Not so full that he struggled with lunch, of course. It was one thing to come to terms with the fact that genuine meat was readily available so soon after the war (it had been years, why couldn’t he remember it had been years?) but the spread before him now? That was a whole cooked turkey, juicy and bursting with flavour from the stuffing mix it was cooked with and strips of bacon wrapped around it. Roast potatoes, crispy coatings from his oil distribution, fluffy innards and so satisfying; roast parsnips, equally crispy outside but soft and sweet in the middle; steamed carrots cut into discs, with optional melting butter, that he could scoop a dozen of into his mouth at once; steamed sprouts, which regrettably had a very strong flavour but went down quickly; bread sauce, a thick, creamy, mild dollop that he’d happily eat a bowlful of; cranberry sauce, sweet and sharp, complimenting the salty bacon-infused turkey; two different types of gravy, one thicker and richer than the other; and something called pigs in blankets.

John didn’t think he’d ever felt such delight as when he found out that, many centuries ago, some genius decided that sausages could be improved with a bacon wrapping.

He had to admit, he probably ate more than his fair share. But he also had to admit that no one minded-- in fact, Mochou, Changming and Davis gave in and passed over food they didn’t have room for.

And it was strange, to sit in a group, listening to a conversation he wasn’t part of, and not feel like he was an intruder. Even if he wasn’t directly involved, they accommodated for him; things John wouldn’t be expected to know, they explained. He learned about local shops and services, amusing anecdotes from people’s pasts or about their relatives, plans for the new year and even talk of the political climate, but he was very focused on his little bacon-wrapped sausages for that discussion and took none of it in.

And then... dessert.

All of that food, and then dessert.

Two desserts.

One was a plate of pinwheel-shaped pastries filled with prune jam, and the other was a Bûche de Noël which looked like an awful lot of chocolate. While Riley had figuratively written the menu for the main meal this year, Alouette had been on the desserts with old family favourites, and she was eager to get John’s approval. And she most certainly did.

By the time the lunch was concluded, John felt bloated again and he kept smiling for no reason he could pin down.

They’d just settled in the living room, debating whether they wanted to play something or watch something, when Davis suddenly leapt up.

“Almost forgot a classic!” He declared, heading back into the kitchen even as others protested. John was curious despite the response-- what classic? 

Davis returned with a tray full of drinking glasses, each full of what looked like milk, and a small plastic dispenser.

“Alright,” Davis started, setting the tray on the coffee table despite the lethargic moaning of the group. “I got eggnog, I got cinnamon, who wants some?”

John sat up a little, but before he could move or speak Davis was laughing. “Yeah I know you want some big guy, don’t worry! I got you.”

There was one more glass than needed, John realised, and with that in mind he shouldn’t have been surprised when Davis offered him one with cinnamon and one without.

“There you go,” Davis said, seeming pleased with himself, “see how you like that.”

John remained silent, and Davis started to frown. John firmly reminded himself of the kitchen incident, and focused on the worry in the smaller man’s eyes.

“You okay, John?”

Say something, he thought, take the glasses.

He didn’t.

“John? Ça va?” Alouette had propped herself up from her dozing slump, and everyone else was looking at him with concern again.

He nodded and forced himself to reach out and take them, if only to stop everyone staring, and fought to find his voice. “Thanks.”

They were still staring.

“John...” Mochou murmured beside him. “You can tell us.”

She intended to say more, but Davis cut her off. “Alright, anybody else? C’mon I know you guys’ll love it once you have it, you’re all getting one, just say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to cinnamon.”

Riley immediately started waving a hand clumsily as if to fend Davis off. “Noooooo I’m stuffed stop trying to make us faaaaaaaat.”

All eyes turned to them instead as they lazily kicked up a fuss, and John felt the tension in his shoulders ease. He looked down at the ‘eggnog’ in his hands and decided to push aside the unsettled feeling he couldn’t place and focus on the objective; he’d try the undoctored eggnog first to get the base flavour, then see how the cinnamon interacted with it.

“Ó.” The soft sound from Mochou distracted him, and a quick assessment made his innards squirm. She had that look on her face, when he said or did something that upset her-- she’d insisted repeatedly that it wasn’t his fault, but the correlation was consistent enough despite changing variables to reflect cause and effect. Unfortunately he was struggling to ascertain the pattern, so he didn’t yet have any action to take, and it was frustrating.

John tilted his head in question, but Mochou brightened suddenly, smiling and patting him on the leg before turning to Davis and calling, “Cinnamon, please!”

And now John was the one left perplexed. Had he misread her expression? Had it not been aimed at him but rather at something unrelated within her mind? Was she pleased that he was no longer agitated, or perhaps realised what the problem had been and deemed it resolved? The urge to ask for clarification came and went, and he sipped the plain glass of eggnog.

He liked it. ______________________________

It was, as the Crew dubbed it, Present Time.

John had tried to excuse himself, offering to wash up after the meal, but he’d been veritably shouted down. So now he was sat here as the Crew passed gifts to each other, feeling truly awkward for the first time in days.

He was admittedly curious, itching to know what they’d given each other, but he felt uncomfortably conspicuous spectating a tradition he wasn’t (couldn’t be) involved in. Simply the fact that he had nothing himself to give caused an uncomfortable almost-burning sensation in his stomach, and he wanted nothing more than to walk out when Changming pulled out the cards John had written.

The effusive thanks he was met with were almost too much for him to take. (He’d clumsily handwritten the same hollow festive greeting over and over and they were praising him like they hadn’t saved his life; he swallowed back bile and dug his fingers into the couch cushions.)

He almost missed Riley’s voice calling his name.

Looking up, John froze. Riley was holding out a wrapped gift-- a Christmas present. The gift tag had his name on it.

Swallowing thickly, John said, “No.”

Riley startled, jerking back as their face fell, and guilt added to the sour churning in his guts.

All eyes on him.

(It wasn’t-- he couldn’t-- )

“I can’t,” he blurted, “I’m sorry.” ______________________________

He didn’t come back to himself until he felt the blast of cold air as he opened the door to step outside the apartment block.

Regretting his lack of clothing warmer than his hooded jacket, he pushed forward regardless. He wouldn’t be out long, he told himself. He just needed a moment. He just needed to breathe.

The crisp chill helped to clear his head, and he relished the deep breaths of fresh, unrecycled air. He found the cold weather much more pleasant with the knowledge that there was warmth to return to.

A sharp cry of alarm from nearby snapped his head around, and he caught sight of an elderly civilian fallen back against their car. Their arms were heavily laden with bags, overbalancing them, and with potential ice underfoot they might well do themself harm.

He crossed the distance and reached out, “It’s alright,” he reassured, “I’ve got you.”

“Oh! Oh, I--”

John gently took one load of bags, then carefully but firmly gripped their arm. His other hand steadily scooped the civilian off the surface of the car door, moving around to support their back as they got their feet under them.

“Are you alright?”

“Oh-- Oh my, you’re a strapping lad aren’t you? Thank you so much, I- I’m alright, didn’t quite do any damage!” They were startled but smiling gratefully.

John frowned. “Where do you need to go?”

“Oh, dear-- oh, just on the ground floor there.” They glanced up at him hopefully. “I don’t suppose you’d mind... ?”

“Not at all.” Said John, taking the other bags.

“Oh thank you dear, you are a treasure.”

They seemed surprised when John slipped all six bags onto one forearm, and beamed when he offered the other in support, making another comment about his being ‘impressive’. It seemed in good cheer, so he didn’t dwell on it.

On the short but slow walk back to the apartments, John learned that Makani had just come back from a lovely Christmas lunch with many of their friends, whereupon they’d received far heavier gifts they had expected. They hadn’t wanted anyone to fret, so they’d insisted they could get it all home safely, but clearly they’d only been partly right.

They seemed to be taking the near miss cheerfully, and had no qualms allowing John to support them with his “astonishing arms”, to the point that they made no attempt to let go of him after they were safely inside the building. He shivered at the difference in temperature, and Makani’s smile finally dropped.

They clucked their tongue. “Oh dear, you must be freezing young man! Come in, come in and have a hot drink.”

John hesitated. He knew the Crew were probably upset and worried about his absence, and he should really go back before they felt the need to look for him, but... he almost couldn’t stand the thought of facing them right now.

“And maybe,” Makani continued gently, a shrewd look in their gaze, “you can tell me all about whatever trouble’s got that look on your face.”

John immediately schooled his features, and Makani’s face scrunched in irritation.

“Oh, don’t do that. That’s unnerving, that.” At his lack of response, they sighed. “I only mean that it might help to put a voice to it, rather than running around in the freezing cold until you make yourself sick.”

Their eyebrow arched, and John felt his head dip in sheepish embarrassment. He didn’t particularly want another round of hypothermia.

“Either way, come in and warm up. A drink is the least I can do for lugging my sorry baggage to the door.”

They smiled and patted his arm, and John felt something inside of him pang with a strange longing. Something about Makani’s worn and wrinkled face made the acrid knots loosen in his belly, their dark eyes warm and welcoming. Despite himself, he nodded.

“I just...” For a moment John wrestled with himself, then huffed in frustration as he lost the words again.

He’d been told more than once that he didn’t have to do gifts, but then... what? The group had done everything for John, and he couldn’t even do this for them?

But everything cost money that John didn’t have, could barely grasp the concept of, and he was quickly finding that even if he did have money he knew what to do with he didn’t know what gifts would be needed. Or even wanted.

He could just ask them, but the idea was that gifts were meant to be a surprise and although he could go about it surreptitiously John wasn’t good at being subtle.

Every time someone said they were going out, he’d considered asking to go with them, but a moment’s thought dashed the idea whenever it arose. It didn’t fix the money issue and he’d have to make more than one trip anyway, which shouldn’t have bothered him as much as it did.

(He wasn’t all that worried about being in public, he was worried about becoming compromised in public, which all amounted to the same outcome.)

Asking Tenzin had opened John’s mind to the concept of making things for people, but he quickly found he lacked the know-how to make anything that wasn’t a campsite or a grenade. Besides, there weren’t any available supplies for making things either.

It didn’t stop him researching for potential use in the future. Drawing in particular looked enticing; he liked the idea of seeing something interesting and whipping out a specialised pad and stylus to quickly sketch it. Handy and portable.

Unfortunately, the days came and went without any progress. John felt increasingly frustrated and useless, and soon Christmas Day was looming without anything to show.

Until he found them. A box full of blank Christmas cards.

It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.

This was dismal. John was doing his best with the cards, but he was quickly finding that his best was abysmal.

When he’d latched onto the Christmas card concept, it had seemed entirely simple. Address it to the recipient, write Happy Christmas in the centre, and sign it. But looking down at the ink and paper (real paper) it seemed so... cold. Impersonal.

He should write something else... a thank you, something to express his gratitude. But it seemed the words for it were just as difficult to grasp in writing as they were out loud. He spent six hours hunched over the desk in his room, drafting things on the COM pad lent to him and erasing them all afterwards.

In the end, he followed the formula he went in with, struggling not to snap the pen in impotent anger. Even his handwriting upset him, the letters not uniform and the penmanship clumsy. Legible and in straight lines, but it was woefully apparent that writing by hand wasn’t something he did often.

Swallowing down the unwanted emotions, John slid the inadequate cards into their envelopes and marked each one for each of his friends. It wasn’t enough, but it was all he had to give.

For the next twenty minutes, John sat at the desk, staring at the envelopes in his hands. For twenty minutes, he warred with himself. He was unhappy and unsettled; he wanted to be touched. He wanted to be held until he calmed. He wanted to find Mochou and open his arms for her to step into. (She’d promised he could.)

But he’d caused this upset with his own failure. The thought of seeking comfort for something he wouldn’t need to be comforted over if he could just do better... it didn’t sit well.

Twenty minutes passed, and a knock at the door sounded.

He startled, and a quick glance told him it was past the usual time for dinner. He reminded himself that these things weren’t set in stone and that was okay. “Yes?”

The door opened, and Changming stepped in with a big smile on his face. “Hey John, it’s time to eat! We haven’t seen you since lunch, you doing okay?”

He slung an arm around John’s shoulder and leaned in close, his warmth and weight soothing the larger man. “I’m fine, thanks.”

“Oh, hey!” The emotion in Changming’s voice belied the casual words. “You did cards for us? You big marshmallow!” His other arm came up around John’s face, which was weird but slow enough that it didn’t cause alarm. The grip wasn’t tight, and the soft press of a warm cheek against his head rooted this firmly as a positive experience (Changming had never hugged him before now; perhaps cards weren’t so inadequate).

John’s eyes were closed when his young friend pulled away, and they were sluggish to open, but when they did he was graced with a beaming smile.

“Come on,” Changming held out his hand, and John took it. “Let’s get some food in you.”

He stood up, and neither of them let go.

John’s eyes snapped open to an eerie orange glow and for a moment he was convinced he could smell blood. But he couldn’t, and the thought passed. A flick of his eyes confirmed the glow to be Tenzin, and the reassuring warmth pressed into his back reminded him that Alouette was there. He tried not to move so as not to disturb her, tried to still his trembling and control his breathing with the exercise Tenzin had taught him.

It wasn’t enough. Alouette shifted, then turned and shuffled until she put a hand on his arm. “John? Ça va?”

Not trusting his voice, John nodded (could she see in Tenzin’s soft light?) and kept up the exercise. In... two... three... four... hold... two... three... four... five... six... seven... out... two... three–

Alouette suddenly moved again, shifting to sit up and jostling the mattress, turning John’s controlled eight-count into a startled exhalation. She tugged at his shoulder, giving it a soothing rub when he jerked in response. “Ça va, ça va. Va t'allonger sur le dos.”

Confused, John obeyed, carefully turning onto his back under her watchful eye. Then, more to his confusion, Alouette clambered on top of him and lay on his torso, strong chests pressed together.

For a few long moments, they simply lay like that. But John quickly found he was calming faster than anticipated. The warmth and weight on his chest was grounding in a surprisingly effective way, and he let his eyes sink closed. But Alouette’s worry was still there, and so he murmured, “Un rêve...”

A dream. This wasn’t the first time he’d woken like this, and though he wished it he doubted this would be the last. The third night in a row... the third night with someone there to see it. He hated worrying Alouette and looked forward to Sampoorna’s return, when the couple would return to their own nightly company. (He wasn’t looking forward to sleeping alone.)

“Te rappelles-tu?” It was the third time she’d asked him that. And for the third time he quietly shook his head, only the terror and phantom pain lingering in wakefulness. He didn’t have to look to know she was frowning.

He was relaxing into the mattress again. Lying like this was... it was so nice. He wanted to ask her to stay on top of him, but she couldn’t have been comfortable up there. Pleasantly heavy and still so tired, he let himself remain in that warmth and stillness, wanting to hold onto this for as long as he could.

The gentle press of Alouette’s nose against John’s chin briefly reached him through his dozing, and her whispered voice saying, “Retourne dormir.”

Still weighted down and content, John did as he was told and sunk back into sleep.

When John opened his eyes again, it was unusually light in the room. A glance confirmed that the lights were off and Tenzin was absent, but the general light level was higher than expected.

The next thing he noticed was the heat and weight pressing down on top of him, shifting slightly. Looking down, he watched in mild shock as Alouette sleepily blinked awake. Had she... stayed there? For hours?

You didn’t have to, he wanted to say. But what came out of his mouth was, “It’s light out.”

For a moment, Alouette’s face scrunched up in confusion. But then she smiled and nodded, apparently not up for talking right now.

“People are awake.”

Alouette nodded again, head resting on him this time. She looked set to go back to sleep there on his chest.

“I haven’t made coffee.”

She looked back up at him, but this time she looked amused and fond. John had no idea how what he’d said had garnered that reaction. But she patted his chest, then started rubbing circles on his collarbone, and his brow pinched as he realised she was trying to play off his dereliction of duty.

A non-vital, self-assigned duty, but a duty nonetheless.

“Joyeux Noël, John.”

His frown relaxed at the soft words, and he answered, “Joyeux Noël, Alouette.” Then he patted her side twice, signalling for her to move.

It was past time to get up, and he had apologies to make.

As it turned out, no one wanted John’s apologies. Everyone smiled that same fond smile and patted his arm or back, telling him he didn’t have to make them all coffee every day and it was alright to sleep in sometimes, usually with laughter in their voices.

Confused, John could only nod mutely.

It was a light breakfast that morning, to make sure everyone had room for the large, cooked lunch that was custom for Christmas. (They let John refill his cereal, though. Both times.)

After that, everyone was put to cooking. There was a lot to do, and it was cramped in the kitchen even without someone John’s size. It was nice, everyone together, and no one minded that he didn’t know what he was doing. Changming in particular attached himself to John’s side and guided him through it all, but everyone was wonderfully patient.

It was nice to see Fiona, too. She wasn’t around much when he was and he sometimes wondered if she didn’t like him, but she seemed fine sharing space with him. He was glad of that.

Davis, too, was usually away on his own, working. But now he was very present and cheerful, smiling and joking and trying to draw John into the conversation. It didn’t work very well, but that wasn’t Davis’ fault, and his efforts were very much appreciated.

He was spreading oil onto the surfaces of each piece of potato before it went in to roast (he liked using the little oil brush, it was calming) when Mochou suddenly thrust a bowl of fresh cranberries under his nose.

“John! You’d like to stir in the cranberries, right?” There was a frantic edge to her voice that he didn’t understand.

Alouette was looking put out nearby. “John is busy, I can stir them in.”

“But!” Mochou was smiling, but it was a tight, forced smile. “John’s probably never done it before! Right?” She looked back at him, something manic behind her eyes. “I bet you’d like to!”

“I...” Between the two of them, and the sudden attention of everyone else, John just about wanted to fold himself into one of the cupboards. “I don’t mind. Alouette can--”

A shout of victory, and the stocky woman swept in for the cranberry bowl. “I will stir it in the best!” She declared. John would have smiled at her enthusiasm if not for the sudden tension in the room. Why was everyone so nervous? What could possibly be so disastrous about stirring cranberries?

He found out quite quickly.

He didn’t like the way everyone was looking at him. (The nearest cupboard was too small.) He’d have thought they’d be pleased, relieved that John had saved a significant amount of the ingredients from being splattered across the surfaces from Alouette’s... overenthusiasm.

Instead, they were staring open-mouthed, with something like fear in their eyes.

Normal people don’t move like that, he realised, suddenly feeling sick. They can’t.

(Freak.)

Silently, John cased the room with his eyes, pretending not to notice his own trembling as he resolutely looked past his friends. Exit there, easy to slip past as long as they didn’t become aggressive. Though they couldn’t hold him back even if they got their hands on him.

(Monster.)

A soft clink broke the silence as he carefully set down the bowl he’d snatched up, that he’d used to catch all but a few rogue specks of juice. He swallowed thickly, shifting his weight just a little in preparation to make a break for it.

(Where are you going to go?)

“Qu'est-ce que fuck!?”

John recoiled violently at the shout (duck and run), smacking his hip painfully into the countertop (hold, assess), gripping a vegetable knife (attack) before catching himself (friends!) and dropping it again.

(can’t breathe)

The incredulous grin on Alouette’s face fell into guilty horror. Mochou had her hands covering her mouth and nose, and there were tears in her eyes that weren’t there before. Changming and Davis were covering their mouths as well, and Riley was frozen with their hands half up as if to come over and put them on him. Even Fiona looked concerned.

They hadn’t before. They’d just looked shocked. They were more upset by his combat response.

And John ended up perching on the countertop that caused the pulsing pain in his hip, thinking oh as he went lightheaded. Oh, okay. It’s okay.

“I’m sorry--” Two voices at once; he’d interrupted Alouette, and now her hands were clamped across her mouth as well, as if she could physically hold in her distress. She was trying not to cry. John could only repeat himself. “I’m sorry.”

Mochou shook her head, then slowly pulled her hands down, folded now at her chest. She leaned forwards a fair way, earnest but contained. “You don’t have to be sorry.” She told him gently, so gently, like he was frail and breakable and should be treated with care. Something in his chest hurt to hear that, to feel like that (like it mattered if he broke).

There weren’t any words. He never had any words. He wanted them to stop staring, but he was so relieved that they (didn’t hate him) weren’t hostile.

Silently, John straightened his posture, put his hands back down by his sides. (You’re not in combat, *****. Relax.)

Another voice in the room, barely above a whisper. “You alright, love?”

Silence. He was doing the breathing exercise; it was helping. Changming spoke too, just “John... ?” all soft and worried. It nearly threw him off.

Slowly, John opened his hands (he hadn’t meant to curl them tight) and turned them outwards, towards Mochou. They hadn’t agreed on a signal, but it was the most he could do under the weight of his friends’ staring.

It was enough.

She closed the distance, and John let his knees buckle so he could kneel in front of her, hiding his face. His breath left him in a rush, briefly leaving a hot patch on Mochou’s shirt, his chest going tight. She was soft and warm and squeezing him hard and it was okay, he realised.

It was okay.

The tightness threatened to burst and John’s diaphragm lurched, his breathing hitching with it. He didn’t let it, though, kept it coiled tight inside.

“It’s okay,” Mochou murmured, probably feeling his body tense and jerk, “it’s okay, John. It’s okay.” She dragged her fingernails through the hair at the nape of his neck, right next to his neural interface, and it was so much that his control slipped for a moment and he hiccuped into her neck. It was okay.

Riley was murmuring soothing things as well, closer and closer, and then they were rubbing his back like before, and he couldn’t hold it back anymore.

Another hiccup sound wrenched out of him, more forceful than before, and then he couldn’t stop them. It wasn’t until he felt the dampness on Mochou’s skin and shirt that he realised he was crying. The realisation just made him cry harder.

It was an intoxicating feeling. Not just the touch, though it definitely was, but the sobbing. The tension that had accumulated eased a little more with every burst, his muscles slowly unwinding even as his diaphragm strained and burned.

More hands and voices surrounded him now, and it was wonderful. His nose was becoming congested from the fluid being diverted through his tear ducts, and he had to pull his face out of Mochou’s neck to breathe more easily. The feeling of hot, fat tears rolling down his face was almost soothing. And all he could see around him was his friends, all caring and trying to help, but none of them tried to stop his tears. He wasn’t scolded or threatened for crying; that’s exactly why he was. It was okay to cry. It was okay if he wasn’t okay.

(Would he be able to tell, if he saw his family or friends again? Would they recognise him, or was he different now than he was before? Could he look his own mother in the eye and not know her? Was he even wanted... ?)

Soon, John told himself, he would investigate the responses himself. He would not let the fear of his own brokenness paralyse him.

This morning, however, the kitchen was alive. It wasn’t at all unusual for Mochou to be cooking first thing in the morning, but she wasn’t making jianbing or stuffed buns for breakfast today-- she was taking the extra stir-fried mincemeat from the night before and cooking it on a low heat with what John recalled was bean paste. She’d also put on a pot of noodles to boil, and Changming had started thinly slicing cucumber and carrot as well.

Hesitating, John stepped closer, peering over Mochou’s shoulder without actually encroaching on her physical space.

“That’s new.”

She still jumped, like she’d forgotten he was there. “Ó! John!” Pressing a hand to her chest, she giggled to vent the adrenaline.

He grimaced apologetically, but Changming was laughing and Mochou waved it off anyhow.

“En, yes! Yes, this is zhá jiàng miàn for ma and ba.”

“Our parents,” Changming clarified, “offerings at our altar. They both loved it the best.”

It was then that the memory clicked; Sampoorna had mentioned the winter solstice as a day of importance. Was this why? Was it a day to honour the lost?

“Can I help?” If he could, he would. He wanted to. But if not, if it was personal, then he would stand aside. He didn’t remember, but he understood.

An excited noise sounded from Mochou. “Omelette! I showed you how to make an omelette, remember? Could you make a plain one for slicing?”

John felt a slight tug at the corners of his mouth, not the first little smile he’d found creeping up of its own volition. “Only one way to find out.”

Changming grinned, setting aside the chopping knife. “Thank you! It means a lot.” This time, he didn’t just pat John’s arm, but squeezed it, and John became acutely, uncomfortably aware that this was the first touch he’d received since yesterday.

He’d dreamed something last night, something that slipped away as he woke like all his dreams did, but left him with a hollow ache in his chest and a grasping want for company. At least when his dreams invoked a heart-pounding terror, he woke in safety. Waking up so lonely... Tenzin helped, but his voice was stilted and artificial, his conversation topics limited. As human as he appeared, Tenzin wasn’t a Smart AI. He was static, unlearning code, a set of complex algorithms without any real formulation of self. The realisation that the person he felt most comfortable talking to wasn’t a person at all had caused an unsettled feeling in John’s gut, but even if Tenzin had been Smart it wouldn’t have helped the ache. AIs could do a myriad of wonderful things, but they couldn’t touch.

Damn it, he’d had no trouble ignoring it until now. Changming’s gentle touch would have felt like such a gift just a day before, but now it wasn’t enough. His chest still ached and he still felt separate from them (he didn’t belong), and now it had a taste his skin greedily demanded more. More hands, more warmth, more touch. More, more, more! Why couldn’t he just be content with what he was given? Why was he being so selfish today?

He half expected (half hoped) Mochou would see the moment of contact and add her own as well, but it came and went without her attention. It was odd that she hadn’t offered any physical affection yet, and the absence left him bereft. Enough, he told himself firmly, they’re busy and you should be too. Perhaps it would help him push aside the craving.

It didn’t. John kept to his task and performed it well, but it wasn’t exactly strenuous and his mind kept wandering. More than once he found himself watching the Guan siblings as they cooked, chatting and laughing easily, with a tight feeling pressing on the ache and making it hard to breathe. The pressure made his body tense, made him want to squeeze the handle of the pan until it bent and snapped under his strength.

Setting the omelette near Changming to signal it was done, John couldn’t pretend that this wasn’t causing a problem. He needed something more challenging to focus on. But first, there was more coffee to make.

Part of John wanted to help with the decorating the group was doing. It was very pretty, he supposed, all glittery things and twinkling lights, but there wasn’t any obvious gap he could fill and he’d slow them down with his lack of knowledge anyway. They did their work efficiently and John’s clueless blundering wasn’t needed.

(A taut knot in his chest. Prickling heat behind his eyes. He clenched his fists and stifled the unwanted urge to tear down the pointless pretty things.)

Instead, John made himself a cup of tea and retreated to his quarters to research Christmas.

It wasn’t as nice as the tea Changming made. He’d poured too much water so there wasn’t enough milk, and though he’d stirred in some sugar the sweetness was faint and the aftertaste was bitter. He should have asked Tenzin how it was done. It didn’t really matter; it was warm and wet, that was enough.

Still, John couldn’t focus. There was so much information at the room’s terminal, two thousand years of history and traditions and anecdotes relating to Christmas, and it all just stared back at him meaningless and flat, until it blurred into fuzzy smudges.

He kept thinking about the embrace in the hallway after the failed shopping trip, the comfort Mochou had sought to give him. The way she’d wrapped herself around him on that first day when he was weak and sick, how secure he’d felt as his sore body relaxed in her arms. Waking from unwitting naps with her pressed into his side. He thought, too, of Sampoorna and her massages, how perfunctory it seemed whenever she took his hands in hers, like it was a perfectly normal thing to do. She’d come up behind him once and taken hold of his shoulders, but he’d sharply pulled away on reflex. She hadn’t done it again, but now he found himself fantasising about what might happen if she did, trying to imagine what it would feel like to have Sampoorna’s thumbs rubbing firm circles into the muscles of his upper back. He couldn’t, but if he could it wouldn’t help. He knew what being held felt like, but imagining that just filled him with a sharp longing.

With a frustrated sigh, John pushed away from the terminal and stood, pressing his fingers against the heat behind his eyes. He had to figure out some way of circumventing this... whatever was wrong with him. He glanced about the room, as if something within it held the answer, only to find that it might well do.

Crossing to the bed in two long strides, John scooped up the quilt and shook it out, before wrapping it lengthwise around his shoulders and settling back down again. It was cool to the touch now, but in a few minutes it would be warm around him and he was sure that it would bring the comfortable feeling he needed to assuage himself. It had to. He didn’t know what else to do.

It was a relief to open the window. The kitchen was like a sauna, but at last all the dumplings were done.

It had been a very, very busy day so far. Neither she or Changming had realised until the night before, but all of the dumpling ingredients should have been bought by Alouette... which she hadn’t, because John had been overwhelmed in the store.

Which wasn’t to blame John at all! Mochou thought he was terribly brave, really, but he was still being very hard on himself. Still, it meant they’d both had to start early. Making food and drink for ma and ba’s altar was time-consuming in and of itself, and then there was joss sticks and greetings and prayers, more than their usual daily offerings. Today was a special day, after all.

After that, it was shopping, then the bickering had started about what was going in the dumplings. That stretched the trip out anyway, and then Changming had asked what kind of dumplings John would like, and they both realised that the man himself probably didn’t know, so they doubled back and bought a bit of everything-- and then a bit more, for John’s appetite.

A quick lunch, and then they were back in the kitchen. Dumplings and dumplings and dumplings they’d made, labouring together for the evening’s meal. There was always at least one point in the hours of prepping, steaming, assembling and boiling where Mochou demanded to know why the two of them kept doing this to themselves, and by now her brother just rolled his eyes. She knew why.

But now it was done, and Mochou was looking forward to spending the rest of Dōngzhì with her family.

As everyone came together, complimenting the food with all the usual enthusiasm, Mochou found they were one short.

“En... where’s John? You didn’t leave him decorating when dinner’s ready, did you?”

Riley frowned. “He hasn’t been decorating, I don’t think. Least I’ve not seen him, not since coffee o’ clock. In all honesty, I thought he was with you.”

“What? No, I haven’t seen him since this morning either.”

“Well, bollocks. Anyone else?”

Alouette shook her head. “The same as you, I think. This morning’s coffee, then nothing.”

“Yeah, same. Me and Mochou were busy anyway making zhá jiàng miàn.”

“Did he even come out for lunch?” Fiona asked. John was always there when food was available. If he hadn’t been seen at lunchtime then...

“Wait,” Davis chimed in, “none of us have seen John all day... and no one thought to check on him?”

There was a guilty silence.

“... We’re bad people.”

Worry twisted Mochou’s stomach. “I’ll check his room.”

John hadn’t intended to get back into bed. But he found he kept trying to pull his knees up to his chest, and he was simply too large for that to work in the desk chair. So here he was, folded up and cocooned in the warm quilt, watching vids of people celebrating on Christmas morning.

He’d picked one at random, since reading seemed to be a fruitless endeavour, in the hope that more to process would help stimulate his brain. Instead he found himself mournfully watching happy families and carefree children opening gifts from people who loved them, regularly having to pause and look away. He had no idea why he was doing this to himself. It just made him feel worse, all of it, especially since the more he saw the more familiar it all was. He wasn’t lying to Sampoorna when he said he didn’t celebrate Christmas, but he was starting to realise that he used to.

He could still picture the face of the woman he’d dreamed about. His mother. He was certain she was his mother, but his image of her was a woman Fiona’s age or younger, and in his dreams of her he was a very small child. He was decades older now, and probably dwarfed that young woman. In all likelihood, his mother died that young, one of the countless casualties of the Covenant’s genocidal campaign.

The only person from his life that he remembered, and John would never see her again.

Did they have a tree, a lifetime ago? Stockings for presents from the mythical Father Christmas, special seasonal cookies and songs? Chocolate for breakfast and turkey for dinner? Did he believe in God, once, in the miracle of Christ’s birth?

(He didn’t now. If someone knew the Human-Covenant war and all that entailed was going to happen and had the power to stop it but didn’t... that wasn’t the kind of person John could put any faith in.)

Even in the face of the familiar, all he had was questions.

And then there was a knock on the door.

“John?” It was Mochou, and his stomach lurched. “Can I come in?”

“Yes.” Taking the earphones out, he heard his own voice was more of a croak, and he became abruptly aware of how thirsty he was.

The door slowly swung open, and the smell of food wafting in made ravenous hunger join the thirst. How long had he been in here...?

“Hello.” Mochou said gently. “You okay in there? No one’s seen you all day.”

John swallowed and licked his dry lips, ignoring his sore throat to answer. “I’ve been researching.” He gestured slightly with the COM pad in his hand and remembered he was bundled. He must have looked ridiculous.

But she came into the room with concern on her face, trying to smile all the same, and perched on the bed next to him. Close to him. He swallowed again.

“You’ve been researching a long time. It’s dinner now. Do you want to come eat with us? It’s a family thing, all eating together for Dōngzhì. You don’t have to, though, if you’re not feeling up to it.”

But John nodded before she’d even finished. “I’ll come.”

For a moment, it looked like Mochou was going to get up and leave again, but she paused... he couldn’t keep up with what his insides were doing in response, twisting and lurching. He just wanted the dizzying feelings to stop.

Trying to shake himself out of the miserable stupor that had wasted an entire day, John shrugged off the quilt and swung his legs off the bed, immediately feeling the comparative chill of the air after basking in his own insulated heat for hours. He ignored it. Dinner would be hot.

Mochou stood easily (silently he cursed his knees), then turned and held out her hand.

Was she... going to try and pull him up? Hesitating, John took it.

And sighed. Felt his shoulders slump. He tightened his grip on the tiny hand just slightly and squeezed his eyes shut.

“John...” She sounded so sad. He lifted his head and opened his eyes again, just in time for her to climb into his lap and kneel there-- then pull his face into her neck. “Have you been in here by yourself all lonely? I’m sorry, John. Someone should have come to see if you were okay.”

She let go of his hand to wrap that arm around his shoulder, the other still cupping the back of his head. For a second, he couldn’t react; then he hugged back, pressing her firmly against him, content to keep hiding his face.

(The press of her skin against his own was... it was so much. He’d been craving this all day and instead of having to pull himself together and pretend he was fine... she was giving it to him. Just like that.)

(it’s okay if you’re not okay)

“Kělián de dōngxī... ” Mochou’s fingers started gently combing through his hair, and the combination of the soft pads of her fingers and the gentle scrape of her nails across his scalp made his whole body turn to pudding. A soft, low sound slipped out, and he squeezed her a little tighter as he tried to stay upright.

“Ó John, I’m sorry. You’re never gonna be in trouble for wanting to spend time with us, okay? And if you ever need a hug, just ask.” She was tracing patterns on his back, then she was scratching a little, and he shivered at the intensity of it. It was such a change from the distress that stole the day, and his voice rumbled in his chest without form or intent.

(it’s okay if you’re not okay)

“Or, if... if asking with words is too hard, you could gesture for a hug? If you open your arms, or something like that, then I’ll give you a hug right away! And I’ll never be mad at you or tell you not to, I promise.”

I promise.

John nodded into Mochou’s neck. It was okay to ask. He had permission to seek... this. She’d promised. She’d promised.

It would be hard to believe, if they weren’t entangled. He’d have happily stayed there forever, but there were footfalls in the hallway.

“Oh... oh dear. What’s the matter then, love?” Riley. Riley coming in, their tone warm, the bed dipping slightly as they sat down next to him. Another noise left him as Riley’s hand started rubbing firm, brisk circles on his lower back. It was so good, it all felt so good.

And then his stomach made a frankly embarrassing noise.

“Oh no!” Mochou sounded so upset that John felt guilty. “Oh no, you’ve been in here all day! You must be starving! Ó, I’m glad I made lots...”

He didn’t want her to wriggle off of his lap and pull away, he really didn’t, but Riley hadn’t stopped and he couldn’t hold either of them hostage.

“Oh, poor John.” Riley cooed. “Come along and have dinner with all of us. We’re gonna sit on the sofa together and watch the Wolf Warrior movies. They’re Chinese, and really bloody old, but it’s Mouse and Mingle’s day so I hope you like subtitles!”

They couldn’t quite fit everyone on the sofa, but John didn’t mind. Mochou had clambered into his lap again, with Changming pressed tightly against one side of him and Riley on the other, their arm wrapped around his own. Alouette regularly reached over and patted him on the knee for no real reason that he could find other than that she wanted to. He felt warm and full (not just full of dumplings either, though John certainly ate plenty of those) and the ache was gone. He felt secure and relaxed, and after he’d finally eaten and drunk his fill Mochou started stroking his hair again, just because.

Between Wolf Warrior 2 and Wolf Warrior 3, Changming piped up. “It was a nice bright day out today. Which means it’s probably gonna be raining on the Lunar New Year. So no fireworks!”

Breakfast had been different, too. It was the first time since he woke up here that Sampoorna hadn’t made potato pancakes regardless of what anyone else was cooking. She just had what Alouette had made like everyone else. Perhaps he should look into that, too, but it seemed less pressing.

Now John had at least narrowed it down to the window specifically that was wrong. He leaned a little closer, and noticed a faint outline in the light layer of dust that hadn’t been swept up yet today from the windowsill.

That was it. That was what it was-- something missing that had been there until today. He was certain that it was here last night, so why wasn’t it here this morning? It was always Sampoorna who did anything with it, so he’d have to ask her.

Speak of the devil. Her careful but heavy footfalls came to a stop behind him. “Are you well, John? You seem to be upset.”

“The candles are gone.” John said, and turned to see her surprised expression.

Then she squinted, turning her head to side-eye him. At 6′3, Sampoorna didn’t have to tilt her head all the way up to meet his eye, and he likewise didn’t have to strain his neck looking down, but there was still more than half a foot between them.

“Yes,” she said at length, an odd note in her voice that he couldn’t identify, “the final night of Hanukkah is come and gone, and so I have removed the Hanukkiah from the window until the next year’s Hanukkah begins.”

“Oh.”

Sampoorna was still looking at him strangely. “Even if you did not know the dates this year, surely you witnessed the light of all the candles lit as one last night?”

John nodded but didn’t know what that had to do with anything.

She took a step closer, challenging. “Why, then, are you so offset by its absence?”

He didn’t quite know how to answer. Clearly, he’d done something to upset her. Was he not supposed to mention the candles? “The... Hanukkiah has been there until today. I noticed something had changed but not what it was.”

After a long moment, Sampoorna relaxed and took his hand in both of hers, rubbing gently at his knuckles.

Smiling sadly, she said, “You need not fret, John. I know it is a hardship, to turn one’s mind and senses from times of war, but this place is safe. If ever you are uncertain, please never be afraid to ask us if it aids you. We will always be happy to assuage your fears until you can feel at peace in our home.”

Feeling awkward at the dramatic assurance, John nodded anyway. “When... when will Hanukkah next be?” The word was one he’d heard before, but it felt unfamiliar in his mouth.

Sampoorna’s hands stilled, and she started giving him that Look again.

When she didn’t speak, John felt the need to clarify. “Are the dates set or do they change each year?” Still, she was silent, his hand still in her grasp, and he tried to swallow the sudden anxiety. “I’m guessing it’s a holiday?”

That got a reaction-- outright shock. “You do not know of Hanukkah?”

Fighting the urge to shrink away in shame (she’d been so patient with him until now) he carefully took his hand back.

Sampoorna didn’t seem to notice. “Were you not taught in your childhood? By your parents, your friends, your school? You have known Jewish people amongst the military, surely!”

Frustratingly, the only answer he could give was, “I don’t know.”

Another beat of silence, then her fingers pressed to her lips. “No. No, you do not know.”

She took John’s hand again, and led him to their rec room. They didn’t call it that, but he always defaulted to it and no one seemed to mind. At Sampoorna’s urging, he sat down on the couch. She didn’t let his hand go, starting to knead it again, and he fought the urge to relax back into the cushions.

And she told him. She told him of King Antiochus III the Great, how he took over the place on Earth called Judea and claimed it a part of the Seleucid Empire of Syria in 200 BCE. She told him of the Second Temple, which stood atop the Temple Mount in Jerusalem between 516 B.C. and 70 A.D., how it was looted and Judaism outlawed.  She told him of the shrine to Zeus erected there, and the order for pigs to be sacrificed at its alter, and why that was such a cruel premeditated attack against the Jewish people. She told him about the Jewish priest Mattathias, his five sons and the rebellion they led against the King. She told him that by 165 BCE, with Mattathias dead and his son Judah the Hammer leading them, the Jewish people had liberated and rededicated the Second Temple.

“They cleansed the temple and built a new altar, untainted, but they needed pure olive oil marked with the seal of the kohen gadol to light the menorah which needed to burn each and every night. They found a flask untouched within the temple, but only enough for one night. Yet, when lit, it burned for eight-- exactly the time needed to prepare new oil. It was deemed to be a miracle, and so each year upon the 25th night of Kislev, the ninth month of the Jewish calendar, Hanukkah begins. Give me your foot.”

Frowning, John was jolted out of the oddly relaxed focus he’d gained. “My foot?”

“I have done your hands, now give me your foot.”

Sampoorna wanted to rub his feet? Somehow that idea was stranger than his hands. Seeking to distract her, he asked, “Why are there nine candles on the Hanukkiah? Is one lit all the way through?”

“It is,” Sampoorna answered agreeably, reaching down to grab his leg regardless, “the shamash is used to light the other candles each night, though I think some branches of Judaism do not use it for such.”

John considered resisting her attempts to manhandle him, but she was quite stubborn and he didn’t want to hurt her so sheepishly allowed it. His foot was rested on her thigh, and she perched on the arm of the couch on the other side so he didn’t have to bend his leg. This was really weird.

“The importance of the oil in this miracle also leads to fried foods being eaten through Hanukkah. Indeed, you partook of both latkes and sufganiyot when I offered them.”

Latkes and sufganiyot... one of those was definitely the potato pancakes, John realised, but he wasn’t sure about the other. He was about to ask when Sampoorna pressed her thumbs firmly into the ball of his foot and he had to clamp his mouth shut again so as not to make an embarrassing noise. He’d never thought that a little applied pressure could feel so good.

“There is more, of course.” Sampoorna smiled. “But I think you have enough information to process for today, yes? You let me talk for a very long time.”

Why wouldn’t he? He enjoyed learning it. But words were still out of his grasp for now, and she didn’t seem to be waiting for an answer. He could always do more research later and pass along any follow-up questions another time.

For now, he was sorely tempted to let his eyes slip shut and just... enjoy the foot rub, strange as it was.

“The house will be going through further change, though this will not be Jewish. Well, Mochou and Changming make dumplings on the Winter Solstice and then predict the weather on the New Year by the weather on that day, but the focus will be on Christmas as Riley and Fiona slowly take over the apartment. It is only I that truly abstains from the Christmas celebrations but I tend to spend that time with my brother’s family and so will not be in the way either. Do you celebrate Christmas, John?”

After a moment of deliberation, John opted to just shake his head. He’d research that later, too. There was so much he didn’t realise he needed to learn. Sampoorna had detailed a historical conflict that John didn’t know about and that just about set a fire under him...

... or, it would, when he wasn’t melting into the couch.

After a few minutes, he managed to get a hold of something to say. “Thank you.”