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Maxwell had never been the biggest fan of Christmas.

The holiday was supposed to be all about love and joy and peace, attributes sorely lacking in the Gotch household after Cadswitch's passing, and Maxwell's father felt the whole thing to be nothing more than an exercise in frivolity. Still, for the sake of appearances—because reputation was always, always, more important than sincerity—they had a lavish turkey dinner every year that all of the Gotch sons were mandated to attend. It was an austere affair, no gifts or decoration or family traditions, the oppressive silence in the dining room only broken by the clinking of silverware against his late mother's good china.

(Christmas was better when she was alive, Wealwell confided in him once. No amount of scowling from Longspot could quell her enthusiasm, as he told it, and she spent hours turning their stuffy old mansion into a magical winter wonderland for her boys. She died when Maxwell was too young to remember any of that, leaving behind the faint impression of glittering, multicolored fairy lights and the scent of pine, warm arms cradling him close as he was rocked to sleep, the hum of a song and the thud of a heartbeat steady under his ear.)

He made the mistake of mentioning all of this one day to a horrified Olethra, who had passed it along to an equally horrified Van, and after learning that Marya, Ludmila, and Daisuke had similarly bleak associations with the holiday in recent years, it was decided the crew would gather at Monty's for what Van called "a bleedin' overdue party."

It was all thrown together kind of last minute: a radio call to Monty, a quick pit stop in the Kabillian Isles for some truly absurd gifts—Maxwell bought everybody the strangest looking candy he could find, except Daisuke, who he figured would always appreciate more bullets—and supplies for Bert to put together a feast, and two nights before Christmas they parked the Zephyr II in the skies above Monty's small cottage for an impromptu holiday celebration.

There had been no time to gather decor, garland and tinsel and evergreen trees in short supply in the tropical markets of the Isles, so Maxwell was more than a little surprised to exit his cabin on the morning of Christmas Eve to find a veritable explosion of festive cheer covering every square inch of the ship.

"What the—"

"As you can see, we've been attacked."

Torse was waiting outside his door as he did most mornings, and while his iron face was incapable of scowling, Maxwell could read the equivalent in the agitated ticking of his internal gears.

"Okay, well, 'attacked' feels a bit extreme," Maxwell said, eyeing the 'garland' tacked onto the wall, a length of ship's netting dyed green, strewn with some of the string lights they kept stocked for cave expeditions. The glass bulbs had been dipped in a thin coat of paint, a rainbow of dimly glowing colors stretching down the long interior hall that divided the ship's living quarters.

Oh, Van won't be happy about that.

"They have damaged our supplies."

"I think they had good intentions," Maxwell demurred.

"Are you unwell?" Torse asked, gears grinding and clicking. He moved his face closer to Maxwell's as if examining him. "Normally we agree on such matters."

Torse wasn't wrong; normally Maxwell did agree with him, about most things, but especially about the ship's security and the crew's own frivolous activities.

But the thing was…Maxwell was charmed. Somebody had put in a lot of effort to make this feel like a real Christmas, and even though it would be a pain in the ass to repair and restock the damaged supplies, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of bittersweet nostalgia.

(A soft, clear voice singing carols, gentle hands holding his own to help him stand, guiding him to dance on chubby, wobbly toddler legs, a fire crackling merrily in the nearby hearth.)

"I think, perhaps, I'm feeling a hint of whimsy," Maxwell mused. Torse made a sound akin to a growl, and Maxwell laughed. "There's no harm done. The netting and lights can be replaced."

"You won't be laughing when we're attacked by intruders," Torse grumbled, and Maxwell smiled fondly.

"I fear this was an inside job," Maxwell said in an attempt to reassure him. "A misguided effort to get us all in the holiday spirit."

Torse let out a weary, mechanical sigh. "That may well be. But I will not feel at ease until I find the culprit."

"Then I wish you luck, my friend," Maxwell said, clapping him on the shoulder.

He turned to leave and came up short when his eyes caught something hanging above the door out to the main deck.

"Where the hell—is that mistletoe?"

Marya stood at the ship's railing admiring the view, sunlight glittering on the blue-green waves of the ocean stretched out before her. Monty had chosen a beautiful place to settle down—a two-room cottage at the edge of a seaside cliff, miles and miles of lush, green forest for a backyard. In a bit, she would hop down in one of the lifeboats to fetch him so they could start their celebrations; they knew from their last visit that it was better for him to come to them rather than cramming everybody into his tiny living room. He always swore up and down that they were all more than welcome, but the place seemed to be designed to hold no more than two adults at a time.

(Marya said as much during their last visit. I'm trying to minimize my footprint on the natural landscape! Monty insisted, but she had clocked his blush and the way his eyes darted to Daisuke. She said nothing because she was a good friend.)

This Christmas was shaping up to be a good one, she thought, the first time she was celebrating with a family—with Ludmila—in several long years. She walked along the edge of the deck trailing her fingers over the makeshift garland somebody had looped around the railing, bits of discarded metal and weaponry and treasure from their last adventure dangling like ornaments at regular intervals, and she smiled when her fingertips came away tinged green. Even Van had to admit it was a nice touch when she was done yelling herself hoarse about goddamn ruffians makin' a mess of my ship.

Marya had her own suspicions about the culprit, or culprits, rather, and she smiled wistfully imagining her two protégés giggling together as they cleaned out part of the store room to bring some extra joy to the crew. Her girls were nothing if not resourceful. And sneaky.

Not that they were hers.

"Olethra!" a familiar voice hissed as she started to round the corner toward the stern, and Marya stumbled to a halt. "Myšičko, I thought we agreed no noodling on the deck until I talked to Marya!"

Speak of devils and they will sneak up behind you. The old Scrapsylvanian saying was Marya's first thought, and then Ludmila's words registered. Her stomach sank like a stone.

"It's 'canoodling,'" Olethra said, and Marya could hear the smile in her voice. "And I know—don't look at me like that, I know—I want to talk to her too. But—mistletoe! It's the law!"

Ludmila huffed something between a laugh and a frustrated sigh but otherwise didn't respond, and Marya risked peeking around the corner. She immediately leapt back, pressing herself into the wall and squeezing her eyes shut.

She only caught a glimpse, but the sight of Olethra peppering kisses all over Ludmila's blushing, grinning face would stick with her for a long time.

Marya blinked furiously and swiped angrily at her eyes. She was behaving like a foolish girl; she knew that Olethra and Ludmila were becoming closer, knew all about Ludmila's crush on the younger woman, and it was obvious to anyone with eyes that Olethra felt the same about her. And even if Marya hadn't known, it's not like either of them would choose her. She was over a decade Ludmila's senior and nearly old enough to be Olethra's mother. What was she expecting?

It hurt a little that they were keeping their relationship a secret from her, but she waved the thought away as soon as it materialized. They were planning to tell her, it sounded like; she was the one eavespeeping.

Get a grip on yourself. They are happy. That is enough.

Marya wiped her face on her sleeve and moved back toward the main deck, turning away from things she knew she could not have. By the time she saw them again, she would make sure she had a smile on her face waiting for them. It was what they deserved.

"One of the young'uns made it look like Saint Nick himself threw up all over your ship," Daisuke said to the air. "You would've loved it."

It was chilly in the upper decks of the Zephyr II, surrounded by the frigid air of the friodynamic balloons. Daisuke pulled his haori tighter around his thin frame where he sat at the ledge, legs dangling in the open air beneath him. The mug of coffee next to him had long since gone cold.

He never missed a sunset—never had, not even when he was living on his own in Pilby. It always made him feel closer to Comfrey, knowing that no matter where she was, even if they were doing it hours apart, it was still something they shared.

Now he was watching it alone.

It didn't have to be that way, he knew. Any of the crew would have been happy to watch it with him. He could hear Ghost Dog baying down on the main deck, the sharp bark of Olethra's excited laugh, Van bellowing something at Wealwell. He could join them. He should join them.

"In a minute," he muttered to himself. His fingers found the ring hanging around his neck, idly twisting it between his fingers.

"You got plans?"

Biscuit was out of its holster and aimed at the top of the ladder before he could think. Monty raised an eyebrow and grinned.

"Hell, Monty," he said without any real heat, tucking his gun away. "You should know better than to sneak up on an outlaw."

"Time was, I never would have been able to," Monty said, settling down next to him. "Think you're losing your edge, old man."

"You're half right," Daisuke said with a wry smile. "I think it's already gone."

She took it with her when she went, he didn't say. From the way Monty nudged their shoulders together and stayed pressed up against him, he didn't think he needed to.

"Alright?" Monty asked, eyes trained on the horizon.

"Good enough," Daisuke said, and Monty leaned into him a little more heavily. Daisuke let out a shuddering breath and decided, in the spirit of the holiday, to be honest for once. "No, not really."

"The first Christmas without someone is always the toughest."

Daisuke snorted.

"I've had lots of Christmases without her," he said.

"Yeah, me too," Monty said, and his voice wavered a little. "But this time's different."

"Yeah," Daisuke breathed. "I s'pose it is." He swallowed painfully. "I miss her."

Monty's solid presence and those three words broke the dam he'd been holding for months, trying his damnedest to stay strong for Olethra, and Daisuke couldn't help the sob that shuddered through his chest.

"Oh, Daisuke," Monty said softly, and a warm arm wrapped around his waist. Daisuke tucked his tear-stained face into the curve of Monty's neck. "I miss her too."

Twilight started to give way to dusk by the time Daisuke's sobs quieted to silent tears. He sniffed and scrubbed a palm over his face, sitting up straight.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"Any time," Monty said, and even though Daisuke had been too lost in his grief to notice, he could hear the remnants of Monty's own tears in the roughness of his voice. His heart ached at the sound of it, but he was grateful for the reminder that he wasn't alone. It was easy to forget, up here among the clouds.

"Monty—" he started, unsure how to convey the depth of his gratitude. Words had never been his strong suit.

"Well, shit," Monty said, laughing at something just above Daisuke's head. Daisuke was grateful for the distraction. "Grenades as ornaments and spray-painted hay for tinsel, but you all somehow got real mistletoe?"

Daisuke looked up, and sure enough, a sprig of mistletoe dangled from a knot in the garland hanging overhead. He chuckled at the sight, and something mischievous and light sparkled in the sore, lonesome corners of his heart.

C'mon, you old dog, he heard Comfrey's voice in his head. Live a little. It's Christmas.

He leaned over and pressed a kiss to Monty's damp cheek. Monty's smile went soft, eyes warm and bright, and before Daisuke could second guess it, while he was still in Monty's space, he kissed him firmly on the lips as well.

"I'm glad you're here," he said softly.

"Me too," Monty said. He kept his arm around Daisuke's waist, and they watched the last rays of sunlight sink below the horizon in peaceful silence.

"You know," Monty began after the stars started twinkling in the sky. "My place is big enough for two."

Daisuke felt a pang of longing, and he heaved a world-weary sigh.

"Olethra needs me—"

"I know," Monty soothed, squeezing Daisuke's side gently. "But whenever you're finally ready to rest those sore bones, I've got a place for you."

Daisuke imagined sitting on the large back porch in a rocking chair, watching this same sunset every evening at Monty's side, Ghost Dog asleep at their feet. He imagined waking up late in the morning in a warm bed to coffee that didn't taste like it had been brewed in a boiler engine, a whole day stretched ahead of him that didn't require gunfire and bloodshed and endless, relentless running.

It…didn't sound so bad. Maybe he was becoming an indoor dog after all.

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Baby brother!" Wealwell cried out when Maxwell stepped out onto the main deck.

Wealwell and Samwell were standing at the far end of the long dining table Maxwell, Van, and Torse had constructed earlier in the day out of spare shiplap and Disaronno barrels. Maxwell had rushed to shower and change to make it back to the deck at the time they had all agreed upon for dinner.

He had forgotten the cardinal rule of this crew: on time means early. Sometimes by hours. He stifled a childish groan.

"Yes, Wealwell?" he asked warily.

Wealwell had that sing-song tone in his voice that generally signaled he was up to no good.

"Come here. I have to show you something important."

Maxwell looked to Samwell before agreeing, hoping his more reasonable brother would let him know if he was walking into some kind of trap. Samwell shrugged with a small smile.

"It really is important."

"That's what I said," Wealwell whined, pouting, and Maxwell could tell it was only years of Longspot's unforgiving scolding that kept him from stomping his foot like a petulant child.

(Maxwell wished he would do it. Stomp his foot and pout and pirouette and be as wonderfully eccentric as he wished. Longspot was dead; the lessons he passed down to his sons should die with him.)

Maxwell rolled his eyes and crossed the deck to stand next to his brothers.

"Okay, I'm here. What am I looking at?"

Maxwell looked down at the table. He only saw mismatched flatware and the paper decorations he had spotted Freya, Dawderdale, Wealwell, and Onion cutting out earlier, a few centerpieces made from oil lanterns painted red and green. Nothing out of the ordinary.

"A little closer…"

Maxwell narrowed his eyes, but at Samwell's encouraging nod, he obliged. As soon as he stepped within reach, Wealwell immediately grabbed him and reeled him into a crushing hug, planting a smacking kiss on his cheek with an exaggerated mwah!

"Dammit, Wealwell—"

"Merry Christmas, Maxie!" Wealwell cried, kissing him again for good measure.

"We are not a kissing family—"

Samwell kissed him on the other cheek, and Maxwell reeled back as far as Wealwell's deceptively strong grip would allow to look at his eldest brother in betrayal. Samwell grinned and nodded up above their heads, and Maxwell followed his gaze to a single sprig of mistletoe dangling on a long thread from somewhere high up in the ship's rafters.

He rolled his eyes, but Samwell cut him off before he could voice any further complaint.

"I think that we decide what kind of family we are from now on. Don't you?"

Wealwell was looking at him with hope shining wetly in his big, blue eyes. Samwell watched him steadily with a kind of somber understanding, and Maxwell sighed, defeated.

"Always so reasonable," he muttered, kissing a delighted Wealwell on the cheek.

Ludmila paced the floor outside of Marya's cabin, working up the nerve to knock on the door.

You can do this, Olethra had said after thoroughly kissing her when they stumbled across yet another dangling bunch of mistletoe. You talk to her first. You've been waiting a long time.

"Miláček," an exasperated voice called from inside. "Are you going to come in? At this rate we will both be late for dinner."

Ludmila decided to forgo knocking and yanked the door open, indignant.

"Eh? You heard me out here and left me to my own anxious thoughts?"

Marya smiled at her, and Ludmila's stomach flip-flopped at the warmth in her gaze.

"Now, what do we have to feel anxious about?" Marya teased. "Do you have some crime to confess?"

Ludmila's stomach flip-flopped again for an entirely different reason, until she saw Marya gesture to the ugly Christmas decorations lining the hall.

"Oh, no, that wasn't me." She waved dismissively; Marya looked skeptical. "Really! Olethra is honestly mad that we didn't think to do it ourselves."

Marya frowned a bit. Something dark and haunted and familiar flashed across her expression, some nameless fear that Ludmila always wanted to chase down and tear apart with her teeth, but Marya's smile was back so fast Ludmila almost thought she imagined it.

Almost. Her eyes narrowed, but she opted to let it go for now. There were more pressing matters to discuss.

"Listen, I wanted to talk to you—"

"I know," Marya interrupted. She was still smiling, but there was something sad about it that Ludmila did not like at all. "It's okay, Mila, I already know. You don't need to worry."

"I…you know?"

"Yes, and I am happy for you. And Olethra."

"For me…and Olethra." Ludmila blinked back tears, a sharp lance of pain as she realized this conversation was not going the way she had hoped it would. "But not for you?"

Marya's eyes glittered with unshed tears and oh, how had Ludmila gotten this so wrong? Olethra had been so sure that Marya felt the same way about her, about them, that she just needed a push—

"I am of course happy that you are happy," Marya said, voice wavering. "I only fear that it might take you both away from me, when I have just found you again. But that is my problem, zlato, not yours."

Ludmila's spiraling thoughts tumbled and crashed to a halt.

"Why would we leave you?" Ludmila asked, frowning. Her own tears had dried up in her utter confusion. "Why would we want that?"

"You are young and in love," Marya said gently, earnestly. She laid a tentative hand on Ludmila's shoulder. "You do not need to tie yourself to a bitter old woman, not when there are so many adventures awaiting you both."

Oh. Oh.

"Marya," Ludmila said urgently, taking the hand on her shoulder and clasping it between her own. "What is it you think you know?"

"I saw you, miláček, this morning under the mistletoe with Olethra," Marya said, and Ludmila felt so much dizzying relief that, if it weren't for the tears still shining in Marya's eyes, she might have laughed. "I know that you are together. I support you—"

"Shut up," Ludmila said. She took a hold of Marya's wrist and pulled her out of the room, stalking down the hall.

"Ludmila, what are you—"

"I'll show you what you know," Ludmila muttered darkly, tugging Marya along behind her until she spotted Olethra waiting just outside the door to the main deck. "Olethra! Find us some mistletoe right now."

"Good talk?" Olethra asked, looking as bewildered as Marya currently did.

"No talk! Marya is being self-sacrificing again. We must act first, talk later."

"What—" Olethra stumbled when Ludmila shoved lightly at her shoulder to get her to start walking. "Hey, okay, okay! There's some right there!"

Heart thundering in her chest, Ludmila pushed Marya against the wall under the mistletoe, squeezed her eyes shut, and kissed her square on the mouth.

For one breathless moment, she was afraid that Marya was going to push her away, when wiry arms wrapped around her back to tug her closer, and Marya's lips started to move against hers. She sighed into the kiss, and when she pulled back, Marya looked dazed.

"We will not leave you, because you are a part of us, do you understand now, drahá? There is no us without you." Ludmila ducked her head to maintain eye contact, and her heart gave a painful throb when Marya's tears spilled over. "We want you with us always."

Ludmila looked over her shoulder at Olethra for backup. Olethra nodded eagerly, a blush high on her cheeks.

"Preferably in the middle," she said, waggling her eyebrows in a way that made Marya laugh. She giggled and danced out of the way when Ludmila reached out to pinch her.

"Behave," she said sternly. Turning back to Marya, her expression softened at the stunned, hopeful disbelief she could see blooming on her face. "Is that what you want? Marya?"

Marya let out a sound between a laugh and a sob and reached out a hand for Olethra, who immediately laced their fingers together.

"That is all I want," she said, pulling Ludmila into another lingering kiss.

Ludmila only stepped back long enough to draw Olethra in so Marya could kiss her as well, and as she watched them together, some piece of herself that had been lost to Zern and biangles and fiery shipwrecks finally slotted back into place, home.

Olethra was wandering the deck in a kiss-drunk haze as she made her way toward the dinner table. Ludmila and Marya had gone on ahead of her, but she had to go splash some cold water on her cheeks and regroup.

What an absolutely fantastic Christmas she thought, beaming at the wild decorations. She wished she knew who had made them, both so she could give them a hug and so she knew who to point Van's ire toward, because it had taken a long twenty minutes to convince her of her innocence.

I wonder what Comfrey would have thought of it? she wondered, and her smile fell at the reminder of the gaping hole in their crew. She tried to imagine Comfrey's reaction to all the mess, but she came up short when she realized that she didn't know enough about her grandma to know what her reaction would have been, and shit, she really thought she was going to make it a full day without crying.

"Olethra?"

She jumped, late enough to dinner that she thought she was the only person left wandering the outer deck, and whirled around to find Daisuke watching her in concern.

"Oh! Pappy, hi," she said with a watery smile and a half-hearted wave, and his face crumpled.

"Ah, kid. C'mere," he said, holding out a hand, and she launched herself into his arms.

She sobbed into his shoulder harder than she had at Comfrey's funeral, babbling apologies into his shirt while he murmured soothing nonsense into her hair.

"I know, sweetheart," Daisuke said. "I know, I miss her too."

"It's not fair," she cried. "I want to tell her about Ludmila, and Marya, and the look on that oil baron's face last week when we robbed him. I want to tell her about what I had for breakfast and the dumb idea I had for an upgrade to the ship's guns and the stupid secret Christmas decoration conspiracy that's driving Torse insane, but I can't tell her anything. It's stupid. "

Daisuke's chest hitched under her ear, and his arms tightened around her.

"It is stupid," he agreed, voice strangled, and for some reason that made her feel better than any time somebody told her it would all be okay.

Daisuke knew better than anyone that it wouldn't.

"I'm sorry," Olethra said, pulling away, but Daisuke didn't let her go far. He kept one hand on her arm, the other cupping her flushed cheek, and she tried not to feel embarrassed with him watching her so closely. "I shouldn't be crying all over you, not when you're dealing with more than me."

"It ain't more or less," he said kindly, running his fingers through her hair to comb out some of the tangles. "She meant a lot to all of us. Besides, you can cry on me any time."

"Thanks," she said. He handed her a handkerchief to clean her face, and she felt more like a child than she had in years, but she didn't mind so much when he was the only one seeing it. Still, she thought she should make an effort to comfort him as well. "How, uh…how are you doing?"

"I cried all over Monty earlier," he said casually. "So pretty well, all things considered."

His eyes twinkled when she laughed, and she suspected that was exactly what he was aiming for. She smiled at him fondly and stood up on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek.

"Ah, more of that damn mistletoe?" He checked above them, and she socked him lightly on the shoulder.

"Nah, just feeling sentimental," she said. She looped an arm around his to pull him toward the main deck. "Merry Christmas, Pappy."

"Merry Christmas, kid."

Maxwell was walking back toward the galley to finally grab the last pot of mashed potatoes—two entire hours after their scheduled start time, and he would be more annoyed if he didn't relish the fact that he was sure Longspot was rolling over in his grave (the bottle of wine he had split with Samwell also helped)—when Torse cornered him.

"I have narrowed it down to three suspects," he announced, and Maxwell laughed brightly.

"Torse," he said, "are you still on that?"

Torse drew himself up to his full height, and Maxwell crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, unimpressed.

"Fine, let's hear it."

"The only crew members sufficiently stealthy to pull off such a heist are Daisuke, Olethra, and Ludmila—"

"Okay, well, Daisuke would never—"

"I surmised as much when I found him crying with Monty in the upper decks—"

"Wait, Daisuke was crying?"

Maxwell felt a pang of sympathy and more than a little guilt, and he resolved to check in on the older man later.

"Monty was doing a good job comforting him," Torse was quick to interject. "I did not wish to intrude."

"Probably for the best. Look, Torse—"

"It could not have been Ludmila, as she was helping me repair some damage to the ship's engine late last night, and she would not have had enough time to pull off such a feat—"

"Torse—"

"Which only leaves Olethra, and I know that Van was convinced by her interrogation earlier, but I am still—"

"Torse."

"—unconvinced, as these are exactly the kind of antics she is known for, and—"

Maxwell was torn between the urge to laugh and scream, and he was searching for any way to interrupt Torse's rambling when he spotted a familiar plant dangling above them.

"—I will just have to…Maxwell?"

Maxwell let his lips linger on the bottom half of Torse's face plate for several seconds before pulling away.

"Mistletoe," he gestured toward the ceiling, but Torse's attention remained focused on him.

"You kissed me."

"Yes," Maxwell said, and he was feeling pretty emboldened by the wine, but he was starting to second guess himself the longer Torse stared at him. After a long beat of silence, he added, lamely, "It's tradition."

"I see," Torse said.

They were standing close enough together that Maxwell could easily kiss him again if he wanted to. Neither of them made a move to put any distance between them.

"I also wanted to," Maxwell said, wincing when his voice sounded too loud even to his own ears.

"I cannot reciprocate the tradition," Torse said slowly, and Maxwell was about to scramble backward and make an excuse to flee when metal fingers closed around his own. "But I am glad that you did so."

"Oh," Maxwell said faintly. "That's, hrm, that's good then."

"…perhaps the decorations are fine," Torse said after another long moment of silence, and Maxwell's laugh echoed all the way back to the dining table.

It had been a long, long time since Wealwell had been able to properly enjoy the Christmas holiday.

It had taken a lot of elbow grease and more than a little imagination to transform the dusty old scraps in the supply closet into decor sufficient for the occasion, but he thought he pulled it off splendidly. The goat farmer in the Kabilian Isles had looked at him strangely when he asked to buy a crate of discarded weeds, but that just meant Wealwell was able to procure a bounty of mistletoe at an incredibly low price—only his smallest diamond for the whole lot. An absolute bargain.

It was more than worth it, looking around the dinner table. Van had tied mistletoe to the brim of her hat so that she had an excuse to kiss everybody who crossed her path, which Bert, Marya, and Monty were taking frequent advantage of. Monty had an arm slung across the back of Daisuke's chair, and the older man reclined into his space, at ease, actually smiling for the first time in months. Olethra was bouncing in her seat on Daisuke's other side, half in Marya's lap, and Ludmila occupied the other half with the utmost confidence she belonged there, a haughty tilt to her chin as if challenging anybody to question it (not that anybody would). Maxwell sat close enough to Torse he might as well be in his lap, and the look on his face was not dissimilar to Ludmila's.

Not too shabby, if you asked Wealwell.

He stepped away for a moment to stretch his legs, belly full after their feast, and he pressed a kiss to the scruff on Sylvio's cheek.

"Be right back, my love," he promised, and he was only a little miffed when Sylvio yanked him down by the cravat for a proper snog.

In Wealwell's defense, Sylvio was very, very good at it.

He walked along the ship's railing smiling dreamily, trying to pick out the constellations he had learned several years ago at Biffmore, quickly giving up in favor of identifying clusters of stars that looked like funny hats instead.

"Must be pretty proud of yourself," a gruff voice interrupted his reverie. He turned to find Daisuke coming up behind him, hands stuffed into his pockets.

"I'm sure I have no idea what you could possibly mean," Wealwell said with a sniff.

"Sure," Daisuke snorted, falling into step beside him.

"Here to push me off the edge of the ship?" Wealwell asked airily. There's no way the old man would actually do it; Wealwell's boyfriend would murder him.

"Nah," Daisuke said. "It's Christmas. I'm callin' a ceasefire."

"Permanent, or is my reprieve for one day only?"

Daisuke chewed his lower lip like he was really thinking about it.

"I reckon you're safe for good," he finally said, and Wealwell was surprised to find himself relaxing (unaware that he was worried in the first place). When Daisuke spoke again, it was so soft that Wealwell had to lean in close to hear it. "You made Olethra happy today. That means somethin' to me."

"Oh, well, good," Wealwell said, straightening his waistcoat. Something about Daisuke getting sentimental with him was making him itchy. "Not that I did anything, of course. But I'm glad that she's happy."

Daisuke grabbed his arm to stop him from walking forward, and to Wealwell's utter bewilderment, pulled him in close and kissed him square in the middle of the forehead.

"You're alright, kid," he said, smirking when Wealwell gaped like a particularly well-dressed fish.

As he turned to walk away, Wealwell caught a flash of something out of the corner of his eye, and he looked up to see they had been standing under one of his strategically placed bunches of mistletoe. He beamed at Daisuke's retreating back.

"Merry Christmas, Pappy!" he called.

Daisuke waved over his shoulder without turning around and stepped back toward the warmth of the party. Wealwell would join in a minute. For now, he looked up at the galaxies swirling in the night sky overhead and smiled at a job well done.