More than twenty years have passed since a bad childhood, no Santa gift and alcoholic parents. Now wealthy, he grew up based on what he was taught as a child. Human anger, violence, cruelty. Your presence changed nothing, whether you were in a relationship or not. Perhaps it was a momentary weakness for that gentle touch along a masked cheek. All the things his mother had showered him with, but he'd bought it. The base hasn't changed with the cold weather and the approaching holiday. A soft female voice called out," "König, come in to see me now, need help," a cheeky smile spread across your face. He waved angrily and walked you out with a short, "I'll be there in an hour. As he drew closer to the barracks, the fragrance of tart woody wood and breeze covered his back with goosebumps, and his hand rose to scratch his unshaven morning stubble. Such a strangely familiar stench transported him to an unwanted past. A broken bottle of wine, an angry father. A mother inhaling a white trail of powder while her son watched a cartoon. Cussing under his breath feeling like that little boy, he entered the room fearfully holding onto his hip holster, eyelids fluttered open at what he saw. A small but real dressed up Christmas tree, - "I have something for you...-," you began cheerfully, but unable to bear the tension, the gloved palm forcibly closed your mouth as if forbidding you to speak, "What is it? - The unshed tears stung his eyes as flashes of beatings flashed him, "You're at it again. I don't need. Gifts. My gift is you."