The Scent Profile: Synthetic cedarwood, fresh paper, cold espresso, and static electricity.
The Vibe: An invisible ghost. Bain wears a fragrance made of a single aroma-chemical that smells completely different on everyone and disappears if you try to focus on it. It matches his hidden identity perfectly. He smells like clean, air-conditioned server rooms, endless cups of black coffee, and the subtle, ink-like scent of printed blueprints... And his stupid ass vape :3
The Scent Profile: Sharp green galbanum, iris, cold leather, and oakmoss.
The Vibe: Ruthless matriarch. She wears a vintage, aggressive Chanel perfume that smells like freezing winter air and sharp, bitter plants. Underneath that high-end exterior, she faintly smells like the smokehouse of her meat-packing facility and the metallic tang of cold steel hooks.
The Dentist: Clive Christian — No. 1 Masculine
The Scent Profile: Precious sandalwood, rare pimento, gold, and powdery iris.
The Vibe: Terrifyingly perfect. The Dentist wears one of the most expensive perfumes in the world. It smells sterile, immaculately clean, and wildly luxurious. There is zero warmth to it, just the cold, blindingly bright scent of a flawless medical office mixed with pure, untouchable power.
Senator Simmons (The Elephant): Roja Parfums — Oligarch
The Scent Profile: Bitter oakmoss, sharp cedar, dry patchouli, and fresh lime.
The Vibe: Washington D.C. corruption. The Elephant smells like leather seats in a government limousine, expensive fountain pen ink, and a deeply bitter, woody cologne that screams "corrupt politician." It is a heavy, stuffy scent designed to command a room during a backroom deal.
Vernon Locke: Aramis — Aramis & Cheap Beer
The Scent Profile: Heavy leather, bitter myrrh, pungent sage, and stale lager.
The Vibe: Ex-military mercenary chaos. Locke wears a classic, brutally strong 1960s cologne that smells like a punch to the face. Mix that with the lingering scent of a spilled warm beer and Murkywater gunpowder, and he smells exactly like a guy who is about to betray you.
The Scent Profile: Sickly sweet tuberose, heavy leather, salt, and pine trees.
The Vibe: Russian mobster disco. Vlad floods himself in a wildly loud, ultra-sweet gold bottle of cologne to prove how rich he is. He smells like a sticky nightclub floor, pine-scented car air fresheners, and a heavy breath of cheap bakery pastries. It is loud, chaotic, and completely obnoxious.
Charon: Guerlain — Mitsouko
The Scent Profile: Velvet peach, dark oakmoss, spices, and old paper.
The Vibe: The Continental standard. Charon smells like absolute discretion. He wears a classic, century-old French masterpiece that smells mysterious, dry, and deeply comforting. He smells like the polished mahogany desk of the Continental lobby and freshly minted gold coins.
Jiu Feng: Amouage — Reflection Man
The Scent Profile: Powdery neroli, jasmine, cold sandalwood, and metallic silver.
The Vibe: High-end smuggler chic. Jiu Feng smells like a crystal-clean luxury shopping mall in Hong Kong. It is an incredibly smooth, floral, and woody scent that feels sleek, modern, and expensive, perfect for a man dealing in illegal high-tech military hardware.
Shayu: Tom Ford — Black Orchid
The Scent Profile: Dark chocolate, black truffle, heavy incense, and orchids.
The Vibe: The Shadow of San Francisco. Shayu smells rich, dark, and incredibly menacing. Her fragrance is heavy, gothic, and earthy. It feels like walking into a dimly lit, high-end antique shop where you know you are being watched from the shadows.
Gemma McShay: Maison Louis Marie — No. 4 Bois de Balincourt
The Scent Profile: Dry sandalwood, cedarwood, vetiver, and Texas dust.
The Vibe: Texan industrialist. Gemma doesn't wear sweet or floral scents. She smells like dry, earth-toned woods, Texas clay, and the clean, mineral smell of a high-tech workshop. It is minimalist, rugged, and professional.
Blaine Keegan: Ralph Lauren — Polo Blue & Texas BBQ
The Scent Profile: Aquatic melon, fresh cucumber, sage, and smoky brisket.
The Vibe: The Texas fixer. Keegan wears a basic, sporty mall cologne that he’s used since the 90s to look approachable. Unfortunately, it gets completely overridden by the heavy smell of woodsmoke and sweet BBQ sauce from his business meetings.
Shade: Le Labo — Another 13 & Clean Tech
The Scent Profile: Iso E Super, metallic musk, clean laundry, and jasmine.
The Vibe: The new era handler. Unlike Bain's vintage server smell, Shade smells like cutting-edge modern tech. Her scent is completely minimalist, smelling like crisp white paper, fresh laundry, and the ozone scent of a brand-new laptop straight out of the box.
Beckett: Old Spice — Original & Bourbon
The Scent Profile: Sharp nutmeg, star anise, cinnamon, and cheap whiskey.
The Vibe: Grumpy old-school criminal. Beckett refuses to touch modern luxury items. He smells exactly like your grandpa’s shaving cream mixed with the heavy, sweet sting of a glass of bourbon left on a dusty desk.
Mac: Diesel — Fuel For Life & Welding Sparks
The Scent Profile: Sweet anise, raspberry, grapefruit, and burning metal.
The Vibe: Mac smells like a weird mix of a fruity, masculine clubbing cologne from his younger days, completely covered in grease, motor oil, and the dry, burnt smell of welding sparks from working on the escape vehicles.
Bile: Aviation Fuel & Spearmint Gum
The Scent Profile: Kerosene, cold high-altitude air, leather jackets, and mint.
The Vibe: Bile doesn’t wear cologne because the helicopter smells entirely of fuel. He just smells like a heavy leather bomber jacket, cold wind from the open cargo doors, and a strong, frantic wave of spearmint gum he chews to stay awake.
Gage: Gun Powder & WD-40
The Scent Profile: Burned sulfur, metallic grease, heavy canvas, and cheap mints.
The Vibe: The armorer. Gage smells exactly like a military surplus warehouse. There is zero cosmetic fragrance on him. He smells of freshly oiled rifle parts, the burnt-toast scent of fired ammunition, and the chemical spray he uses to keep his wheelchair moving smoothly.
AAAAANNNND DATS IT! THOSE ARE MY HCS!!
.... but I can also so hardcore Henry ones too >:3
Alex: Again? It is three in the morning- WHY DO YOU ALWAYS DO THIS????
Twitch: The hell are you two talking about?
Bile: One of the heisters comes around and just stares at us while we work on the vehicles. He doesn’t say anything, he just watches. Always in the shadows too. Like he thinks we can’t see him. And he ignores and attempts at contact, he just watches us. I thought at first it was because of Bain didn’t trust us due to Hector. But I talked to Bain and I just got a “Oh no, he just does that sometimes.” Which HUH???? WHAT DOES THAT MEAN!?!?!... These damn heisters I tell you...
Alex: It’s really unnerving and makes it hard to focus while we work. So we switch up when we work on which vehicles. Thought we trip him up. But, SOMEBODY STILL KEEPS SHOWING UP! It’s like he has a six sense or something.
Twitch: You’re joking right?
Alex: No, no he’s right. Look, he’s over there.
Twitch: Wait but that’s just- oh. God damn it Houston.
*Later*
Twitch: You know if you wanted to work on the helicopters and trucks, you could always just ask.
Houston: I was going to at first, but now it’s too late and it would be awkward. Besides unnerving them is fun.
okay so i need to talk about something that has been rotting my brain.
objectum payday gang.
and i will die on this hill.
HEAR ME OUT!!
houston being a mechanophile/objectum specifically for the escape van is the most logical thing i’ve ever thought.
that van is consistency. that van is reliability. that van always comes back for him.
people leave.
the van doesn’t.
he whispers to it while he’s doing maintenance. low, soft, affectionate. praise for how well it handled the last getaway. apologies if it took too many bullets. gentle hands on the chassis like he’s tending to something living.
he absolutely kisses the hood when nobody’s looking. presses his forehead to it when he’s overwhelmed.
and yes he sleeps in it sometimes. curled up in the back, feeling safest in the place that always guarantees escape.
only the best parts go into it. he researches brands obsessively. compares durability, material integrity, long-term stress reports.
because love, to him, is maintenance.
wolf is textbook hoplophile and i mean that lovingly.
wolf’s relationship with his weapons is borderline devotional.
his shotguns? cherished. named. cleaned with reverence.
and The Pounder, that customized nailgun he uses for close quarters? that’s not just a tool. that’s a favorite. that’s a partner in violence. what matters to him with his weapons is the connection.
he tunes them like instruments. murmurs praise after a clean headshot.
his guns are extensions of his mind. precision. chaos harnessed.
it’s intimacy through control.
hoxton is techum BECAUSE I SAID SO
his research tablet? (I mean he's the files guy he's gotta have a research tablet) kissed absentmindedly. talked to like a confidant. he props it up on the table like it’s sitting with him.
and the thermal drill?
he leans down and mutters encouragement while it’s chewing through steel. taps it affectionately when it stalls. calls it clever when it works faster than expected.
it’s not just machinery, it’s partnership.
joy is deeply objectum for her tech.
her laptop, her rig, the tangled web of wires in her minivan, all of them are her girlfriends.
she spends hours in that van outside the garage, surrounded by glowing monitors, upgrading and rewiring like she’s tending to a garden.
every upgrade is like buying your girlfriend jewelry.
she absolutely talks to her setup like it’s alive.
“you’re doing so good for me, baby.”
and when the van upgrades with better equipment and that massive multi-screen system? that’s growth. that’s evolution. that’s love getting stronger.
chains absolutely has a punching bag in the safehouse. former navy seal, man needs to keep sharp.
but here’s the thing.
he has several bags.
and there’s one he always goes back to.
he handles her carefully when hanging her up. checks her stitching. adjusts the chain if it creaks.
he praises her while he trains.
“good girl.”
“you can take it.”
it’s not violent. it’s mutual purpose.
she exists to withstand. he exists to endure.
it’s grounding. controlled impact instead of chaotic trauma.
dallas’ objectum relationship with money is the most tragic one.
money is cold. money is demanding. money doesn’t care if he’s tired or bleeding or hollowed out.
it’s a cruel master.
he chases it like validation. like it’ll finally fill the space this life carved out of him.
but it never does.
eventually, and this is important to me, he learns to love the medic bag instead.
the medic bag keeps people alive.
the medic bag is care.
it’s not glamorous.
but it’s saving.
(Also haha funny meme AUGHHHH I NEEEED A MEDIC BAGGG)
duke doesn’t just steal art.
he courts it.
before a heist he’ll watch the target painting longer than necessary. the others think he’s casing the room.
he’s not.
he’s admiring brush strokes. tracing the movement of the artist’s hand with his eyes. memorizing the texture.
he absolutely whispers to them when he’s alone.
soft praise. soft apologies.
“forgive me, my love.”
he wears gloves not just for practicality, but because touch should be intentional. sacred.
when he stores them in the safehouse he positions them carefully. adjusts lighting. wipes dust that isn’t even there. he speaks to them like they’re old souls.
duke’s love language is appreciation.
he loves that art has survived centuries.
wars. fires. revolutions.
still standing.
there’s something comforting in loving something that endures.
and yes, jimmy is his human partner.
and yes, duke still caresses the frame of a baroque oil painting when nobody’s looking.
jimmy’s object partner being a perfect brick of coke is so absurd but it makes me giggle :3
vlad gives it to him as a gift, pristine, tightly wrapped, flawless.
jimmy stares at it like it’s a holy artifact.
“fuckin hell... look at you.”
he refuses to use it.
everyone assumes he’s saving it.
no.
he’s protecting it.
he’ll sit on the couch holding it gently, tracing the edges through the plastic. muttering praise like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
it represents excess. purity. chaos frozen into a perfect shape.
it’s not about consumption.
it’s about admiration.
he keeps it safe. tucked away. untouched.
duke finds it oddly sweet... and concerning.
bile and his helicopter is one of the most stable relationships in the payday universe XD
she responds to him.
not emotionally, obviously, but mechanically.
he knows every vibration in her rotors. every sound change in the engine.
he runs his hands along the fuselage during maintenance like he’s checking a pulse.
he talks to her in low murmurs before takeoff.
“let’s bring them home.”
that’s love ppl.
she lifts when he asks.
she carries the crew out of hell.
he probably sleeps in her sometimes. stretched out across the seats, jacket as a pillow, surrounded by the smell of fuel and metal.
she is freedom. altitude. escape.
with her, he is untouchable.
gage loves weapons academically, professionally, but his personal guns?
those are chosen.
custom grips. specific balance. weight distribution tuned to his preference.
he polishes them like prized possessions. talks about them like they’re old friends.
but his wheelchair?
that’s different.
that’s familial objectum.
it’s not romantic.
it’s loyal.
it carries him. supports him. never questions him.
he maintains it meticulously. upgrades it. reinforces it. makes it faster, tougher.
it’s not just mobility.
it’s home.
bonnie and her roulette table is the most flirtatious dynamic in the safehouse TRUST!!
when her gambling den upgrades and that full roulette table comes in, she’s insufferable about it.
she runs her fingers along the felt like she’s smoothing someone’s hair.
leans over it like she’s whispering secrets.
“ye miss me, hen?”
she cleans it carefully. polishes the wheel until it spins perfectly smooth.
she loves the rhythm of it.
the click of the ball.
the suspense.
risk and reward in physical form.
she’s not reckless with it.
she respects it.
she’ll rest her chin on her hand and just watch the wheel spin like she’s watching someone she adores exist.
it’s intimacy through chance.
in a world where alliances shift and gunfire is constant
loving something consistent makes sense.
and that’s why i can’t stop thinking about these hcs man
because under the chaos, under the 'absurdity'
it’s actually really tender.
THANK YOU FOR COMING TO MY TED TALK EHEHHEHEHE YIPPEE!!!!
The payday Christmas fic! (Bc I'll be too busy to post it tomorrow)
☃️ Merry fucking Heistmas ☃️
Cw/Tw: cocaine usage (thanks Jimmy 🙄)
Ships: houston x Hoxton x Dallas (I'M NOT SHIPPING DALLAS AND HOUSTON TOGETHER THEY'RE BOTH JUST IN LOVE WITH HOXTON), Vlad x Locke, Joy x Bonnie and Duke x Jimmy (kinda if u squint)
(Authors note: I lost creative steam during the gift giving scene also this fic is LONG)
Fic below the cut:
Christmas at the safehouse was never quiet.
Someone—probably Bain, though no one could prove it—had decided that if they were going to celebrate, they would do it properly. The result was an explosion of tinsel, fairy lights strung with criminal disregard for fire safety, and a tree so large it had required three heisters and one deeply irritated Duke to get it through the door.
Music played from somewhere near the kitchen—old carols warped into something bass-heavy and modern. People sang anyway. Badly.
Everyone was there.
Chains stood near the tree with Wolf and Dragan, nursing a drink and pretending not to enjoy himself while Wolf heckled the playlist. Jacket lingered close by, silent as ever, occasionally tilting his head when the music hit a familiar rhythm. Sokol and Sydney had taken over one corner of the room, arguing loudly over the “correct” way to celebrate Christmas while Scarface looked on with amused detachment, glass in hand.
Hoxton, meanwhile, was on a mission.
He craned his neck, eyes scanning the ceiling beams and doorways, lips already curled into something dangerous. “I know Bain put mistletoe up somewhere,” he muttered.
Houston hovered nearby, hands stuffed into his pockets, pretending not to hear while absolutely hearing every word. Dallas stood a little further off, talking with Chains—but his eyes flicked back toward them more than once.
Jimmy burst into laughter from the couch, something powdery suspiciously dusting the edge of his nostril. Duke, immaculate in a tailored tartan Christmas suit, loomed behind him with the long-suffering patience of a man supervising a particularly deranged child.
“James,” Duke said calmly, “if you are going to indulge, at least attempt subtlety.”
“It’s festive,” Jimmy shot back. “It’s snowing indoors!"
Duke closed his eyes. “It is not.”
Nearby, Joy and Bonnie sat pressed together on the arm of a chair, sharing headphones and quietly exchanging sweet words. Bonnie’s laugh was low and warm; Joy’s smile was soft in a way she didn’t often let the crew see. Clover leaned over the back of the couch to comment on wrapping paper technique, while Ethan and Hila debated whether the tree topper was ironic or sincere.
At the far end of the room, contractors clustered in a loose, unlikely constellation.
Bain observed everything from his usual place, mug in hand, clearly pleased. The Elephant laughed a little too loudly at something The Butcher said, while The Dentist stood nearby with a drink he hadn’t touched, eyes sharp and unreadable even under twinkling lights.
Jiro spoke quietly with Rust and Sangres. Jiu Feng and Shayu shared a brief, knowing look before turning back to the conversation at hand. Shade hovered near the periphery, already mentally cataloguing exits.
And then there was Vlad.
Vlad followed Locke like a man possessed.
Not in an aggressive way—no, this was earnest. He hovered at Locke’s shoulder, refilling his drink before it was empty, gesturing animatedly as he spoke, clearly attempting charm.
“You see,” Vlad was saying, waving a hand, “Christmas in my childhood, it was… how you say… chaos. But good chaos. Loud. Warm. People yelling but because they love you.”
Locke smiled politely, sipping his drink. “That does sound… festive.”
Vlad beamed like he’d just been given a medal.
A little further away, Gage sat quietly with Bile nearby, hands folded in his lap, doing his best to disappear into the background. Bile, on the other hand, was animatedly rambling about his helicopter to anyone who would listen.
“And she’s beautiful,” Bile said, gesturing enthusiastically. “Perfect rotors. Just listen to her hum—”
Gage nodded, patient and fond, eyes drifting occasionally back to the room at large.
Back near the doorway, Hoxton finally spotted it.
“Mistletoe,” he breathed, triumphant.
Houston followed his gaze—and froze.
“Oh no,” Houston said weakly.
Hoxton turned, grin wicked. “Oh yes.”
Dallas looked up just in time to see Hoxton take a step forward, mistletoe directly overhead, eyes alight with mischief. The room seemed to slow, attention pulling toward the inevitable like gravity.
“Well?” Hoxton drawled. “It’d be rude to ignore tradition.”
Houston swallowed.
Dallas sighed.
Somewhere behind them, Jimmy let out an anticipatory “Ooooh.”
Christmas lights flickered. Glasses clinked. Vlad laughed too loudly at something Locke said, clearly pleased with himself.
And for one night—just one—the Payday gang wasn’t planning a heist, or watching their backs, or counting the cost.
Hoxton didn’t hesitate.
The moment Houston stepped under the mistletoe—drawn in by gravity, bad decisions, or Hoxton’s hand curling confidently into his sleeve—Hoxton rose onto his toes and kissed him.
It was quick, warm, unmistakable.
Houston froze for half a heartbeat, eyes wide, before melting into it with a soft, surprised sound. Somewhere in the room, someone cheered. Someone else dropped a glass.
Hoxton pulled back just long enough to grin. “Merry Christmas, love.”
Houston looked like he might short-circuit entirely.
And then Hoxton turned.
Dallas had barely finished exhaling before Hoxton was in front of him too, fingers hooking into his collar, tugging him just enough to make a point. Dallas opened his mouth to protest—out of habit more than anything else—and Hoxton kissed him as well.
Slower. Firmer. Familiar.
The room lost its mind.
Sokol whooped. Sydney clapped. Jimmy applauded wildly from the couch, nearly dropping his rolled-up bill in the process.
“HO HO HO,” Jimmy slurred. “CHRISTMAS MIRACLE.”
Dallas pulled back, rubbing a hand over his mouth, equal parts resigned and amused. “You done?” he asked.
Hoxton’s smile softened, just a touch. “For now.”
Houston was still standing under the mistletoe like he’d been struck by lightning.
Across the room, Vlad was thriving.
He hovered close to Locke, laugh loud and genuine, eyes bright with something dangerously close to sincerity. Every time Locke shifted, Vlad adjusted with him, offering snacks, drinks, commentary.
“You see?” Vlad said proudly, gesturing to the room. “Family. Found family. Is very important.”
Locke nodded, a little dazed, but smiling. “You’re… very enthusiastic.”
Vlad placed a hand over his heart. “I care deeply.”
Meanwhile, Duke stood near the fireplace with John Wick, the two of them engaged in what could only be described as weaponized politeness.
“An interesting year,” Duke said, sipping his drink. “Unpredictable.”
John inclined his head. “That’s one way to put it.”
Jimmy leaned halfway over the back of the couch nearby, eyes wide and unfocused. “You two ever done cocaine off a Bible?” he asked cheerfully.
“No,” Duke and John said in unison.
Jimmy shrugged and disappeared again.
On the sofa, Bodhi lounged comfortably, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling, utterly at peace. Perched above him on the armrest like a gargoyle, Jacket crouched silently in a chicken mask, knees tucked in, head tilted at a sharp angle.
He watched Bodhi with the intense focus of a guardian spirit.
No one questioned it.
Near the edge of the room, Gage spoke quietly to Bile, hands moving as he talked, excitement threading through his voice despite himself.
“It’s not just the stopping power,” Gage said, eyes lighting up. “It’s the balance. The way it responds. Like it understands you.”
Bile nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, yeah, I get that. That’s how I feel about my helicopter. She listens.”
Gage smiled, small but real. “Exactly.”
The tree lights flickered softly. Music drifted into something slower, warmer. Laughter rose and fell in waves.
Vlad leaned closer to Locke again, voice lower now, gentler. “You having good Christmas?”
Locke glanced around the room—the chaos, the affection, the impossible collection of criminals and contractors somehow sharing space without bloodshed.
“Yes,” he said honestly. “I think I am.”
Vlad beamed.
Someone rang a bell. No one remembered who.
“Alright,” Bain called, voice fond and amused. “If you animals are done climbing the furniture—gifts. Let’s try not to start a fight.”
That, of course, set expectations dangerously high.
Chains went first, largely because no one wanted to argue with him. He handed out gifts quietly—thoughtful things. New gloves for Wolf. A custom grip wrap for Dallas’ rifle. A heavy hoodie for Hoxton, lined and warm.
When Joy handed Chains his gift—a framed photo of the crew mid-laugh, caught off-guard—he stared at it for a long moment.
“…Thanks,” he said, voice low. He set it somewhere safe.
Wolf’s gifts were blunt and practical. Ammo. Knives. A bottle of something sharp-smelling and probably illegal.
Chains’ gift to Wolf—a set of noise-dampening headphones, industrial-grade—made Wolf blink hard and mutter something gruff in Swedish before clapping Chains on the shoulder.
Hoxton was insufferable about it.
His gifts came wrapped impeccably, tags handwritten. Cigars for Dallas. A scarf for Houston (soft, expensive, intentional). A ridiculous novelty lighter for Jimmy that Jimmy immediately tried to light upside down.
When Hoxton opened his own gifts—new boots from Bonnie, a set of lockpicks from Duke, a jacket Joy had customized—his mouth went soft in that way he hated people seeing.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered. “You lot are trying to make me emotional.”
Dallas gave gifts like he ran jobs: efficiently, no nonsense.
Everyone received something useful. New holsters. Emergency kits. A watch for Houston—simple, sturdy.
Hoxton’s gift from Dallas was heavier. A book. Old, worn. Inscribed.
Hoxton didn’t read it out loud. He just nodded once.
Houston looked uncomfortable handing gifts over, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to participate.
He’d gotten Hoxton a cologne he liked—the same one Dallas wore, though he didn’t say that. Hoxton noticed anyway, smile small and private.
When Houston opened his gifts—snacks, tools, a hoodie two sizes too big—he flushed, overwhelmed.
“…Thanks,” he said quietly, and meant it more than he knew how to express.
No one expected Jacket to give gifts.
He did anyway.
They were small. Precise. A cassette tape for Bodhi. A knife for Chains. A chicken-shaped keychain for Hoxton.
When Jacket received his—a new mask, hand-painted—he went very still. Then he perched back on the couch armrest and held it like it mattered.
Jimmy’s gifts were chaotic.
No wrapping. Just items. Sunglasses. A stolen lighter. Something vibrating ominously.
Duke intercepted several before they could cause harm.
When Jimmy opened his gift—a tailored coat, lined, expensive—he laughed, sharp and surprised. “…You shouldn’t have.”
“I know,” Duke said gently.
Duke’s gifts were elegant. Thoughtful. Personal. Books, cigars, a very ornate mirror for Jimmy to snort coke off of.
He received books, rare tea, and a handwritten card from John Wick that read simply: Thank you for the conversation.
Duke smiled like he’d been knighted.
Joy gave tech. Bonnie gave handmade things.
Together, they gave gifts that felt like care—custom mods, patches, warmth.
When they exchanged gifts with each other, it was quieter. Intimate. Joy’s ears went pink. Bonnie’s grin went soft.
Sokol gave loud gifts. Sydney gave practical ones.
They argued cheerfully the entire time.
Sydney’s gift to Sokol—a new jacket, reinforced—earned a genuine, stunned “Oh.”
Clover’s gifts were jokes wrapped around sincerity.
Her gift from Hoxton—a deck of custom cards—made her whistle. “Damn. You know me.”
Dragan gave liquor. Received something warmer—a scarf, handmade.
He nodded once, appreciative.
Jiro gave small, beautiful things. Careful choices.
His gift—a tea set—earned him deep bows and sincere thanks.
Rust gave sarcasm. Sangres gave laughter and alcohol. Scarface gave expensive nonsense.
They all received something that surprised them—and pretended it didn’t matter.
Their gifts were sweet. Normal. Almost grounding.
The crew accepted them like something fragile and rare.
By the time the last heister gift was opened, the floor was littered with paper, the tree lights blinking lazily, the room humming with warmth.
By the time Bain announced the next round, the Safehouse had shifted into that post-gift haze—half-drunk, half-soft, everyone pretending they weren’t having a good time.
“Contractors,” Bain said. “Try to behave.”
No one did.
Bain didn’t give gifts so much as distribute inevitabilities.
Data drives. Burner phones. A bottle of something aged longer than some of the crew.
When he opened his own gift—a mug that read WORLD’S MOST PATIENT BOSS—he paused.
“…I will treasure this,” he said dryly.
The Elephant’s gifts were expensive, impersonal, and clearly chosen by an assistant.
He received, in return, a framed caricature of himself drawn by Joy.
He stared at it for a long time.
“…I don’t like this,” he said finally.
Joy beamed.
The Dentist gave nothing visible. Just envelopes. Promises. Smiles that didn’t reach his eyes.
Someone—nobody ever admitted who—gave him a lump of coal wrapped in gold foil.
The Dentist laughed. Thinly.
Denisa gave knives. Beautiful ones.
She received a custom leather sheath and nodded in approval. Mutual respect achieved.
Charon’s gift was understated—rare wine, perfectly preserved.
John Wick inclined his head in thanks. Duke watched this exchange like it was a religious experience.
Jiu Feng, Shayu, Gemma, Shade, Beckett & Mac
Their gifts came in neat lines—cultural, careful, polite.
Tea. Art. Silk scarves. Tools.
They received, in turn, things that showed the crew paid attention. Gemma laughed warmly. Shade actually smiled.
Blaine gave weapons. Took weapons.
Simple and neat.
Gage hovered. Awkward. Determined not to draw attention to himself.
When his turn came, he cleared his throat and handed Bile a small box.
Inside: a tiny, meticulously detailed replica helicopter, painted to match her exactly.
Bile froze.
“…You remembered her markings,” he said softly.
Gage shrugged, ears red. “She’s important.”
Bile’s gift, in return, was wrapped carefully: a professional-grade cleaning and maintenance kit, customized, engraved.
“For your partner,” Bile said. “they deserve care.”
Gage swallowed hard and nodded.
No one made fun of them. Not even Jimmy.
Locke didn’t expect much. He gave practical things—documents, intel, a few carefully chosen bottles.
He was halfway through thanking Bain when he noticed Vlad wasn’t sitting.
Vlad was standing.
And he was suddenly very serious.
Vlad stepped forward holding a long, narrow box wrapped in deep red fabric, embroidered with traditional Ukrainian patterns—protective symbols, old ones.
“Ah,” he said, voice thick with accent, suddenly quieter. “Vernon.”
Locke blinked. “Uh—Vlad?”
“This is… tradition,” Vlad continued, cheeks flushed. “In my family. For man you choose. For future.”
The room went silent.
Vlad opened the box.
Inside was a vyshyvanka—a hand-embroidered shirt, stitches dense with meaning. Strength. Protection. Home. Alongside it, a rushnyk, folded carefully, and a small bundle of pysanky, painted eggs wrapped in cloth.
Vlad looked at Locke like the world had narrowed to just him.
“In Ukraine,” he said softly, slipping into Ukrainian before correcting himself, “we give this to say: you are my home now. To bind future. To promise.”
Locke’s face went scarlet.
“…You—Christ,” he muttered, swallowing. “Vlad, that’s—”
Vlad leaned in, voice low. “Я обираю тебе. I choose you.”
Someone audibly gasped.
Locke reached out slowly, reverently touching the embroidery like it might vanish.
“…I don’t even know what to say,” he admitted, accent slipping, voice rough. “That’s… that’s beautiful.”
Vlad grinned, bright and hopeful. “You don’t have to say. You just wear.”
Locke laughed, breathless—and pulled Vlad into a hug so tight it startled both of them.
The Safehouse erupted.
Cheers. Whistles. Someone knocked over a chair.
Vlad absolutely beamed.
By the time the last gift was opened, the tree lights dimmed low, the room warm with laughter and noise and the unmistakable feeling of something rare.
Christmas, somehow, had worked.
And now everyone's favorite bit.
The quiet aftermath of a good Christmas.
The Safehouse doesn’t sleep so much as exhale.
The party thined gradually, like smoke dispersing after fireworks. Coats disappear. Goodbyes are slurred and fond. The kind of night that leaves warmth clinging to the walls.
Jimmy was the first true casualty.
He was face-down in the bathtub, one arm hanging uselessly over the porcelain edge, surrounded by the unmistakable aftermath of overconfidence. Duke kneels beside him, shirtsleeves rolled, dabbing his forehead with a damp cloth like this is a perfectly normal way to end Christmas.
“You’re alive,” Duke said gently, with the patience of a man who has seen worse. “Regrettably.”
Jimmy groans.
In the living room, Joy and Bonnie have claimed the floor, tangled together atop a blanket that may or may not have once been decorative. Bonnie’s laughter is low and warm, Joy’s fingers absently tracing shapes along her arm.
The TV hums softly—It’s a Wonderful Life, black and white light flickering across half-lidded faces.
The sofa has been pulled out into a bed, blankets scavenged from every available surface. Hoxton is wedged comfortably between Houston and Dallas, one of Dallas’s arms draped solid and protective around his middle, Houston’s shoulder pressed close.
Hoxton’s eyes are already closed.
“You asleep?” Houston whispers.
“Mmh,” Hoxton lies, voice thick and drowsy.
Dallas smiles faintly, adjusting the blanket so it covers Hoxton’s hips. He doesn’t say anything—just stays.
Across the room, Jacket sits perched on the arm of a chair like a gargoyle, chicken mask tilted slightly as he and Bodhi share earbuds. The cassette Jacket made for him clicks softly between tracks—something lo-fi, warm, imperfect.
Bodhi exhales smoke toward the ceiling and grins. Jacket taps his foot in time.
Outside, the cold bites clean and sharp.
Gage stands awkwardly, shoulders hunched in his jacket as Vlad’s car idles behind them. He carefully lifts his partner from the back seat—cradling them with practiced reverence—and settles them gently into their wheelchair.
Bile watches with quiet fondness.
“My turn,” Bile says, gesturing broadly as the helicopter lights blink to life. He’s practically vibrating with pride. “Look at her. Isn’t she magnificent?”
Gage’s eyes light up instantly. “She’s beautiful,” he breathes. “You keep her pristine.”
“Always,” Bile says, like a vow.
Back inside, the Dentist—loosely loosened, just tipsy enough to be dangerous—leans against the counter, wine glass dangling between two fingers.
Denisa Horvat stands opposite him, arms crossed, watching him like a predator watching another predator.
“You clean up well,” the Dentist remarks mildly.
Denisa smirks. “You talk too much.”
“And yet,” he smiles, “you haven’t walked away.”
In the garage, laughter and scuffling echo off concrete walls.
Sokol and Sydney are absolutely wrestling, festive sweaters discarded somewhere in the chaos. Sokol is laughing too hard to fight properly; Sydney’s hair is a mess, grin sharp and triumphant.
“Yield!” she demands.
“Never!” Sokol wheezes, promptly losing.
Vlad and Locke sit apart from the noise, near the dimmed tree lights.
Vlad’s voice is low, careful as he explains the meaning behind each stitch, each symbol. Strength. Protection. Commitment. Locke listens—really listens—fingers tracing the embroidery like he’s memorizing it.
“…This one,” Vlad says softly, “is for long life. This one for love that does not break.”
Locke swallows.
“…Vlad,” he says quietly, then clears his throat. “I—hang on.”
He stands, disappears briefly, and returns with a neat wooden box. Polished. Simple. Thoughtful.
“For you,” Locke says, suddenly shy.
Inside are South African gifts chosen with intent: a beaded bracelet in traditional colors, a small carved animal symbolizing guardianship, a carefully folded cloth patterned with Ndebele-inspired geometry. There’s dried rooibos tucked into the corner. Warm. Grounding. Home.
“I wanted you to have… pieces of where I come from,” Locke explains. “Things that mean family. Protection. Continuity.”
Vlad stares.
Then his eyes go glossy.
“…You give me roots,” Vlad says, voice thick with warmth.
Locke laughs softly, emotional, and cups Vlad’s face without even thinking about it.
They sit there like that for a while—tree lights glowing, snow quiet outside, the Safehouse finally still.
The living room slowly became the gravitational center of the Safehouse.
Everyone ends up there eventually—drawn by the low glow of the TV, the warmth of bodies, the quiet promise that nothing bad is going to happen right now.
It’s a Wonderful Life reaches its final stretch.
George Bailey stands surrounded by friends, by love, by proof that his life mattered.
That’s when Hoxton breaks.
It starts with a sharp inhale that he clearly doesn’t mean to make. Dallas feels it immediately—the way Hoxton’s shoulders hitch, the way his face crumples like something fragile finally giving up.
“Hey,” Dallas murmurs, instinctive, grounding. He shifts closer, one hand warm and steady between Hoxton’s shoulder blades. “It’s alright, sweetheart.”
Hoxton shakes his head, tears spilling freely now. “It’s—s’stupid,” he chokes. “He—he didn’t know—”
“I know,” Dallas says softly. “I know.”
On Hoxton’s other side, Houston is also crying, quieter but just as wrecked. He scrubs at his face with his sleeve, voice cracking. “Why—why is everyone being nice to him all at once?”
Dallas lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Yeah. Gets me every time too, kid.”
Around them, they’re not alone.
Bonnie is openly crying into Joy’s shoulder, Joy’s eyes shining as she presses a kiss into Bonnie’s hair. Clover sniffles loudly and makes no attempt to hide it. Sydney mutters something about “sentimental bullshit” while wiping her eyes anyway. Even Sokol has gone suspiciously quiet.
On the far end of the couch, Denisa Horvat and the Dentist sit shoulder to shoulder—hands intertwined, fingers slow and deliberate. The Dentist’s thumb brushes circles into her knuckles, uncharacteristically tender. Denisa allows it, gaze fixed on the screen, jaw tight.
Jimmy is no longer in the bathroom.
He’s slumped against Duke now, head tipped onto Duke’s shoulder, eyes half-lidded and unfocused but calm. Duke has one arm around him, solid and anchoring, the other absently stroking Jimmy’s hair.
“Movie’s nearly done,” Duke murmurs. “You’re safe.”
Jimmy hums faintly, accepting it.
In the back garden, Bile sits inside his helicopter, lights dimmed low. One gloved hand rests reverently against her frame as he whispers softly—things meant only for her. Gratitude. Praise. Love.
Inside, Gage sits with his gun cradled carefully in his lap. He presses a gentle kiss to the cool metal, forehead resting there afterward like a prayer.
“You did good,” he murmurs. “Always do.”
Vlad and Locke share an armchair, legs pressed close, voices low and private. Vlad murmurs something in a soft blend of Ukrainian and Russian; Locke responds quietly, accent warm and grounding. Vlad’s hand never leaves Locke’s sleeve, fingers curled like he’s afraid this might dissolve if he lets go.
On the couch, Jacket has finally gone still.
The chicken mask rests awkwardly against Bodhi’s shoulder, Jacket fully asleep, weight heavy and trusting. Bodhi smiles down at him, careful not to move, one earbud still dangling uselessly.
Somewhere deeper in the Safehouse, away from the glow and the noise—
Chains and Wolf are curled together in Wolf’s bed.
No words. No bravado. Just shared warmth in the soft dark. Wolf’s arm draped over Chains’ chest, Chains’ breathing slow and steady beneath it.
Back in the living room, the bells ring on-screen.
Everyone cheers.
Hoxton sobs harder.
Dallas holds him like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like this—this right here—is exactly where they’re meant to be.
