Warnings: 2nd Person Colt POV, fluff (sort of), profanity, 7 Sins Continuity.
"Where the fuck are you?" You've tried behind at least three different doors in your quest to locate him. Punkers' house is entirely too big, especially considering more often than not it's just him in it. The current girlfriend has a place of her own, this fact has given her a few extra weeks in the bet you made with Ace when she first came on the scene.
"In here!"
"Specifics, Punk." You mutter and try the other lounge. The ridiculously big TV is on, playing something that looks like that documentary about making buttons again. You assume that he'll be on the floor, for all his claims that his hip is better, that it's not bothering him as much anymore, he keeps limping and laying on floors, a sure sign he is lying. "How's the hip?" You ask stepping over him to sit on his ludicrously comfy sofa; you would entirely not complain if he wanted to trade sofas with you. You set the bag of goodies you're carrying down on the floor.
"Sore." He looks like he's in pain, his eyebrows drawn and his mouth a thin little line.
"My mom gave me latkes for you, you want some?" You take the box of latkes your mother made from the bag and dangle it over his face. He cracks one eye open, glancing at you and then focuses on the box.
"They cold?" He asks, moving as though considering sitting up and then changing his mind, a wince of pain on his face.
"I'll heat them up." You stand with a smile and head for his kitchen. "Why are you watching the button show again?" You call out to him.
"It's not about buttons." His reply is mildly exasperated.
"What is it about then?" You've seen this part of the same damn documentary almost as many times as Half-Baked now and it sure as hell looks like buttons through the ages.
"It's." He pauses; you hear him swearing loudly and briefly consider going to check on him. "It's about the evolution of clothing."
"So buttons through the ages?" You flip the latke you're warming through over and try to remember which of the million cupboards he keeps his plates in.
"Open your present, fucker." He mutters from his spot on the floor as you come back into the room. He looks like he's moved, you suppose that's what the swearing was about, your Christmas present is on the coffee table. You set his plate and cutlery down beside it, before settling yourself on the floor near his head and start eating the latkes you heated for yourself. "Hey, didn't your mom make those for me?" He looks up at you, a disapproving expression on his face.
"Christmas is a time for sharing, Punkers. I'm just ensuring you get in the spirit." You tell him as he awkwardly manoeuvres himself into an upright position, he eats quickly and resettles on the floor, this time his head in your lap, thankfully after you'd finished eating yourself, trading your plate for your Christmas present, setting it on the floor beside the bag with his in it. You stroke his hair, you miss it being long. This new short look does kind of suit him but you're not sure about the blond tips, it's a little boy-band for your taste. He did at least cut the beard, which is something to be very happy about, the hobo beard was an interesting look but really it did nothing for his looks. This one though, it looks good, now if he'd just sleep to make his bags smaller, he'd look pretty good. He seems to be dozing off as you gently stroke his face and hair, until your fingers brush his ear and he turns to try and bite you. After all this time, the fact he still doesn't like you touching his ears amuses you far more than it should. He glares up at you and you smile your sheepish sorry Punkers smile.
"Open your present." He relents in the face of your contrite appearance. You do as he asks and unwrap the little parcel. Your socks this year are inspiring.
"Merch prototype?" You ask him. "I don't know how well socks would sell to the Indy marks though." He chuckles and smiles up at you.
"Come on, Cabana, who wouldn't want pastel blue socks? I have a pair!" He raises his good leg and you notice that the socks on his feet are indeed the same as the ones you just unwrapped, pastel blue with I Colt written on them. He grins up at you and you bop him on the nose with the socks.
"I will take your suggestion into consideration, Punkers." You smile at his mild look of annoyance.
"Still think you should sell those Second City Saints socks, I got you years ago." He's mentioned this a few times before, you're not going to do it for two main reasons, mostly because you're pretty sure the ROH faithful aren't as invested in socks as he is, must be an Atheist thing.
"Oh, blah, blah, blah, Punkers. No one else is getting my socks." That is the other reason, they're a present from Punkers, they're special, you've not even managed to throw away the first pair of socks he gave you, despite them having not been white for years and there being a hole in the toe of one. They're important to you, just as his dreidels are to him; they've even got their own shelf, although the plushie one doesn't get to sit on it very often, you suspect it goes on the road with him. "Merry Christmas, open your present." He takes the present from you and unwraps it without sitting up. He stares at the little dreidel in confusion.
"I don't get it." He's turning it around slowly reading each side, written on them are Stay Where You Are, Go Somewhere Else, Push for More Money and Do What Makes You Happy.
"Your contract's up next year." You say softly. You know him, he'll have already started thinking about what he should do, you've heard him bitch and whine about being cold as ice John Cena's TV program. He's going to start asking for people's opinions on what he should do and you want to make sure yours is the first he gets. "Thought it might help you pick what to do." You move his head from your lap, your feet are going to sleep and sit on the sofa. He squirms and leans his back against your shins, spinning his dreidel on the table, your hand absently petting his hair.
"I've spun this a thousand times now." He says holding the little dreidel up and turning to look at you, eyebrow raised. "It always lands on the same side, Cabana." You shrug, you know it does, you had Hershel rig it so it did. You don't want him to throw his dreams away because he's frustrated now but you don't want him to be unhappy either. This is why the dreidel always lands on Do What Makes You Happy.
"Well, luck is for losers isn't it?" He carefully stands, rubbing his hip, cuffs the back of your head and straddles your legs. "What you doing?" His hands are cupping your cheeks, his thumbs stroking your face.
"Taking the dreidel's advice. Happy Hanukkah, Colt" He says as he kisses you.
littleone1389: The end! I hope you liked it! I had to have one year where they weren't together, it seemed like a sweet little idea to me. :3
alizabethianrose: I doubt Punk would be up for visiting for the reason Hershel is suggesting! :D
Tis my hope that you enjoy this and if you did please feel free to let me know by pressing that little review button. :D Consider it your Christmas present to me, virtual presents are still awesome! :D
Merry Christmas to everyone who read, faved, reviewed, stood quietly in the back and read. :)
This is the end here, probably, I have a little idea for Christmas 2011, which may or may not get written tomorrow, it depends entirely on how much baijiu I consume tonight.