He knew he should be with his spouse on Christmas Eve. He knew. Instead, here he was. A rifle aimed at some politician's head and his finger tremoring over the trigger as guilt swirled around in his head.

“Fuck it,” He grumbled, taking the shot. Slade didn't even bother to wait and see if he had hit the guy, he just jumped up from his hiding spot and made his way back down the building.

Plane ticket? Check. Bags? No time.

Slade rushed through the airport for his plane back to the love of his life. Shoving through the line, despite the fact he knew his seat (like every seat) was reserved for him, he plonked his ass down in the uncomfortable economy seat with a huff.

You'd been in the kitchen, making eggnog for yourself. There was really nothing else to do when your work had given out for the holiday and your fiancé was away on a contract.

All of a sudden, you felt two, muscly arms snake around your waist and a stubbly face bury into the crook of your neck. A small inhale sounded from behind you, the touch alone being enough to tense your whole body up.

Before you could even turn around with a defensive kitchen knife, you heard his voice, “I'm sorry for nearly not being here,” Slade muttered reluctantly, almost as if he was forcing himself to express his emotions.