Bass and Ruby's Christmas

Ruby pushes away the horrific Christmas sweater. "I don’t want it, you wear it. I’m happy with the turtleneck."

"Even if it makes you look like a beatnik?" Bastion spreads the sweater on his lap, and glowers over the pink-and-red patterns of trees and crosses. "Come on, at least look like a beatnik that isn’t planning to murder something."

"Didn’t your mom give you that…thing? Like, yesterday?"

"Believe me, Ruby, I tried to give it back to her." He sets the sweater down on the couch, where both cats immediately declare it their sleeping spot. "Taking it at least made her leave my apartment, and thank God for that, she wouldn’t quit complaining about the computer being in the front room."

"Bass, somehow, I doubt it’ll ever be normal to have a computer in your front room." She shrugs a bit, which is difficult to discern, given the way the bulky black turtleneck manages to absorb most of her movement.

"I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Ruby. It’s 1985. They show TV commercials about the things nowadays. Someone will catch on to the idea eventually." Bass looks at the two cats. The big, fluffy one has all but dominated the sweater, while the tiny Siamese has settled for standing on top of the fluffy one instead, being unable to gain territorial control over the pink-and-red monstrosity. "Well, someone likes it."

"You think your mom’s gonna be okay with that thing being stuffed into the bottom of a kitty bed all year?"

"She can deal with it," says Bass as he gives the Siamese a quick stroke behind the ears. "Knowing these two, it’s gonna be a little pile of fluff by New Years. Anyway, I opened the last two, you get the next."

Ruby takes the smallest of the presents, a misshapen spheroid just a bit larger than her fist. "Bastion, if this winds up being just another random thing you got off your apartment floor, I swear to God I will hit you."

Bastion, having ignored the threat of violence, thinks a bit on it. "Well, I don’t remember which one that one is, so I can’t really make any guarantees."

"Your funeral, buddy." She deftly eviscerates the wrapping paper – just old pages from Bastion’s notebook, stuck together with masking tape – and unearths the prize within. "It’s…a football?"

"Yeah, uh...you like sports, right? I can never remember."

"It’s close enough to rugby, I guess." She gives the mini-football a lazy toss, but just barely fails to catch it. Despite bouncing in their direction, the two cats ignore it.

"You’re welcome," says Bastion as he looks at the pile of torn paper on the floor, now playing host to a feline territorial squabble. Ruby takes another gift from the pile next to her miniature tree, about the size of a hardcover novel, which she hands over without a word. Bastion accepts it and passes it over to Mama, who is still gazing out the window and generally ignoring the two.

Ruby slaps Bastion’s wrist. "No, you dumbass, that’s for you."

"Wait, what? I thought you said you didn't have a lot for me tonight."

"Look, uh…" Having not expected that the spotlight would be put back on her so quickly, Ruby breaks eye contact and turns away, covering her face with a hand. "That thing’s the real reason you’re here. I can’t really tell you why until you know what it is, so...I guess...Jesus, just open it already."

Bastion hesitates and looks at the box. It’s not heavy, but it’s about as big as a student’s notebook. It is clad in plain brown paper, with a single, shyly penciled tag. "For Bass."

"You gonna rip that open, or am I gonna have to rip you open?"

"Alright, alright." Bastion finally pulls it apart, revealing a legal binder. "I’m…not sure what this is."

"Oh, for fuck’s sake, what are you, eight? Open it."

Bastion unsnaps the cover of the portfolio and finds within it a few official-looking sheets of paper, stapled together, the front page of which reads Terms of Employment. "Ruby, what…"

"If I hear ‘what’ outta you one more God-damn time…"

"…Isn’t there some legal crap you have to go through before you..."

"…will punch you in the motherfucking gums…"

"Sta’ zitto!" cries an exasperated Mama Travaglia. Bastion, Ruby, and the two cats all cease their squabbling. "Let her talk," she tells Bastion with an angry glare, slowly enough to make clear through her accent.

"Grazie," Ruby says, then turns back to Bass. "I got tired of having to pay you under the table for all the crap I have you doing at the office, and I know you’re in a tough spot, so…I guess you’re now an employee of the Pacific Daily News."

"But I wanted to be a private eye," whines Bastion. Ruby sticks a finger over his mouth to shush him.

"Well, tough. Someone has different plans for you."

Bastion gives the paper a second read. The job title might read Assistant to Associate Junior Editor, but the paycheck is nothing to sneeze at. It's certainly more money per month than the last few cases have amounted to. "Y'know, I think this'll work."

"It'll work? Come on, at least give me a little credit."

"The Editor in Chief's okay with this?"

"Yup. And he apologized for having you escorted out of my office that one time."

"I'd like to hear that from him myself."

"Well, don't fuck this up, and you might get your wish."