Boston, Massachusetts, Christmas Eve, 1954

It was a normal evening at the Morrison's household. The whole family was there, in their small apartment 14A on Baker Street. Nobody could really explain this family dynamic, which was as complex and astonishing as the city of Boston itself. A rustic, modern, old, avant-garde city in New England was indeed a conundrum. It was considered to be a wondrous metropolis that could not be explained in a word. This family was the same way. The relations between a single mother and her eight sons would be far too difficult to explain in a single sentence, paragraph or even an entire chapter. The greatest minds in history could study this family for decades, writing endless thesis and theories concerning it. Entire books would be written about their relations, what they do, why they do what they do and how they do it. And, yet, they still couldn't quite figure out this infamous family.

However, the residents of Baker Street knew but one thing about the Morrison's at apartment 14A. One thing, which was more than enough information to keep them as away from this family as possible.

The Morrison's were very, very, very loud.

"GIVE IT BACK!"

"Make me!"

The Morrison boys were fighting once again, much to the neighbors' despair. The Morrison boys were a lively bunch. The oldest one was just finishing high school, while the youngest one was only one year away from starting elementary. From oldest to youngest, their names were as follows; David, Clark, James, Steven, Otis, Kyle, Emmanuel and Bill.

And on that certain Christmas Eve, Kyle was pinning Bill down to the dusty floor, not letting him reach his baseball tucked in the palm of Otis' hand. Otis was sneering menacingly.

"You want the freakin' bawl? Come and get it!"

The five-year old was grunting as he tried to break free from his brother's iron grip, but as soon as his head wiggled out of the carpet, it came down with a thump, as the nine-year-old now sat on him.

"GIVE IT!" he demanded. Otis tossed the ball up in the air a couple of times. He saw a couple of salty liquid drops forming on the corners of his brother's eyes, which he interpreted as tears. However, it would later turn out that these were sweat drops falling from his eyes. Either that, or residue coming out of Bills eyes due to the five-year-olds angry squinting.

Either way, they were definitely not tears.

Not tears at all.

"Give it or I'm tellin' Ma!" the child demanded, in a completely masculine and non-whining manner.

"I don't get why I have to pin him down," Kyle suddenly spoke. "He's a lot stronger than he looks. Why do you get to stand there?" He felt a vigorous jolt as the child attempted to break free once again. Kyle shook but stood his ground.

"Because I'm older, butt wipe!"

"Older by three minutes!" Kyle shrieked, loosening his grip on the youngest of the pack.

"If you guys don't stahp it now, I'm tellin' Ma, and you'we goin' to be in twouble!" Emmanuel spoke relatively quietly, munching on a chocolate chip cookie. He got up from the beige couch he was sitting on. Otis was not pleased with this remark.

"Shut up, dumbass! We're nine, and you're six or something!"

"S-seven and a half…" Emmanuel protested shyly, gulping down the dry cookie.

"Whateva, you're still a lil' shrimp compahed to us!" At that moment, Bill freed himself from the clutches of his brother, who was already bored of this game and loosened his grip. He pushed Otis and retrieved his ball, scratching his thieving brother's hand in the process.

"My ball!" he exclaimed, bringing it close to himself.

"My dad caught this fo' me. Not fo' you, fo' me! See?" he pushed the ball in his brother's face, to which Otis reacted by attempting to bite the leathery surface. The tot pulled his arm back quickly.

"I need-a keep it in shape," he mumbled to himself. "Might be a collectibul some day, you nevah know. Das-a what dad said."

Clark revealed his acne prone adolescent face from behind the newspaper. He turned to James, who was placing a large star atop their rather small Christmas tree, pushed against the window.

"You know, it's funny; the kid can say 'collectible', but can't tie 'is own shoes."

"Less yappin', more helpin'!" James pointed at a box of leftover decorations, signaling Clark to put it away. At that moment, there was a knock at the door. The boys casually looked at the wooden entrance, not wanting to open it. Their mother ran out of her room, fixing a silver earring until it was set properly. She made quick, nervous steps towards the door.

"Ma," noticed twelve-year-old Steven, who was sitting on the floor and wrapping his arm around an unknown girl; "You look hawt today. What's up?"

His mother fixed the creases on her formal red dress and looked towards her son.

"Well, we're having a guest over, so I just threw this on."

"Aw, Ma, it ain't that grocer guy, is it? You're bettah den dat!" Steven noted while his female friend nodded in agreement.

"Come on, Steven, he's not that ba-… Who are you?" she looked at the blonde sitting next to her son, picking at her nose piercing. She smacked her black lips together.

"I'm Kelli, with an 'I'. I'm chillin' 'ere with Steve," she scooted near him. "Don't tell my folks I'm here. They think I'm at my friend Daisy's."

Ms. Morrison clapped her hands together and tilted her head to the side, a wide wry smile forming on her perfectly made-up face.

"Well, Kelli-With-An-I-Whose-Parents-Think-She's-At-Her-Friend-Daisy's, will you be joining us for dinner tonight, too?"

Kelli shrugged.

"If you insist." Kelli tilted her head to the side and kissed Steven on the lips. His mother exhaled curtly.

"Steve's gonna be a pimp some day," muttered David, carrying a bowl of mashed potatoes out of the kitchen and onto the dining room table. His mother frowned at her eldest son, but soon turned that frown into a forced, radiant smile as the man knocked on the door once more. She quickly separated the two love birds and walked out of the apartment. Billy could hear his mother speak to the person on the other side. He knew that it was the grocer. Ma and he spent a lot of time together lately, so it must have been him.

It has been a long time since her divorce with his dad. To a five-year-old, a year was a long period of time indeed. The only material thing he had from his father was a baseball, which he protected with his dear life. Neither one of his brothers understood his strange connection with that ball retrieved from Fenway park. Of course they didn't understand. His father was there with them. They had a chance to meet him. But to Bill, his father was now becoming more of a shadow, that visited him occasionally, on alternate weekends. Sometimes not even then. All he had from his father was the ball, and certain childhood memories of his father dressing up as Santa Claus, or giving him piggy-back rides down and up the stairs. He missed him, and deep inside, he knew that his Ma missed him too.

But did she really need to find somebody to take his place?

"Oh, John, you didn't have to do this…Well, it is sweet… oh, they are gonna love this…"

She ran back into the apartment, instructing everyone to stand up. And they did.

"Okay, guys, I have a special surprise for yoooooou…" she cooed, her voice sounding like a tune; "I ran into Santa Claus the other day, and he told me he had some very, very special gifts for you!"

She immediately gave a stern look to her children older than nine, which only meant one thing;

"Don't ruin this for your brothers."

"Come on in, Santa!" she yelled out the door. Immediately, a man in a plushy red suit walked through it. He was carrying a large bag over his shoulder and struggled to speak through his thick white beard.

"Ho, ho, hooooly crap, there is a lot of ya!" The Santa looked around the brood, and soon received an irritated look from his beloved Ms. Morrison. He cleared his throat, hoping that the younger children didn't hear his profanity.

"Well, uh… I have come bearing gifts for the nice kids in this house!" he lifted up his bag, and the children's eyes widened with glee. The first thing he pulled out was a stack of records. Those were meant for the older children. After those were delivered, James, Otis, Kyle and Emmanuel stood in a single file, anxiously awaiting their presents. Bill stood behind them, carefully clutching his ball. They all obtained their gifts, according to their age. James got a train set, Otis and Kyle both received a Mr. Potato Head and a couple of Slinkies. The twins quickly ran outside of the apartment to test it on the staircase. Emmanuel received a box of chocolates, which he ate in what seemed like a minute and a half. Bill looked at all the things his brothers received, wondering what he was going to get. The Santa suddenly looked towards the youngest boy with an inviting smile, just barely visible through his thick beard.

"Don't think I forgot you, lil' fella. Come 'ere!" Santa invited him closer. While Bill was running over to him, he heard Santa whisper something into her mother's ear while slyly fingering something on the mantelpiece, which made her blush and giggle. Something about him giving her a present even though she had been naughty.

Or, maybe, giving her a present because she had been naughty.

But that didn't make any sense, because Santa didn't give gifts to naughty people.

And he wasn't' supposed to make any exceptions, either.

Man, this Santa was dumb.

Bill anticipated his gift impatiently, hopping from left to right.

"Come on! Gimme, gimme, gimme!"

"Alright, fella. Just put down that ball for a sec…"

"My…ball?" Bill raised his eyebrow. He instinctively clutched it tighter.

"Well, you don't wanna spend the whole night holding that tattered ol' thing, don't ya? Now hand it over so I can give you a real present," he said warmly, stretching his palm out for the boy to put the ball in.

Bill looked nervously towards him mother, who was giving him encouraging looks. The young boy frowned, and squeezed the ball tightly with both of his hands.

"No."

"Come on, Billy…" his mother cooed softly. This didn't make the boy drop his guard down.

"No…" he whined.

When Santa reached out to grab the ball from him, Bill simply lost it. He jerked his hand towards him, shouting.

"No can has my ball! No can has! I won't give!"

In anger, the tot pulled the man's beard, trying to hurt him. This, however, did nothing, as the man's beard fell on the floor, revealing only a speck of blonde stubble on the thin face of the grocer his mother usually went to. Bill was an expert on fake Santa outfits by now, and knew that this Santa's performance was terrible. He knew that the real Santa Claus wouldn't be coming through the front door, while everyone was awake. His father was the only man who made that silly mistake. His father was the only true fake Santa, and what Bill was now seeing was an impostor, trying to wiggle himself into his life doing the same thing his father had done only last year.

"You ain't Santa!" he pointed at the confused man. The older siblings chuckled while the younger siblings dropped their jaws in shock.

"You ain't Santa! You ain't my dad! You ain't nothin'!"

His mother reached her hand out to comfort her angry son, but he quickly ran through the room and opened the door of his room. Everybody was staring straight at the angry five-year-old, his nostrils flaring and his face turning a sickly color of purple. He pointed his finger at the confused grocer.

"You can't come in here and pretend you're my dad! You're not! You will nevah be my dad! Evah!"

He ran into his room with great haste. His siblings could only see a small blurry flash of his green elf hat before he ran into his room and slammed the door shut. In about two seconds, he opened the door again, half apologetically. This time he turned to his mother, hastily trying to excuse her son's behavior to her guest.

"He took something from your bookshelf while you wasn't lookin'."

With that, he closed the door one final time. He closed it carefully this time, though, not wanting to get himself into more trouble.

Bill could've been in his dark, messy room for hours, for all he cared. He threw his festive hat on the floor, burying his face in his blue plushy pillow and pushing some of Otis's toys off his bed. He could hear yelling coming from outside of the room. David was trying to persuade him to come out of his lair; his brothers were fighting over the grocer's fake beard, while mother's companion was trying to explain himself for thieving. Bill didn't care about the noise. He didn't care about anything at that point. He was angry at the fake Santa and disappointed at his mother. If she really loved him, she wouldn't have brought another man in the house on Christmas Eve, who tried to take away his ball. If she really loved him, she wouldn't have let the man come dressed up like that, reminding him of his father.

He didn't budge when he heard the door opening slowly, and soon the soft, careful footsteps approaching him. He didn't care who his visitor was, but he wanted him out of his room as soon as possible.

"Go away," Billy muttered, covering himself with the pillow once more. This didn't make his guest disappear, as he hoped. The unknown figure sat next to him on the bed, placing his hand on Bill's shoulder. The voice that filled the dark room belonged to his brother James.

"Why are you hidin' here? It's Christmas, you're missing all the fun! You haven't even gotten your present."

Bill threw his pillow on the floor angrily.

"I don't want no stinkin' present! That guy ain't my dad!" With that, he buried his face in the mattress once more. James put his arm around his brother, messing up his short, slightly curly hair. He could still hear his mother yelling at her date, her sons, and later the girl Steven brought over.

"Why isn't dad here?" asked Bill, looking at James with his giant Bambi eyes. James fidgeted nervously, trying to explain.

"We agreed, bro. Ma gets Christmas, Thanksgiving, New Year and Fourth of July, and dad gets Birthdays and Halloween. I thought we were clear on that."

Bill shrugged and wiped some snot off his nose with his sleeve.

"I know, but… It ain't Christmas without dad. And Ma's new guy ain't any good."

"I know, bro, I know…" he listened to the shouting in the distance, followed by a plate shattering into a million pieces. James looked at his little brother and smiled.

"Hey. Don't think of him as the new dad, OK? Think of him as… as a phase. Something Ma will snap out of. I mean, the guy if a freakin' tool." James' mouth formed a small devilish grin.

"You know what? You just say the word, and we'll give dis guy a food fight he'll nevah forget! We'll help Ma get rid of dis guy. He'll be pulling peas outta his greased up hair 'till March. Whaddya say?"

Bill blinked out a tear from his eye, before finally looking back at his brother. He was glad that somebody could understand his fragile five-year-old mind at this point.

"Kay," he said with a smile and jumped off his bed.

"We gave the guy a run for his money," Scout began wrapping up his story, after almost twenty minutes of babbling. "But Ma was pretty pissed at us. She grounded us. For Christmas, even! Still, the guy's look on his face as he was bein' pelted by gingerbread men was priceless," he cackled.

"Yeah, that's the last we evah saw of dat guy. Still, Ma did get ha'self a new boyfriend. I hated him like hell. He was a freakin' snob. Ahways leavin 'is cigarettes everywhere, tawkin' funny and whatnot. Ma told me dat I should at least pretend to like da guy, but I didn't see the point."

Scout crossed his arms stubbornly. His teammates were casually looking over to him. He did not care if they would be listening to him or not, since he would be telling his story either way. But there was something strange about their, admittedly limited, interest. It made the atmosphere a bit friendlier, a bit more comfortable to be in.

It was weird.

The Scout looked down at his feet with a nostalgic smile.

"My dad, he… he never really came back. I mean, it later turned out that he wasn't even my real dad. I think finding out about that drove him away. Or bettah yet, I drove him away." The Bostonian kicked his feet nervously, trying to fill the silent void engulfing the room.

"But you know what? Aftah dat, Ma didn't bring guys home for Christmas no more. Sure, her snobby pain-in-da-butt boyfriend tried to get himself invited, but we wouldn't let him. Ma didn't put up much of a fight about it, either. Maybe she finally got that Christmas was a fam'ly thing, not some "fam'ly and a random fancy-pants guy Ma met at the park" thing. But it was nevah completely da same, ya know? Not without my dad. Hell, I know he wasn't exactly my biological fatha', but he'll always be a dad to me, and-" The young Bostonian quickly bit the inside of his cheek, shutting himself up. Deep inside, he knew that he already talked too much, even by his extremely low standards.

Then Scout folded himself back into the couch, finally realizing that this Christmas was far worse than the one he had just spoken about. A small chuckle echoed through the room.

"You cawl that a bad Christmas, mate?" the marksman sneered. "That wos a picnic compared to some Oi 'ad."

"That Christmas story was weak! If you're going to tell a story, do it right! Say it with spirit, maggot! That was downright embarrassing!" the Soldier stood up from his seat. Suddenly, all eyes were pointed at him.

"What?" Jane Doe scratched the back of his neck, scoping the room and acknowledging his teammate's intrigued gazes.

"Why don't you tell a story den? Think you're so cool, helmet head?" Scout scoffed.

"Yesss, please, Soldier. It's not like we have something better to do than to listen to your incoherent patriotic drivel," Spy said sarcastically, lifting his head up to the cracked ceiling and scattering some cigarette ashes on the floor.

"You want a story? Fine then!" he clenched his fist determinately.

"Now, pay attention, maggots! I will tell you a story that will make your blood boil! I will tell you a story that will have you jump in your seat with excitement! I will tell you a story so awesomely patriotic and amazing you will want to chew your own foot off! And I am going to tell it to you…" he made a short dramatic pause;

"Right now."

"Please don't," Sniper begged. But it was too late. The Soldier had already cleared his throat to speak.

"Listen up, maggots! The year was 1948…"

.

.

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Reader: Why does this way of storytelling look so familiar?

Me: Well, I was greatly inspired by Giovanni Boccaccio's Decameron. It's a pre-renaissance allegory, whose frame story depicts 100 stories told by ten young people, over the course of ten days. They escaped to Florence, trying to save themselves from the Black Death. Having nothing to do, they amuse themselves by telling stories. In my stroy, the mercenaries find themselves in a similar situation. The difference here being that they tell stories from their own lives, as opposed to Boccaccio's stories whose plots were borrowed from stories he had heard before. Though Boccaccio's stories mostly revolve around sex, as a means of promoting it in that era's prudish society, I have decided to stray from that subject, as it is frowned upon in this T rated fandom.
Does that answer your question?

Reader: ...

Me: ...Basically my old fic with Christmas thrown in at the last minute.

Reader: Oh my God, you're using up old stuff! *gasp* Oh, I am so unfollowing this story.

Me: Really? You want to leave that soon? *bribes with cupcake*

Reader: ...I'm leaving after the next chapter. *munch*

Me: Suuure. Suuure you aaaaare...