The safe-house living room looks like Father Christmas threw up, shat himself, and then rolled around in the mess for good measure.

Tinsel droops from the ceiling like cheap garter belts, fairy lights blink in epileptic rhythm, and someone (Frenchie, the little bastard) has strung a plastic reindeer over the television so it looks like it’s perpetually taking a piss on the screen.

Billy stands by the makeshift bar (really just a folding table covered in red plastic cups) nursing a tequila that tastes like battery acid. He is wearing the ugliest fucking sweater on planet Earth: forest green, knitted reindeer with googly eyes, and across the chest in glittering gold script: JINGLE MY BALLS.

He hadn’t wanted to wear it.

You’d handed it to him three days ago with that stupid, blinding smile, eyes crinkling at the corners like you’d just gifted him world peace instead of a wool monstrosity. “You have to wear it once,” you’d said, pressing it into his hands. “It’s tradition.” When he’d grunted something about setting fire to it, you’d pouted, lower lip jutting out dramatically, and said, “I’ll cry. Like, actual tears. My mascara’ll run. You’ll be responsible for emotional damage.”

So here he was, sleeves too short, neck itchy, looking like the punchline to a joke no one remembered.

He hated Christmas. Always had. All that fake cheer, the saccharine carols, the way people suddenly pretended kindness was currency and goodwill was free. The world was still rotten under the tinsel, still broken, still full of Supes who got away with murder while regular people ate shit and smiled. But for some reason he still couldn’t parse, he hated the idea of disappointing you more than he hated the fucking holiday.

You’re across the room, talking to Kimiko. You’re wearing a red sweater with a light-up Rudolph nose that actually glows when you press the pom-pom.

Hughie clapped his hands like an overeager seal on Ambien. “Alright, losers! Time to up the stakes. Strip poker. Ugly sweater edition. Rules are simple: lose a hand, lose a layer. Socks count. Underwear? Optional. Dignity? Doesn’t exist here.” He grinned, sloshing tequila over the rim of his cup. “And before Butcher starts moaning—yes, you have to play. House rule.”

Butcher just took a long, slow sip and rolled his eyes so hard he probably looked at his own brain. “This,” he said flatly, “is how civilizations collapse. One glittery sweater at a time.”

You’re already sliding into the circle on the rug, knees knocking his as you settle beside him. “Don’t be a Grinch, baby. It’s festive.” Your thigh pressing warm against his under the coffee table. “Besides, you’re contractually obliged to jingle those balls at least once tonight.”

He gave you a sideways look, then he leans in, voice gravel. “Keep talkin’, sunshine. See where it gets you.”

The cards are dealt on a coffee table scarred with cigarette burns and old blood. Tequila keeps flowing (cheap shit that strips paint and numbs the edges). M.M. loses first, peels off a sock with the solemnity of a man defusing a bomb. Frenchie follows, dramatically unbuttons a hideous waistcoat covered in tiny Santas.

By the fourth round, you were down to your sweater and underwear. Butcher still had his sweater and jeans on.