Standard disclaimers apply.
Packing Tape
by Lise
"You'll go home for Christmas... oh, you can count on me..."
"Whatcha doing, Cable?"
"Absolutely nothing, Sam." And what an understatement.
Sam leaves. Nate chuckles, hums, continues singing. There are brown boxes of different sizes sitting all around him on the floor -- almost a dozen in total. He has a heavy-duty roll of tape in his hand, the kind with threads all through the length of it. He doesn't want anything getting out of the boxes, oh no. Not at all.
Each one is corrogated, and double thicknesses. Must make sure that all the packages are safe and sound. And that nothing drips out.
Nate shoves the last one under the tree, and beams. He needs wrapping paper, and goes on a hunt for it. The other X-men were surprised to see him here; they didn't know what brought him, the day before Christmas in an old pickup truck and a jolly, happy, soul. He came out of nowhere.
See, it's all in the wrapping.
He finds a roll of gaudy paper, with little Santas and elves dancing around on a bright green background. He mutters, "This'll do. Nothing's too good for my baby, you know."
Sitting back down on the carpet, he adds, "Well, or your baby. Your-- cat. That's who you were sharing the apartment with, weren't you? Just a lonely cat. And a catfood bowl."
He chuckles, wrapping the presents with care. "What a stupid hideout."
The boxes don't have an answer. It's not very surprising. Though one might hold some vocal chords, the mouth they were attached to is hidden under different layers of cardboard and string.
And lots and lots of paper.
The lights on the tree flicker. Nate sings to himself.
Sam walks by again, and stops to marvel at the sight of his former mentor sitting under the Christmas tree like a little kid and beaming over his presents. "What are you doing, sir?"
He mutters, "Making presents of my twin."
"Hmm?"
He straightens, back straight, and smiles again. The job's done. "Making presents for my twin."
A blank stare. Not unsurprising. He picks up the boxes, telekinetically floating them one by one out the door behind them. They land with a soft *bump* in the bed of the truck idling out the door.
Sam calls from the doorway, "You leaving already, sir?"
He turns the radio on -- Christmas songs. "No, son. Just-- have a few packages to be mailed."