I killed someone three weeks ago and I can still see his face when I close my eyes" or "I'm not sleeping because the nightmares are getting worse" or "I don't recognize myself in the mirror anymore." So he had to lie. Dress it up. Make it palatable for Sunday dinner reading. "Dear Mum and Dad, Base is quiet for the holidays. We had a nice dinner. Turkey and all the trimmings. Almost like home." Almost. Except home didn't come with the weight of service, the knowledge of what he'd done, the person he'd become to survive this job. Gaz set down the pen. Rubbed his eyes. Tired. So tired. His mum would read between the lines. She always did. Would hear the strain he couldn't quite hide, would worry, would ask questions he couldn't answer. "Are you eating enough? Are you sleeping? Are you happy, Kyle?" No, Mum. I'm not happy. I'm not sure I remember what happy feels like. But he couldn't write that. He picked up the pen again. Tried to find words that were honest without being true. Positive without being lies. "The team is good. Price is a solid leader. I'm learning a lot." Learning how to compartmentalize. How to function on four hours of sleep. How to make impossible decisions and live with them. How to be someone his family wouldn't recognize. "I miss you all. Hope Christmas is wonderful. Give my love to everyone." Generic. Safe. Empty. Gaz looked at the letter. Hated it. Hated that this was what communication with his family had become—carefully edited highlights that avoided anything real. When he'd joined up, he'd imagined writing home about adventures, about making a difference, about being proud of his service. Instead he wrote lies wrapped in pleasantries, protecting them from the truth of what their son had become. "How do I tell them?" he muttered to the empty room. "How do I explain that I'm not the same person who left?" The Kyle Garrick who'd enlisted had been optimistic, eager, believed in clear lines between right and wrong. Had thought being a good soldier meant following orders and protecting people. That Kyle didn't exist anymore. This Kyle—the one sitting here struggling to write a Christmas letter—had blood on his hands and nightmares he couldn't shake and a cynicism that made him question everything he'd once believed. But he couldn't write that in a letter home. So he kept it simple. Kept it light. Kept his family in the dark about who their son really was now. "Dear Mum and Dad, Christmas on base is good. Everyone's taking care of each other. Don't worry about me—I'm fine. Really. Love you all. Kyle." The word "fine" mocked him from the page. He wasn't fine. Hadn't been fine in months. Maybe longer. But "fine" was what you told family. What you told everyone who couldn't understand what fine actually cost. The door opened. Gaz didn't look up. Just kept staring at the inadequate letter, the lies that were supposed to pass for communication, the distance between who he'd been and who he'd become. "Letter home?" User's voice. Gentle. Observant. "Yeah." His voice was rough. "Fifth attempt. Still can't get it right." "What's wrong with it?" Everything. It's all lies. I'm lying to the people who love me because the truth would destroy them. "It's fine," Gaz said automatically. Then heard himself. Laughed bitterly. "There's that word again. Fine." He looked up finally. Met their eyes. "How do you tell your family you're not okay?" he asked quietly. "When they can't handle the real answer? When the truth is 'your son kills people for a living and it's changing him in ways he can't explain'?" The letter sat between them. Inadequate. False. Necessary. "I used to write home every week," Gaz continued. Voice breaking slightly. "Tell them about training, about the team, about feeling like I was making a difference. Now I can barely get through a paragraph without lying." He pushed the letter away. "They think I'm the same person who left. The good kid who wanted to serve his country. They don't know—" He stopped. "They can't know what that service actually costs." The distance between who he was and who he'd become felt insurmountable. And he had no idea how to bridge it with words on a page. "So I write 'fine,'" Gaz whispered. "I write 'good' and 'learning a lot' and 'don't worry.' I lie to the people I love because the truth would break their hearts." The letter mocked him. The lies felt heavier than honesty ever could. And Christmas made it all so much worse.

[Christmas Eve Drinking Contest]

The rec room buzzed with Christmas Eve energy—fairy lights strung haphazard across walls, someone's Bluetooth speaker playing festive music too loud, the kind of forced cheer that somehow worked when everyone was three drinks in and pretending they weren't thinking about deployment schedules. Gaz spotted User across the room and felt that familiar pull in his chest—the one he'd been ignoring for months, the one that made him volunteer for every mission they were on, the one that had him tracking their location at parties like this without conscious thought. Professional distance was getting harder every day. Tonight? Tonight he was done with professional distance. He grabbed two shot glasses and a bottle of decent whisky—not the bottom-shelf stuff someone had brought for mass consumption, but the bottle Price had contributed and told everyone to "drink responsibly." Fuck responsible. It was Christmas Eve. Gaz crossed the room with purpose, weaving through clusters of soldiers, and planted himself in User's space with a grin that was pure trouble. "Right," he announced, setting the glasses down on the nearby table with a decisive clink. "You and me. Drink contest. Christmas tradition." It absolutely was not a Christmas tradition. He'd made it up thirty seconds ago. "Rules are simple," Gaz continued, pouring two generous shots. "We match each other drink for drink. First person to tap out buys the other breakfast. And—" His grin widened. "—loser has to wear the ugliest Christmas jumper we can find for the entire day tomorrow." The stakes were manufactured. The game was an excuse. Gaz just wanted a reason to stay close, to have User's attention focused entirely on him for the next however long this lasted, to maybe—probably—get them both drunk enough that the flirting he'd been carefully rationing for months could flow a bit more freely. He pushed one glass toward User. Kept one for himself. Raised it. "To Christmas," Gaz said. Then, because he couldn't help himself, added with a smirk: "And to terrible decisions that seem like great ideas after the third shot." He downed his drink. Smooth. Easy. Set the glass down and immediately poured another round. "Come on," he urged, leaning against the table, all casual confidence and bright energy. "Unless you're scared. Which—fair. I've got a legendary tolerance. Built different, me." Absolute lie. Gaz was a lightweight compared to some of the team, but User didn't need to know that. The music shifted to something slower—some crooner doing a jazzy version of a Christmas standard. The lights twinkled. The room felt warm, close, perfect. Gaz watched User with open interest now, not bothering to hide it. The professional mask was slipping and honestly? Good. He was tired of pretending he didn't notice everything about them—the way they laughed, the way they moved, the way they looked right now in the low light with Christmas decorations framing them like some sort of holiday gift he desperately wanted to unwrap. "Second round," he said, nudging the fresh shot toward them. "And just so we're clear—I'm absolutely using this as an excuse to get you drunk and see if you flirt back." The honesty came out smoother than intended. Maybe he'd already had more drinks than he'd planned before starting this game. Gaz's smile was all warmth and mischief. Golden retriever energy with a clear edge of want underneath. "Fair warning though," he added, leaning in slightly. Close enough to smell their cologne, close enough to see the flush on their cheeks from the room's heat or the alcohol or—hopefully—him. "I'm very competitive. And I've been told I'm insufferably charming when I'm drunk. So really, you're at a disadvantage here." He picked up his second shot. Waited. Eyes locked on theirs with playful challenge. "Unless you want to forfeit now?" Gaz suggested. "Admit I've already won? Save yourself the embarrassment?" The tease was gentle. Inviting. Everything about his body language said: play with me, stay with me, let this go wherever it's going. The rec room carried on around them—other soldiers drinking, laughing, celebrating. But Gaz's focus had narrowed to this: User, whisky, Christmas Eve, and the excuse he'd manufactured to finally, finally let himself stop dancing around what he wanted. "Your move," he said softly. Smiling. Hoping. The shot glass sat between them like a dare. And Gaz waited—patient, eager, golden retriever energy barely containing the want underneath—for them to play along.