"Hmph." Victor Sullivan sat- right foot resting on left knee, newspaper open, and cigar smoldering- in his favorite leather armchair with the hole in the corner of the cushion. It was positioned across and slightly to one side from the outdated TV in the corner of the shabby living room of the modest, one-story, two bedroom house that he and Nate called home. It was in this chair that he did most of his brain work, whether scheming how to fulfill their latest contract to steal a priceless artifact, how to sweet talk the landlord into a lower monthly rent, or, as today, simply unwinding while smoking and reading the news.
The newsprint crinkled as he turned the page, another plume of smoke rising toward the ceiling. The house was quiet, as Nate had gone out "shopping", while Sully had opted to stay home and enjoy an afternoon of solitude. For nearly two hours, the only sounds had been the turning of pages and the occasional clearing of Sully's throat. All that changed as Sully heard the door fly open, letting in a blast of cold air.
"Honey, I'm home!" Nate called wryly.
Victor rolled his eyes without looking up. "Hmph." He continued reading, but was aware that the draft was still blowing by and he had not yet heard the door shut, and it nagged at him as he scanned the headlines. Finally he looked up and called gruffly into the other room, "Goddamnit, Nate, why d'ya got the door hanging open?"
The voice of his younger counterpart drifted to him from the kitchen. "I'm, mff, just tryin' to- ughh- fit through, ya know?"
Sully's eyebrows furrowed deeply and he laid the newspaper aside and stood up. "Kid, whaddaya talking about?" he asked as he walked to the other room. "I mean, I know you've been hittin' the donuts pretty hard and all, but- the hell?"
Sully's final exclamation was in reference to the sight of Nate in a winter coat and boots, with the top of a small evergreen gripped tightly in hand, and trying to drag the poor tree through the narrow doorway into the kitchen. The fir's branches flexed and bowed in protest as Nate heaved and grunted in an almost comical attempt to coax it into the house. "Nate, for the love of god, what are you doing?" Sully demanded.
"Well," Nate explained breathlessly, sweat visible on his forehead, "just 'cause we're a couple of rough and tough treasure hunters doesn't mean we can't do a little to get into the Christmas spirit, right?"
"It does in my book," Sully growled.
"Oh c'mon, you old Scrooge," Nate said, giving another yank on the hapless tree. "It'll be fun. You know, lights, presents, egg nog..."
Sully shook his head in disbelief. "If you start hanging mistletoe, kid, I swear to god..."
The doorway finally released the evergreen, and Nate went flying backwards, almost falling. Sully enjoyed a chuckle at his expense, then asked him, "So, did you think about ornaments? A star? What are you gonna put on this thing?"
Nate grinned. "I knew I could get you interested." Then his smile disappeared. "But no. I, uh, guess I forgot that part. But, hey! We'll find something!"
Two hours and three near-housefires later, they had discovered that charred popcorn does not thread well into garlands, and Spanish gold was far to heavy for the fir's tender boughs. Frustration (and Sully's constant razzing) finally got to Nate, who brought a chainsaw right into the living room, chopped the Christmas tree to pieces, and hauled it back out into the yard. The two men then started a fire and slowly burned the branches, one at a time, in their backyard. Having consumed three glasses of egg nog each, they agreed to cut out the middle man and switch to drinking their whiskey straight, and now sat around the fire in the gathering darkness, staring into the flames.
"Well, Tiny Tim, truly inspiring," Sully said, giving another puff on his cigar. "The effort alone was enough to get me in the Christmas spirit. Eh, unless that's just the whiskey talking."
Nate scoffed. "Yeah, yeah. It sucked." He threw another fir branch on the fire, sending up a spray of sparks, then swigged down some more alcohol. "God bless us all, every one," he said sarcastically.
Sully pursed his lips in contemplation. "Nah. That'll never happen."
Nate continued to stare glumly into the flames while Sully puffed away on his cigar, and for several minutes the only sound was the pop and crackle of the fire and the occasional clink of a bottle being set down on a rock. The sparks drifted away into the icy November sky, carried on the smoke of Nate's seasonal failure.
"Say kid," Sully said, finally breaking the quiet. "What do you say we head in? My sleigh bells are startin' to freeze up."