Fairytale of New York

by the_chaotic_panda

Summary:

Pete is an elf. Patrick is a single dad. Both are in sore need of a Christmas miracle.

Notes:

• For SnitchesAndTalkers.

Merry Christmas my good bitches, I have arrived. I wrote a lot of this last year, so if there's any bits where you think 'this is very awful. The author is clearly just hammering the keyboard with her fists' then that was last year me. This year me is brilliant and perfect.

Oh, and you know who else is brilliant and perfect? That's right! It's @snitchesandtalkers, who has spent the whole year cheerleading, encouraging and threatening me into writing things. And she also writes things! Go read her things, they're really very good. Here's to another year of downright idiocy.

 Pete leans against the pillar and folds his silken arms. Around him, families screech at each other, scrabbling for the last Lego castle, the biggest fluffy teddy bear on the shelf. 

They always pick the most insufferable places to meet - there's supposedly magic in the air, whatever that's supposed to mean. The Christmas spirit died under the feet of consumerism long ago. 

A plastic doll is fought over, a poster is ripped in half by two screaming toddlers. They don't notice Pete - no-one ever does. He wonders which of these undeserving families he'll be assigned to this year - perhaps the mother prying her daughter's hands from a remote-control truck, or the father wrestling his two squabbling sons apart. He hopes, by some Christmas miracle, he might end up with the tired teenager behind the till, or the scared-looking elderly couple who picked the wrong afternoon to pick out gifts. 

Across the store, a man dressed as a poor representation of an elf is taking photographs with greedy, grinning children clutching toys bigger than their own heads whilst parents check their watches. The man has pointed plastic ears stuck sloppily to the sides of his head and red boots that curl at the toes, a red and green hat perched on his head. It's mildly offensive. 

The clock reads ten past four - the courier is late. Pete bets it's Gabriel, the layabout. He'll no doubt be sentenced to several hours of this earthly hell before his insufferable assignment is revealed. 

A young boy shoves past him, his snow-coated boots catching the hem of Pete's robes. Pete flinches, watching the boy stumble but still manage clamp his chubby hands around the last remaining Minecraft sword. Pete has no idea why anyone might want children; they seem repulsive, greedy, messy things. He wrinkles his nose. 

He watches the anarchy until it begins to subside, bratty kids shepherded by brattier parents out of the doors and away from Pete's rising temper. He hopes whoever they're assigned to has a strong stomach. 

The store is left in ruin - empty shelves and toys littering the floor, wet footprints sunk into the carpets. Pete searches for Gabe's awkward form, but is met only with the stragglers - the stray families meandering around godforsaken aisles and consoling crying children. The elf-man has packed up his bags and hurries towards the door, his plastic ears clutched in his hand. 

Pete breathes a slow sigh, glancing at the clock once more. He wants this over with - if he must be burdened with the spreading of so-called joy, he'd at least like to be punctual about it. Gabe better have something good for him. Last year's couple didn't appreciate him in the slightest. 

"Uh - excuse me," a voice asks, "are you still doing photos?" 

Pete looks to his left - a man is staring directly at him, a small, portly, bespectacled man with a baby strapped to his chest and a child clutching each of his hands. Pete blinks. "Are - are you talking to me?" 

The man laughs slightly, his gaze flicking over Pete's robes and lingering on his pointed ears. "Yeah - uh, the sign said there was an elf meeting? I know we're a little late, but..."  

Pete's heart sinks. "You can see me," he says flatly. Of course. Another year, another overfed, undersatisified family. The children watch Pete with wide eyes. 

"Of course I can see you," the man says, a confused smile on his face. "Are you still doing photos?" 

With an exasperated sigh, Pete narrows his eyes. "No. No, I'm not still doing photos. If you'd like presents, you'll have to buy them," he says acidly, gesturing to the barren shelves. 

The man's eyebrows rise and his mouth twitches. Pete's not some common human impersonation - he brushes an elegantly curled dread behind his ear and puts his nose in the air. 

"Daddy?" one of the children says quietly, tugging on her father's arm. The man sighs as he looks down at her, then lets go of her hand and digs into his pocket.

Pete shuffles back as the man steps towards him - he's been touched by far too many humans this afternoon, and this one looks far from well-groomed. "Look," the man says quietly, offering Pete a fistful of bills, "they don't want the gifts, just give them a picture, I promised them that much. Please?" 

The baby at the man's chest blinks at Pete. Pete glares at it. 

Rolling his eyes, Pete pushes the man's money back to him. "Fine," he growls, "one photo."  

The man thanks him and beckons his kids forward - there's a boy and a girl, the latter toddling towards Pete with arms wide. Pete does his best not to look horrified. 

 "That's it, Finn, get in close," the man says to the boy, who casts a cautious glance up at Pete. Pete lets out a very deliberate sigh, but puts his arm around the boy and lets the girl hug his legs. She'd better not stain his robes. "Oh! Could you take Ava too?" 

Pete's barely process what the man might mean before he's lifting the baby out of his pouch and thrusting it towards Pete, who can do nothing but clutch it and stare. It waves an arm at him - his mouth flaps. 

The man pushes his glasses up his nose and takes his phone from his pocket, stepping from side to side until he deems the angle perfect. Pete wishes he'd get on with it. 

"Alright - say, Merry Christmas! " 

"Merry Christmas," Pete says, and the baby gurgles, a bubble of saliva oozing from its mouth. He winces. 

"I could take one of all of you if you'd like, sir?" one of the store assistants pipes up. Why doesn't the man just alert the whole of New York to his existence? Pete wishes for death. The saliva bubble bursts and something wet hits Pete's face. 

"Sure! That'd be awesome, thanks!" the man says brightly, handing over his phone and hurrying to get in position. He stands between Pete and the girl, his hand squeezing Pete's shoulder and his belly nudging Pete's hip. His grin is audible. 

With yet another begrudged Merry Christmas , Pete finally unpins his smile and shoves the babbling baby back towards its equally irritating father. 

"Uh - if you could just," the man says, gesturing to the pouch. "Yeah, just lift her right in." 

Once he's fed the baby's pudgy legs through the holes, Pete's free, shoving the kid's hands from his robes and stepping away as if to cleanse himself of the whole experience. The family rush to peer at the pictures, their faces lighting as they look. Pete maintains his disapproving frown with some effort.  

"Thanks, man," the man says again, and then "Merry Christmas. Nice costume, by the way." 

Pete bites his lip to keep himself from fuming. It's not a costume, for Santa's sake, they're fine ceremonial robes, complete with ornate jewellery, the likes of which no human could ever buy. He scowls after the family until they meander out of sight. Then, he spots a flash of silver in the corner of his eye. 

Gabe has a hysterical grin on his face as he saunters towards Pete - he wears his usual floor-length gown, the sleeves engulfing his skinny arms and a woven belt strung around his middle. His hair is pinned back with a network of jewels and brooches, and a garish gold necklace adorns his throat. Pete writes his distaste into a raised eyebrow. 

"I see you've met your assignment," Gabe smirks, and Pete's heart sinks further into his boots. He'd been hoping it was some kind of mistake, perhaps the man had looked too hard, perhaps he'd been searching for an elf so thoroughly that he'd found one, but evidently, fortune has spat on Pete yet again. "Can I get a picture too?" 

"Shut up," Pete snaps, glaring as Gabe giggles. "You're late." 

"Fashionably," Gabe says, "anyway, it was chaos in here earlier. I stayed away." 

"I know. I didn't," Pete growls. "Now, let's get this over with. Who is he?" 

Gabe coughs, his business face dropping over his smile. He takes a scroll from his pocket and unravels it, squinting at the ornate ink. "Patrick Stump. Thirty four years old, father of three, recently divorced. Originally from Chicago - now lives here in Manhattan." 

"Good guy?" Pete asks sceptically.

"Yeah," Gabe nods, "from what we've observed, he needs this more than most. Three kids is a lot." 

"One kid is a lot," Pete remarks, "why he saw fit to have three, no amount of Christmas spirit will tell me." 

"They're good kids," Gabe shrugs, "the two older ones. It's a little early to classify the baby. Anyway," he hands Pete the scrolls and brushes his long hair over his shoulder. "Here's your forms. Try not to get spotted again, and I'll see you Christmas day, I guess." 

With a snap of his fingers, he vanishes. Pete rolls his eyes - couriers have all the best perks. Pete's stuck with sneaking around for the next month, hiding under desks and around corners like some common thief. He would never admit that he enjoys it immensely; he simply scowls in Gabe's direction and shoves the scroll in his satchel.

It's not that Pete hates Christmas - far from it. He rather loves the twinkle of lights through the trees of Central Park, the smiles on the faces of the humans, the fact that he can wear his seasonal robes and waltz among the crowds with ease. But the glowing billboards eclipse the lights, the arguments drown out the smiles and the fact that Pete must stuff himself into a stranger's house for a month rather negates his ease of movement elsewhere.

But Pete supposes he likes the challenge. Mr. Stump's apartment block is a run down place, a strange smell washing through the air and the trash cans overflowing into the street. Pete wrinkles his nose and gingerly lifts the hem of his robes, picking his way down the street until the sign on the concrete matches the ink on the page. 

He won't be seen - humans have a habit of ignoring that which is right in front of them - but he still feels the need to hide as he hears a noise behind him, a voice from afar, an airplane overhead. He shivers in his furs - the sooner he gets this over with, the better. He doesn't know the code for Stump's block, but he's got enough magic in him that the beaten glass door pops open as he pushes at it and he's able to slip inside.  

The staircase smells of urine and damp - Pete already hates it here. Tomorrow, perhaps, he'll make an appointment with Mother Claus and arrange to be transferred. He's done his bit as a Tiding Elf - it's high time for a change of role. He'd prefer to be a courier; he'd love to order people about and bugger off for an early holiday. Instead, he's stuck with yet another whining family. Merry Christmas indeed. 

He climbs the stairs until he reaches the correct door, checking it against his notes. Number thirteen. This doesn't bode well. 

The door is locked, and Pete's all but exhausted his magic, so he has to make do with knocking - one loud rap should be enough to bring Mr. Stump to the door. He ducks to one side as the door swings open and the man pokes his funny bespectacled face out. Mr. Stump doesn't see a thing. 

Pete darts inside before the door swings shut, careful not to touch the man or stay in his line of sight for too long. He walks away, disappearing into another room and leaving Pete in the cluttered hallway. Pete's reluctant to touch anything. 

Nevertheless, he wipes his boots on the doormat and looks around. They've done their best with it, at least - there's tinsel stuck around the edge of the small dresser, a Father Christmas doll sitting behind a bowl full of keys. He removes his boots, carrying them in his hand rather than risk losing them in the pile of mismatched shoes by the door. 

A pleasant smell emanates from the room beyond, and Pete follows it, peering around the doorway and into the small space that is the family's kitchen and lounge. Mr. Stump has his back to Pete, chopping carrots on the board in front of him and throwing them into a pan of boiling water. 

The largest child is curled on the couch, headphones blocking his ears and an iPod clutched in his hand. Pete rolls his eyes - he can already tell what kind of children Mr. Stump has raised. The other is attempting to pull the head from her Barbie doll, an operating table set up next to her. 

"Daddy," she asks, her gaze sliding over Pete as she looks towards her father. "Can I use a knife?" 

"No," Stump says automatically, barely looking up. 

"Can I use a fork?" 

"No." 

"What about a spoon?" 

"A spoon? What do you need a spoon for?" Stump asks, casting a strange look towards the girl. 

"Scooping the brains out," she says brightly. Stump doesn't look remotely surprised. 

"Uh - have one of Ava’s." He rummages through a drawer until he finds a purple plastic spoon and slides it along the kitchen table. It's not a messy space, not quite - the table is clear, the floor is visible, yet the neatness is fraying at the edges - cupboards bulge open, stacks of paper reach toppling point. It's a picture of someone playing at coping. 

Pete places his things under the small Christmas tree in the corner of the room. He's essentially a lodger - a secret, well-dressed lodger who brings joy in place of payment. He unravels the scroll and stares at it once again - the family's evaluation form is at the end of the page, whether the children have been naughty or nice, what kind of Christmas miracle they deserve, if any. He sighs at it - for now, he simply needs a place to sleep. 

There's only two bedrooms - the two older children share a larger room, their beds at either end, and Mr. Stump and the baby have taken the smaller room. Pete wonders what they'll do when the baby needs a room of its own - he supposes Stump is wondering, too. It seems Pete will be on the couch. He waves goodbye to an ache-free neck. 

The family eat dinner in a flurry of noise and chatter - the boy has finally taken his headphones out and is helping shove some kind of green gunk into the baby's mouth. Mr. Stump is too preoccupied with the tomatoey mess the girl is making to notice the growing pool of mashed apple on his baby's face. Pete sits himself down in the armchair to watch the disaster unfold. 

He notes in his book that the boy looks and acts much like his father - they have the same honey-brown hair, the same blue eyes, the same look of panic as sauce begins to take over the table. The girl seems scattier, her bright blonde hair pulled into two fluffy pigtails and her grin filled with more pasta than teeth. The baby has a tuft of the same blonde hair over which she's smearing apple. 

"She's not eating it!" the boy protests as the baby grabs the spoon from him with her chubby fist. "She's just making a mess!" 

"It's alright, eat your dinner, I'll make sure she's - God, Soph, just eat it, it's not a toy," Stump says, pushing carrots back onto his daughter's plate with a squeal of cutlery. Pete's grateful that he never sought to have children. They seem incapable of obeying orders. 

Pete’s evening consists mostly of watching Mr. Stump stumble around his apartment in search of his own children, the wailing of the baby whenever he happens to leave its line of sight, and the emergence or more bathroom-related calamities than Pete thought possible. Eventually, the family all end up in the lounge, Pete relegated to the floor as Stump slumps into the armchair and flicks blindly through the channels, the baby gargling on a brightly coloured mat at his feet. 

Sitting beside the TV, Pete watches them interact - the girl furiously colouring in, the boy curled under a blanket and the baby - well, the baby taking far too much interest in the elf in front of her. 

Mr. Stump looks straight through Pete and so do the children, as the little magic elves possess promises; the baby, however, is staring straight at Pete’s face. Pete stares back, motionless. There was nothing about this in his training. The baby blinks. Its eyes are far too big for its head. 

Stuffing the strange rubber shape it’s been chewing into its mouth, the baby begins to advance, falling on its belly and shuffling clumsily in Pete’s direction. Pete pushes himself along the wall, eyeing its reaching hands and murderous gaze, wondering what might happen if this creature were to touch him, to expose him to the humans - until Stump leans from his chair and scoops the baby off the floor and away from Pete. 

Pete breathes out. “Where are you going?” Stump says in a gooey voice, “where? Are you going to look at the Christmas tree? Yes, it’s pretty isn’t it? Yes it is.” 

Pete rolls his eyes. The baby stares at him. He doesn’t trust it one bit. 

The kids are eventually shepherded to bed - the baby is fed and placed in its crib where it can’t blow Pete’s cover, and the older children each get a story of their choosing. Stump gives each character a different voice, throwing himself into the role before his voice tires and he turns the bedside lamps off. Pete watches from the doorway as he kisses each of them goodnight, tucking the covers around them and padding softly out of the room. 

Pete follows him back to the lounge, eyeing him as he pours himself a whiskey and stretches out on the sofa, his laptop balanced on his belly. Pete has his notebook at the ready - he’s had a stinker or two in the past, families that were torn apart by addiction, men and women ruled by what Stump’s drinking - but one is all he has and he sips at it appreciatively. 

His hands tap sporadically over the keyboard, words filling the blank screen as the evening drags on. He types until his eyes begin to droop and his fingers slow - then the baby begins to wail through the monitor and he stirs from his stupor. 

Pete follows him to the baby’s room and leans against the doorframe, watching the man lift his screaming child and cuddle her close. 

“Hey, hey,” Stump whispers, “it’s alright, daddy’s here now.” He sits on the bed and presses the milk bottle to the baby’s lips, relaxing as she latches on and her cries turn to soft snuffling noises. “There you go, that’s better isn’t it?” 

The baby doesn’t reply, its eyes closing and its hands curling around the bottle. Stump looks seconds away from sleep himself, but manages to remain upright until the baby is finished. He presses a kiss to its fluffy round head and places it back in the cot. 

Pete feels tired just looking at him, trailing after him as he completes minute yet essential tasks, locking the doors and checking on the children and brushing his teeth. Pete averts his eyes as the man changes into his pyjamas - Pete’s job is to be nosey, not lecherous, and quite frankly Pete would rather swallow a toad than watch Stump manoeuvre his plump frame into far less flattering clothing. 

The relief is palpable when the man finally climbs into bed, placing his glasses on the bedside table and rubbing his eyes. He’s falling asleep even as he reaches for the lamp, and Pete’s fairly sure he loses consciousness before his head has hit the pillow. 

Pete tries not to think about the residual warmth in the couch underneath him as he curls up - he rests his head on a cushion and away from Stump’s ass print, letting his eyes fall shut though his mind still buzzes with first impressions. It seems that Gabe was right - they’re okay, as families go. He shifts under his cloak, uncomfortable but remembering that this is all part of the experience, living as the humans do, understanding them as equals. Pete still has doubts about that baby. 

-

And he’s right to. At quarter past two, it begins to scream, jolting Pete from his slumber and nearly toppling him off the couch. He groans, listens to the shuffle of Mr. Stump across the room, breathes out when the noise stops and the slurping begins. Pete presses a pillow over his ear and shifts where he lays - he supposes he'll have to get used to this. 

Their natural alarm clock goes off once more at quarter to six, and this time, Pete decides he'd better do his job and drags himself into a sitting position. He stares down at his crumpled robes, swinging his legs to the floor and rubbing a hand over his face as tiny footsteps sound from the hallway. 

The girl appears in the lounge doorway, and for a split second, she seems to see Pete, her gaze catching with his own before she toddles towards him and sits herself in the armchair, her feet swinging. Her father follows a few seconds after, the baby in his arms and the boy by his side. 

"She woke me up again, daddy," the boy whines, following Mr. Stump to the kitchen table, "I couldn't get back to sleep." 

"I know, Finn, I'm sorry," Stump sighs, "she'll get better, I promise. You were like this too, once." 

"Can we eat with TV?" the girl shouts, already scrambling for the remote as her brother does the same. Far too late, Pete realises he's sitting on it, and can only think to throw it to the floor before they both end up on top of him.

 The children stare for a few seconds, and Pete stills, wondering if the game is up, and what on earth might happen if it is - but they simply lunge for it once more, shoving at each other's chests and pulling each other's hair before the girl bites down on Finn's hand and he reels back with a cry of pain. 

"She bit me! Dad! She bit me, that's not fair!" he yells, glaring at her as she jumps back in the armchair and giggles maniacally. 

Stump looks between the baby waving its arms around in the high chair and the boy taking a running kick at his sister and chooses the latter - he catches the boy before he can break any bones and snatches the remote from the girl with the other hand. Pete's mildly impressed. 

"No biting!" he snaps, "And no - whatever you were gonna do. Stop fighting, or no-one watches TV, okay?" 

Finn makes a disgruntled noise but flops down next to Pete on the couch, glaring as his father points the remote at the screen. "There. Spongebob, you like that, right?" 

"It's for little kids!" Finn protests, "I wanna watch Ninja Turtles!" 

"Well, this is what's on, so watch it or don't," Patrick says, walking away with the remote still clasped in his hand. The boy huffs and slumps into the arm of the couch. "What d'you want for breakfast?" 

"Pancakes!" the girl shouts, and Stump laughs. 

"Try again," he says. 

"Croissants?" 

"One more time." 

"Toast?" 

"Ah, toast I can do," he says brightly, "although we've run out of Nutella." 

A chorus of groans sound from around Pete. "Did you buy anything nice?" Finn groans, and Pete makes a mental note that he doesn't like this kid's attitude. 

"Let's see..." Stump hums, "you can have - mushrooms on toast? Buttered sprouts? A beetroot sandwich?" The kids make faces at each other as Stump laughs. "Or - I got peanut butter?" 

Their expressions brighten and they shout their approval at their father, then turn their eyes back to the TV. 

Once the kids are fed and Stump's finally got some food down himself, the man announces that they're off to the town, throwing the kids their jackets and dragging them all out of the door, the baby strapped tight to his chest. It seems to take hours for them to leave - Pete would like to use the bathroom, to get some breakfast himself, but then someone's forgotten their shoes and another needs to bring a certain cuddly rabbit and the baby begins to wail for no reason whatsoever. By the time they leave, Pete's debating quitting his job altogether - it's hardly worth the hassle. 

-

While the house is blissfully quiet, Pete takes some time to snoop around a little. 

The boy has a diary that he writes in - his handwriting is small, scrawled, little pictures drawn on a few of the pages. One looks familiar - it's Pete, tiara and all, with the baby in his arms and the family surrounding him. He's got a big grin on his face that Pete's not sure is entirely accurate, but it brings light to Pete's eyes and he feels a new fondness for the boy. 

The girl - Sophia, he's heard Stump call her - is a barely contained mess. The floor is clear, but her table is spilling with scribbled drawings and the limbs of unfortunate Barbie dolls. She seems to have a fascination for marine life, her bed covered in various fluffy fish and a book of undersea creatures tucked under her pillow. 

Mr. Stump's room is relatively bare - he owns perhaps three outfits and five pairs of identical black jeans. His bedside cabinet contains a well-thumbed copy of The Star Wars Archives and an untouched copy of Great Expectations, as well as a folder of documents, a pack of lens wipes and a tube of lubricant. Pete raises an eyebrow. 

His suspicions are confirmed when he roots through Stump's laptop and finds an archive of porn, a large percentage of which is gay. Pete wonders if Stump's wife had the same realisation some months ago, then abruptly stops thinking about it. Dwelling on human sex habits is not in his job description. 

Stump writes for a living - nothing good, Pete concludes, mostly children's textbooks and the odd article. He also has a keen interest in music, and his laptop is stuffed with it. His Amazon wish-list contains a record player and a Bowie vinyl. Pete rather wishes he could grant physical gifts instead of luck - his job would be far easier. 

-

"What's that face?" Stump splutters later that afternoon as he and his family stare at whatever's on his phone, "Is that a smile? Or - what? You look like you're in pain!"

"I was saying Merry Christmas!" Sophia protests, grabbing for the phone. Her dad holds it out of reach. "Ava looks silly too!" 

"Ava always looks silly," Stump says, placing a kiss to the head of the baby in his lap. "Yes you do! You do look silly, don't you!" 

"Bla!" Ava shouts, her big eyes blinking at the screen, "aah!" 

"Yeah, look, that's you," Stump says, pointing, "you met an elf! A real life elf." 

Pete scowls at his insincerity, folding his arms and sinking further into the armchair. He is a real life elf. 

Ava stares, poking at the phone with chubby fingers. "Aa," she says, then looks directly at Pete. "Aah!" 

Pete remains still - Stump didn't take any notice before, he has no reason to now. The baby raises both her arms and grabs for Pete, gargling nonsense. 

“What is it, Ave,” Stump asks, peering in the direction of her fingers. His gaze hovers somewhere near Pete’s torso. “What do you want?” 

“Ab! Agh!” she says, wriggling in her father’s grasp. Stump gives her a strange look, then lifts her gently to the floor. She immediately begins to scramble in Pete’s direction. Pete freezes in his seat. 

Moving is a risk - they may notice the shifts in the furniture, the sound of Pete’s footsteps. Staying put is also a risk - when Ava inevitably grabs at the hem of his robes, even their human eyes will see that something is there. And once they start looking, Pete will have nowhere to hide. He pulls his feet up onto the chair. 

The family watch with curiosity as the baby crawls with determination across the lounge carpet. Sophia takes to crawling alongside her, squinting around at the room as if to scour it for elves. When Ava’s hand reaches for the fine woven silk of his gown, Pete’s panic gets the better of him. 

He leaps from the chair, darting towards the door, towards safety - but his foot catches on the leg of the coffee table and sends him hurtling to the floor. He can’t help his cry of pain nor his squeak of fear as he feels a tiny hand clamp around his foot. The baby has won. 

She giggles as he turns to look at her, her devilish eyes lighting and her sausage-like fingers pulling on his robe. “Ah!” she says, and Pete supposes it’s part of her satanic victory ritual. 

The rest of the family resemble the punchline of some comedic sketch - they each have the same look of shock across their faces, blinking stupidly at Pete as he sits himself up and brushes off his knees. Pete pushes the baby’s hands away and waits patiently for them to compose themselves. 

“Who are you?” the girl finally pipes up, taking a small step backwards. Stump’s hand curls around her shoulder - the boy clings to his father’s side. 

Pete sighs. The game is up - he supposes a transfer is guaranteed, now. Perhaps a firing. He’s not familiar with the protocol in this situation. “My name is Pete. I’m your elf,” he says. Stump blinks. 

“You’re - our elf?” 

Pete nods. “Your Christmas elf.” 

“But - you just appeared out of nowhere!” the girl says. Pete nods. 

“You’re not supposed to see me. But - now you have, so - yeah. I guess I should leave.” 

“Hey - no,” Stump says, “stay - stay right there and, uh, don’t move.” He brandishes the remote control with laughable vigour. “Don’t touch my daughter.” 

Pete scoffs, raising his hands. “Gladly,” he says, shifting his feet away from her groping hands. 

“Ava,” Stump calls, as if the baby’s head is filled with anything other than cotton wool, “stay away from him, uh - alright, I’m gonna grab my daughter, and you’re gonna stay right there or - or there’ll be consequences.” 

He takes a few steps forward and scoops the baby off the ground, holding her to his chest with one arm and pointing the remote at Pete with the other as if it might laser Pete to death. Pete sighs once more. 

“Look, I’m not going to hurt you. I’ve no weapons. I’m an elf. That’s - sort of all there is to it.” 

“He has got pointy ears, daddy,” Sophia points out. Pete’s beginning to think that she’s the only member of the family with any sense. “Are you magic?” 

“A little,” Pete shrugs. 

“Do a trick,” she demands. 

Pete points towards the TV and the screen lights up. The way Stump gawks is quite amusing. 

“How did you get in,” Stump says, and if he’s trying to be intimidating, all five foot four of him is failing miserably. “What do you want?”

“Magic and to do my job,” Pete states. The baby waves a hand at him and lets drool dribble from her mouth. 

“I - I don’t believe you,” Stump tries, but he doesn’t look like he believes himself and his hand is shaking. Pete decides to take pity on him. 

“Alright, okay. Let’s all just sit down, and I’ll explain, alright?” Pete says, gesturing to the couch. “I promise you, if I wanted to hurt you I would have done so already, okay?” 

This doesn’t seem to reassure Stump quite as much as Pete hoped, but nevertheless, he sits down, pushing the children behind him and cradling the baby tight. “I’ll - I’ll ask again. What do you want?” 

“He’s one of Santa’s elves!” Sophia says, as if it’s obvious, which it is. Her face is alight with wonder. “Are you gonna bring presents?”

Pete shrugs. “Sort of, yeah,” he says, “but I’m mostly here to see if you’ve been naughty or nice.” 

“But - that stuff isn’t real,” Stump blurts. Sophia glares at him. 

“Don’t be silly, daddy,” she says, “he’s our elf!” 

Pete nods. Stump stares. Pete’s beginning to grow tired of the look of bewilderment on his face. “It is real. So - yeah. I’m an elf.” Pete pushes back his hair and shows his ears. “See? Also - I’m not some homeless crackhead, these are diamonds,” he says proudly, pointing to the stones around his neck. “Happy now?” 

“Well - not really, no,” Stump says, his thin brows creasing into a frown. “You’re a stranger - in - in my house. You can’t be here.” 

“I’ve been here since yesterday,” Pete says flatly. “As I said, if I was going to do any damage, I would have done it already. I’ve had ample opportunity.” 

“I - I should call the police,” Patrick says, already reaching for his phone, “I - you need to leave.” 

“And what are you going to tell them? That there’s an elf in your lounge?” Pete asks lightly. “Look - I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do right now, usually humans aren’t supposed to see me, but - okay, you know what, I will leave.” His cover is blown, he’s probably breaking a plethora of rules, and he has exactly no idea what to do next. 

“I think that’s best,” Stump says, watching Pete as he stands and grabs his bag from the floor.

“Bye, I guess,” Pete says. He leaves the room and makes for the front door. No-one follows him, not even the baby. 

-

The afternoon is beginning to darken as he steps out into fresh air in search of a payphone. He has a small allowance of dollars in case he finds himself starved of food or shelter, and he hopes that allowance will extend to his mistakes. He finds one at the end of the street, battered and grimy but still, thankfully, operational. 

“Can I speak to Mother Claus,” Pete sighs after he’s gone through the layers of security they’ve recently put in place. “It’s Wentz. Pete.” 

“She’s busy right now,” the operator drawls, “can I take a message, or would you like to make an appointment?” 

“Uh - look, is Gabe there? Gabriel, the courier.” 

“I’ll just put you on hold,” she says, and Pete smacks his forehead against the wall as some stupid high-pitched version of Jingle Bells begins to play. 

“What’s up,” Gabe’s voice says after three excruciating verses. 

“They saw me,” Pete hisses, “they saw me, Gabe, that damned baby, it could see me, it ratted me out, what do I do now?!” 

“Hey, whoa,” Gabe says, “no worries. Just - carry on.” 

“What?” Pete spits, “ Carry on ?!” 

“Yeah,” Gabe says, like it’s nothing, “you can still do the job, right? They’ll let you stay.” 

“How do you know?!” 

“I just do,” Gabe says. “You’ll go back, and they’ll let you stay the night, and then the rest of the nights until Christmas. Trust me.” 

Pete will do nothing of the sort. “But - they’ve seen me! They know!” 

“So? This way, you’ll actually be able to speak to them. It’s a much more rounded way of deeming someone bad or good, don’t you think?”

“What, so this is some new thing you’re trying out?!” Pete hisses, “Let’s see what happens if we let Pete get caught?!” 

“No!” Gabe exclaims, “No, no, not at all. But - yeah, kinda. Just roll with it, Pete, Mother Claus knows the sitch, and she’s all good. I’m a courier - I know it’s gonna be fine.” 

With fingers tight to the bridge of his nose, Pete sighs. “Well -  I guess if Mother Claus knows, then -” 

“That’s the spirit!” Gabe chirps, “Gotta go, loads to do. Good luck!” 

He hangs up. Pete huffs. He’s left with no choice but to return to the madhouse. 

-

Stump’s face hasn’t changed a whole lot when he opens his front door to see Pete. 

“Hey,” Pete sighs, “me again. So - apparently I’ve gotta stay here. Santa’s orders. Sorry.” 

“Uh - well, I don’t know if I -” Stump stumbles, looking Pete up and down and twitching where he stands. Sophia clings to his legs, grinning widely. 

“Can he stay, daddy? Please?” she begs, blinking at him with wide eyes. 

“No, he -” Stump starts, but Ava begins to scream from the next room and he falters. “Just - I don’t know. Uh - you can come in for a little while,” he says, “but - but any weird stuff, any, like, freaky magic or whatever and you’re out, okay?” 

“No freaky magic,” Pete recites, “understood.” He’s barely finished speaking before Stump is running to attend to the baby, the front door left wide open and Sophia staring up at him. 

“I like your dress,” she says, reaching to touch the intricate patterns. Pete reluctantly lets her, trying not to think where she might’ve been. “And your crown. You’re like a princess.” 

Pete attempts to pretend that this observation doesn’t flatter him greatly, and fails, a smile spreading over his face. “Thank you. You’re like - a human.” 

“Thank you,” she says. “Your shoes go there.” She points to the mountain of footwear. Pete tucks his boots to the side of it and she gives him an approving nod. 

“Soph,” Stump says suddenly, his head appearing from around the doorframe, “keep away from the man. Come into the kitchen, we’ll - uh, talk.” 

Sophia rolls her eyes and toddles after her father, beckoning for Pete to follow. 

“Do you eat? Like - human food?” Stump asks, sitting the baby in her high chair and gazing cautiously at Pete as he shuffles into the room. 

“Sometimes,” Pete says. 

“Uh - okay,” Stump replies, “why don’t you sit down. Do you drink coffee?” 

“No,” Pete says, “but water would be lovely.” 

Pete receives a glass of water, a cookie and a terrified look from Mr. Stump, who sits down opposite him and gnaws on his own cookie with a palpable nervousness. “So - why couldn’t we see you before?” 

“You weren’t looking for me,” Pete shrugs. 

“But, we saw you in the store. That was you, right?” 

“Right,” Pete nods, “because you were looking for an elf. Hence,” he gestures to himself. 

“Do you always wear that?” the boy asks, appearing behind his father and winding his hands around the man’s arm. 

“It’s my winter uniform,” Pete says. 

“What do you do in the summer?” 

“Relax, mostly,” Pete shrugs. “And oversee acts of luck. That’s the thing - I’m not magic, not really. I’m just overly lucky.” 

“Do you - uh, do you have somewhere to stay? Somewhere - else?” Stump asks. The look of uncertainty in his eyes is identical to his son’s. Pete gives them his most forlorn expression. 

“I don’t. I’ve no idea how I’m supposed to keep doing my job, now. Even luck can’t keep me warm,” he sighs, staring into the middle distance and resting his chin on his hands. He can feel the moment when Stump gives in. 

“Alright. One night, then,” he says, and his daughter cheers, skittering around the table and towards Pete. She grabs his hand in hers - it’s worryingly sticky - and tugs at it until Pete stands up. 

“Come see my room!” she cries, dragging Pete towards the doorway with Stump scrambling to follow and the baby beginning to cry. Pete pastes a smile over his face - silence seems a distant memory. 

-

“Are you seriously an elf?” Stump asks later that night, his face illuminated by the TV and his hand clutched around his second glass of whiskey. 

“Yeah,” Pete says, “I know it’s a lot to take. It’s understandable that you’re a little unnerved.” 

Stump makes an exasperated noise and takes a slow sip of his drink. “So - every year I’ve been sneaking around as Santa, and the bastard really does exist?” 

Pete snorts. He imagines Stump would make a rather good Santa - he’s got the belly for it. “It doesn’t work like that. We don’t give gifts, we give - luck, I guess. I’m here to decide what your Christmas miracle should be.” 

“Right,” Stump hums, sounding unconvinced.

“Mr Stump - I’m not going to hurt you or your family,” Pete says gently. “You know that, right?” 

“I dunno if I do,” the man says. “And it’s Patrick, by the way. So - are you here to, like, judge us?” 

Pete shrugs. “Not in a damning way, just to determine what you deserve.”

“Oh, great. So how are we doing so far?” 

“Alright,” Pete nods.”Your kids aren’t brats and you don’t seem like an asshole. It’s a good start.” 

“How reassuring,” Patrick says to the glass. 

“Why did your wife leave?” Pete asks, and Patrick chokes. 

“Excuse me?” he splutters, staring at Pete with an incredulous look across his face. “I dunno if that’s any of your business.” 

“I’m your elf, everything’s my business,” Pete says flatly. “Was it because you’re gay?” 

Patrick lets out an exasperated noise and places his glass on the table with a crack. “Have you been looking through my laptop?!” 

“I perused, yes,” Pete says, watching Patrick’s face redden. Pete wants to see what he does when he gets angry. 

“That’s - that’s an invasion of privacy, that’s not fair, you shouldn’t’ve -” 

“It’s my job, Patrick. And I’ve seen far worse. Nothing wrong with being gay.” 

“I know there isn’t! And I’m not gay, I’m bi, and she knew that, so screw you,” Patrick spits, folding his arms and huffing at the TV. 

“So why did she leave?” Pete asks. “Did you cheat? Did you lie?” 

“No!” Patrick cries, squirming under Pete’s gaze until he seems to crack, his body slumping and his face loosening. “No. She’d always - struggled, y’know, with her mental health. It was over a long time ago, really. Then we found out about Ava, and I thought - I dunno, I thought it might help, but I was always the one who wanted the kids so when the baby came it was kind of - too much for her. So - yeah. Happy now?” 

“Huh,” Pete says thoughtfully, “so will you look after the kids indefinitely?” 

“They’re my fucking kids, man,” Patrick snaps, “and if you’re here because you wanna help some poor struggling father, then leave me alone, ‘cause I’m sick of being pitied. My wife never got sympathy like this, neither should I. I’m doing fine.”

Pete suddenly thinks far more of Patrick than he did a moment ago. “Well said,” Pete remarks. Patrick lets out a frustrated sigh, but Pete sees his eyes light a little as he looks away. 

-

Pete’s bed is far comfier tonight - Patrick pulls the couch out into a sofa bed and lends him a duvet and pillows, even switches off the baby monitor so Pete might sleep through the screams. It doesn't work. 

He's only been lying there fifteen minutes before he hears a few irregular thuds from Patrick's room, and the sound of footsteps. At first he assumes the children have forced their way into their father's bed - and of course Patrick would let them, nobody in this family seems to have any sense of boundaries whatsoever - but when he rises to his feet and creeps to check, he sees a strange lump blocking the door to the kids' bedroom. 

Patrick has stuffed himself and the baby, cot and all, onto the the bedroom floor. The older children are sound asleep and the baby snores softly - Patrick himself lays curled on the floor between the two beds, his head resting on a large stuffed unicorn. Pete's mouth twitches at the sight of him. Pete hadn't realised he was quite so threatening. 

- 

But Patrick seems easily scared - it's half past six in the morning when he shuffles into the lounge with his children, eyeing Pete and holding tight to the shoulders of his children. Pete's bleary eyes see three round, colourful shapes in the doorway. He blinks steadily. 

"Good morning," he says, pushing himself to his elbows. "Do you always travel in a herd?" 

"Hey," Patrick says in what he must think is an aggressive voice. Pete's seen snowmen with a greater sense of attack. "Look. Alright. I've been thinking." 

"Always a worry." 

"No, I'm gonna talk now. So - so, be quiet. I'm pretty sure you're some kind of con artist who's gonna, like, rob me or something, but on the off chance that you're not, I'm gonna lay down some ground rules," Patrick says, pushing up his glasses. They make his eyes look even wider. 

"Ground rules," Pete says. "Got it." 

"One: if I see you touch any of my children, you're out," Stump hisses. 

"Even the bald one?" 

"Yes, even the - even Ava," Patrick says, wagging a finger at Pete. "Okay - two: if you steal anything, I've got your photographs and your fingerprints and I'll go straight to the cops, so - so, don't." 

Pete looks around at the cheap TV, the wilting pot plants and the array of mismatched Lego. "Shame." 

"And - three,” Patrick starts, fumbling for something in his pocket. He produces a pink Post-It that he squints at. “If you're going to live here for free and eat our food, you can do some chores. Like - today, you can clean the bathroom. Even the drains." 

Pete would like nothing better than to scoop Stump's pubic hair from the shower, but he's not dressed for it. "This is silk," he says, gesturing to his gown. 

"Oh - and that's rule four," Patrick continues, "you need to do your own laundry. And like, you can't wear that same thing the whole time. We have standards of hygiene." 

"Do you," Pete says, taking in the splotch on Patrick's ratty pyjama shirt and the fact that the oldest child currently has jammed a finger so far up his nose that if he twitched it, he could roll his own eyes.

"We do," Patrick says. "So - there. Those are our terms. Especially that first one. Like, seriously, if you hurt them I'll kill you." 

For a split second, Patrick looks entirely serious. Then the split second is over and he's just an idiot shouting at an elf. His daughter has stuck the Post-It to his belly. Pete's lips quirk. "Very well. I consent."

"Can we watch TV now?" the boy asks, looking between Pete and his father. 

"Uh," Patrick says, "stick to the armchair. Don't - don't go near -" 

But it's too late. The children are already raining down upon Pete with their shouting and their smells and their bodily fluids. Pete recoils into the bedsheets. 

"Have you seen spongebob?" Sophia asks him. 

"I can't say I have," Pete remarks, and then the screen lights with a large underwater pineapple. 

"Pete," Finn asks, "do you hear better with pointy ears?" 

"No. I simply hear in more detail," Pete says. Finn frowns. 

"Pete," he says again.

"Yes." 

"What's Santa like?" 

Pete loses several hours to questions like that - and somehow, even after hours, days of talking and shouting and crying, it's only midday. Pete's already exhausted. He's not sure he can take another seven hours of this. 

"But it's my doll!" Sophia shrieks, "she's in surgery! I took her whole heart out!" 

"No, you said I could borrow her for my Lego!" 

"I did not!" 

"Did too!" 

Then they both shout "Dad!" and Patrick jogs into the lounge with a screaming baby in his arms. Because more noise is precisely what the situation needed. 

"Stop!" Patrick bellows, "Okay! Stop! Look, daddy's trying to work and I can't work if you two are yelling at each other!" 

It would have more impact if the baby wasn't still bawling. Pete watches from the couch, slowly writing in his book. Perhaps Patrick's work-obsessed. He clearly has better things to do than look after his own children.

"But Ava is loud!" Sophia counters. 

"Yeah, I wish she'd shut up!" Finn agrees. 

"Don't tell people to shut up," Patrick snaps, "and she can't help it, she's a baby.You're not babies. You should know better." 

"But it's not fair, she screams the whole time," Finn says, and he's got a point. The baby wails her agreement. 

"Right, we're gonna go to the park," Patrick says suddenly. The children collectively groan. "A nice walk in the park. See the nice christmas lights." 

"But it's cold!" 

"And muddy!" 

"You're kids, you should like mud," Patrick says briskly. He's already putting on his boots. Pete watches with interest. So far, Pete's had Patrick down as a coward and a softie.

He's also fifty shades of stupid if he thinks a walk will un-spoil his children.

Still, they end up trudging through central park at peak time on a Sunday. Pete tries to lag behind, keep a good distance between himself and the splash-radius of the kids' puddle jumping, but they seem drawn to him, determined to get mud on his robes. He folds his arms to stop them holding his hands.

"So - can nobody see you?" Patrick asks as he falls into step with Pete. He's wrapped in a puffy jacket that makes him seem even rounder than usual, the baby flailing at his chest again like some overfed, under-haired spider, "Can they hear you?"

"They could, if they listened," Pete says. "But they don't. That's the trouble with you lot, you're so wrapped up in your own lives. You wouldn't notice an elf if it broke into your house."

"Us lot?" Patrick laughs. "Like - humans?"

"Yes. Especially the adults. They don't want to see magic, so they don't. Simple as that."

"How many of you are there?"

"A few hundred thousand. So think yourself lucky."

Patrick snorts. "Oh, I do."

Pete doesn't appreciate his tone. He'll write that one down when they finally retreat from this slushy hell.

"Daddy!" one of the children shrieks, barrelling into Patrick. "Can we watch the ice skating?"

The things humans do to amuse themselves are quite baffling - a crowd stagger in a rough circle around the ice, grown adults grabbing hold of the sides and one another for support. Pete lets out a short sigh as one of them falls flat on their face - none of them would last five minutes in the Pole.

"Something against ice skating?" Patrick asks as he attempts to hoist Sophia up so she can peer over the wall.

Pete shrugs in that cryptic, sulking way that humans sometimes do. "You're bad at it, is all."

"Speak for yourself," Patrick mumbles, and Pete's about to question it when a child, it's always a child, talks over the top of him.

"Can we go ice skating, daddy?"

Patrick huffs a clouded breath and pushes his glasses up his nose. Pete raises an eyebrow at him. "No, sweetie," he eventually says. Of course it's a no. Patrick would have about as much grace as a hippopotamus.

"Is it 'cause it's expensive?" Finn asks.

"It's Ava," Patrick tells him, "you know that. It's always Ava."

Finn makes a face. "It's not fair."

"Pete could look after her!" Sophia squeals, her hands crawling up Pete's robes.

Pete looks at Patrick. Patrick looks at Pete. For once, their lack of amusement is mutual.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," Patrick says.

"I don't want to touch - that. Wait - why do you think it's a bad idea?"

"Why don't you want to touch my baby?" Patrick frowns. "She's cute, aren't you? Yes you are. And honestly? I don't think you've ever looked after a baby in your life."

"Too right I haven't," Pete says, brushing imaginary child germs from his robe. "They don't seem to serve any purpose whatsoever. Apart from - snot production."  The baby gargles and propels more goo from its nose.

"Alright, well, there we go. He can't look after Ava."

Pete frowns. "Whoa, can't ? You think I couldn't carry that thing around for half an hour?"

"No, I don't. This thing is too much for you," Patrick gestures to Pete as a whole, "to handle."

"Fine. Hand it over," Pete snaps.

"What? No!"

"Give me the damn baby. If it means I get to watch you flail around on the ice, I'll endure any number of horrors."

"He said a curse!" Finn whispers.

"Please, daddy?" Sophia whines.

The baby wiggles in the harness. Patrick's chapped lips struggle to form words. "Fine," he says eventually. "Okay. But - you're staying right by the rink where I can see you." He points a puffy finger at Pete.

"Fine," Pete echoes. There's still a large chunk of him that believes Patrick won't follow through. He's thoroughly wrong.

Patrick seems positively jovial once he's resigned himself to the idea of giving his baby to a stranger - presumably reassured by the fact that under no circumstances would Pete want to steal it. Once they're on the sidelines, he lifts the wiggly baby from his papoose and shows it to Pete. Pete looks it up and down. It's got a poofy coat on and a fluffy hat. It looks remarkably like Patrick.

"What do I do with it," Pete asks gingerly as he takes the baby and holds it at arms' length. Her unblinking eyes fix upon him. It's rather unnerving.

"You hold her like this," Patrick says, pushing Ava towards Pete and curling Pete's enrobed arms around her. "Keep her close to your chest. Contact is great for forming a bond."

Pete nearly mentions that he has no intention of forming a bond with this child or any other, but he supposes it’s too late for that. Ava’s hand curls around one of his dreads. She promptly tries to eat it. Patrick's backing away.

"Wait - what do I do if she starts making that godawful noise?"

"Just give her a cuddle," Patrick says. His skates are already on and he helps the other children with theirs. God knows what damage they'll all do with razor blades on their feet.

"That sounds like bullshit," Pete mutters. "It does, doesn't it," he says to the baby. "It sounds like bullshit."

The baby just blinks at him, chewing lazily on his hair. Pete doesn't miss the smug look on Patrick's face.

"Just wait right there for a minute," Patrick says to Finn and Sophia. "Daddy's just got to do one thing..."

He steps out on to the ice. Then he shoots away, gliding in an elegant circle, one leg floating off the ice and his arms following his movements. He's actually managing to look graceful. Pete stares.

He finishes with a polished spin that Pete would call overkill and floats back towards them. Patrick doesn't say anything. The smile is enough. Pete sighs and looks down at the baby. "That wasn't very fair, was it."

The baby blows a large bubble of snot from its nose. Pete thinks that about sums up his Christmas thus far.

-

But just as Gabe predicted, Pete's allowed to stay another night. And another. And another. Pete watches Patrick pore over the kids' homework with them, using his evenings to teach himself about maths and science just so he can help them understand for themselves. Pete watches Patrick calm each of them down when they've had a bad dream, cuddle Ava back to sleep without fail every single night, watches Patrick spend hours researching the perfect gifts for his kids, the perfect Christmas food, the perfect decorations. It seems there's very little to improve upon. When it comes to Christmas miracles, Pete finds himself at a loss.

"What about you, Patrick," Pete says one evening as Patrick's eyes droop in front of his laptop. "What do you want for Christmas?"

Patrick shrugs like it doesn't matter. "Dunno. It's not really about adults, is it."

"Isn't it?" Pete says. "Wouldn't you appreciate a Christmas miracle as much as them?"

Another shrug. "I'm doing fine. Honestly. I know it's not much," he gestures to his apartment as a whole, "but it's fine for us."

Pete wonders what will happen when the baby grows up and doesn't have a room to sleep in. He wonders how Finn and Sophia will take to sharing a room once they're teenagers. He wonders how long it's been since Patrick felt looked after. He keeps all of it to himself. "Okay," he says eventually.

Patrick scribbles out a rough Christmas shopping list and Pete watches him wistfully. If only it were as easy as the songs say - he could simply conjure up everything on Patrick's list and have it waiting for him under the tree. But miracles don't work like that. Pete has to actually think . It’s very annoying. 

"Daddy, I'm nervous," Sophia confesses to Patrick on the morning of their school play. They've spent the last few nights going over her one line - “Look! What a beautiful star!” -  and adding the finishing touches to her costume. 

"You're gonna be awesome," Patrick tells her as he pours himself a bowl of beige cereal. "You've practiced so hard." 

"But what if I forget my line?" 

"You won't. And even if you do, it doesn't matter. What matters is that you got up on stage and put your all into it, yeah? And I'll be there to give you a big hug afterwards." 

"And some ice cream?" she says hopefully. 

Patrick strokes his bearded chin. "I'll think about it." 

"Is Pete coming?" she asks. Everyone, including the baby, looks at Pete. 

"Uh - do you want me to come?" In spite of himself, he thinks he'd quite like to see the kids' naive interpretation of the Christmas story. He hasn't been to a play since that rich family took their kids to see Cats as a 'treat'. He's barely recovered. 

"Yes!" she shrieks. 

"I've only got one ticket, but that's not really an issue for you, is it?" Patrick says, looking Pete up and down. He's finally given in to 'normal' clothes, a patterned jumper hanging off him. Like everything about Patrick, it's soft, warm and barely held together. 

"Alright then," Pete says. "I'll think about it."

This is how Pete ends up in a stuffy school hall listening to annoying Christmas carols and sitting next to a stuffy, annoying man who insists upon singing along to them. There's children everywhere. This is not helping matters.

"Oh look!" Patrick exclaims, pointing at the rectangular window in the door to the side of the stage. "There she is!" 

Sure enough, Sophia waves at them, dressed as a king but clearly not feeling like one - her mouth is downturned and her eyes are wide, tearful. Pete feels Patrick tense beside him. 

"Oh man, I should - am I allowed to - Do you think they'll let me back there? They must do, right? Or - would that make it worse?" Patrick babbles, his hands writhing in his lap. 

Pete sighs. There's a right thing to do here, especially when you're a disappearing elf. This doesn't mean he's happy about doing it, though. The humans are supposed to impress him, not the other way round. "I'll go," he says, getting to his feet. Patrick's shoes are a little too tight - he'll be sure to bitch about it later. 

Patrick probably shouts something after him, perhaps a protest of Pete's unfathomable martyrdom, but Pete ignores it. He'll shake some sense into this kid. Patrick's too soft with her.  

"Pete!" Sophia squeals as he matches through the doors. A few stressed teachers glance in his direction. None of them stare for more than a few seconds. 

"Right, what's the matter," Pete says flatly. “Is it still your lines?” 

She shakes her head. Pete rolls his eyes and crouches down beside her. “Come on, your dad’s worried,” he says. “I need to comfort you, or something.” 

Her teary eyes trail from her own costume to those of the other children. Patrick’s clearly tried very hard to make her look like royalty - but she’s still wearing mostly towelling and her scruffy school shoes leave a lot to be desired. “All the other kings have proper crowns,” she says. Her own is made of thin cardboard - they’ve stuck some pictures of jewels around the rim, but it’s been involved in some kind of water catastrophe and the ink has bled all over the place and the card itself is sagging and torn. 

“Ah,” Pete says. The other children all have crowns that are ‘proper’. ‘Proper’ apparently means ‘plastic’. The ignorance of the young continues to astound Pete. “Your peers are extremely naive if they think those are real crowns.” 

Sophia frowns. “What does naive mean?” 

“Stupid,” Pete says. “But - nicer. Anyway. This is a real crown,” Pete taps the tiara on his head. He might be in jeans - jeans - but he’s not an animal. He takes it from his head and offers it to her. “Here. Fit for a king.” 

Her face lights up and she takes the crown from his hands. “Thank you,” she breathes, touching her fingers to the jewels.  He helps her position it on her head, and her cheeks ball up just like Patrick’s do. 

“Those are real gemstones. Lose it and you’re toast.” 

She nods quickly, wiping the last of the tears from her eyes. 

“Happy?” Pete asks. 

Another nod. Apparently parenting is easy when one has jewels to offer. No wonder Patrick’s struggling. 

Pete retreats back to his seat and folds his arms, ignoring Patrick’s curious eyes. Soon, the lights are switched off and a small child scurries onto the stage. 

For the most part, it’s rather unbearable. The play is composed entirely of children, all of whom have very little theatrical talent or vocal prowess. Pete folds his arms and endures.

Then Sophia marches onto the stage looking positively determined. Patrick’s got his phone at the ready - Pete’s interest piques. His crown gleams under the stage lights.

Pete feels Patrick stare at him. “Is that -?” 

“Shh,” Pete hisses. 

 There’s a short pause before she opens her mouth in which Pete thinks he experiences a small heart attack, and then she says “Look! What a beautiful star!” and it’s clear and loud and well-acted and Pete nearly claps right there and then. The play is quite enjoyable, after that, despite the wild inaccuracies, including the fact that the newborn saviour of mankind is held upside down for the duration of the final scenes. Sophia was easily the highlight. 

He tells her so when she runs up to them in the foyer, her costume in disarray but the crown still perched on her head. He goes for a handshake but she insists on a hug. 

“Thank you so much!” she says, taking the crown off and offering it back to Pete. Pete stoops to let her place it on his head. “Oh! I forgot my bag,” she says, and scuttles off down the corridor. When Pete looks around, he catches Patrick’s stare. 

“Oh, shut up,” he snaps. 

“I didn’t say anything!” 

“She needed a crown!” 

“Sure she did,” Patrick says. “Totally.” 

Pete rolls his eyes. Patrick doesn’t stop grinning for the whole afternoon. It’s very irritating. 

In fact, he doesn’t stop grinning for the majority of advent. Pete keeps waiting for the moment that he’ll lose it, that his temper will crack and Pete will watch him terrorise his poor children or throw something across the room. It never comes. Patrick’s patient, kind and loving to a fault and Pete’s becoming steadily more puzzled as to why exactly these children might need a miracle. They already seem to have one, and he’s currently fast asleep on the couch with the baby in his arms. 

Ava’s eyes are fixed on Shrek 2 and her hands are fastened to her dad’s knitted jumper. Patrick’s head has slowly met with the back of the couch and his glasses have fallen askew. “Ah,” the baby says. Pete tends to agree. 

He lifts her from Patrick’s arms and plonks her in his lap. It’s not that he’s grown fond of her, not at all - but she seems endlessly fascinated with Pete and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t appreciate the attention. She flings out a hand and rests it on her father’s belly. 

“Da,” she says. 

“That’s your father, yes,” Pete says. “You’re sprung from his loins.” 

“Dabaa,” she gurgles. 

“Oh, I don’t know. I think you look very alike,” Pete observes, lifting Ava for comparison. “You’ve got chubby cheeks, just like your father. And very little hair.” 

“Boo,” she says. “Baaboo.” 

“It’s not a bad thing,” Pete says. Pete’s never been particularly attracted to humans - although he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t lain with a few in his time - but Patrick manages to look vaguely appealing even when a thin line of drool is creeping down his chin. His arms tighten around an imaginary baby and his eyes open. They’re the same blue as his daughter’s. 

“Huh?” he says. Pete waves Ava’s chubby hand. “How long was I asleep?” 

“Long enough for me to abduct your daughter,” Pete says. 

“Whatever shall I do,” Patrick says, rubbing at his eyes. 

“Da,” Ava says, reaching her hands towards Patrick. Patrick takes her and cuddles her tight. 

“Thanks,” he says, smiling at Pete. Pete feels an odd little flutter in his chest and spends the rest of the evening trying not to think about it. 

-

It turns out Patrick does have a breaking point. Pete discovers it on the 23rd of December, when the kids are out at friends’ houses and the baby is soundly asleep. Pete had noticed a tension in his shoulders the past few days that he’d put down to Christmas stress - he’d never imagined anything like this. Pete’s staring at the list of potential tidings he could grant Patrick and his family and finding each more loathsome than the last when he hears the shouting. 

“ - no, the deadline was a week ago. It’s one thousand two hundred and fifty dollars. No, that’s what it said on the invoice. I can tweak things if you’re not happy with them but I can’t rewrite - no, that’s too late. You didn’t have any of these complaints earlier on. If I’d have been notified - no, that’s not how this works. No. No, that’s not fair. No - fine!” 

Pete peers into Patrick’s bedroom to see him clutching his phone to his ear and typing frantically on his laptop. 

“You can’t do that, I - no, don’t you dare - no - “ he looks at the phone and makes an exasperated noise. “Fuck,” he spits. “Fucking fuck. ” 

Pete watches him, unseen and unheard, as Patrick glares at his laptop screen and breathes deeply. The baby begins to wail from her cot. 

“Fuck,” Patrick says again, rubbing at his eyes under his glasses. Usually, Pete feels superiority in non-intervention, but right now, he just feels bad for eavesdropping. 

“Everything okay?” Pete says, pushing the door open and revealing himself to Patrick. 

Patrick decidedly does not look happy to see him. “Yeah,” he says, shutting his laptop and sliding off the bed. He grabs the screaming baby and pushes past Pete. “Fine.” 

“Where are you going?” Pete asks, following him down the hall. 

“Out,” Patrick snaps. He grabs his bag and the papoose and slams the front door behind him. 

Under usual circumstances, Pete would simply break into Patrick’s laptop and have a snoop at whatever he’s been doing. But Patrick’s left his coat behind and it’s awfully chilly out and Pete’s got a funny feeling that whatever he’s tasked with here isn’t usual circumstances. 

This is how he ends up belting after Patrick, following him as he hurries to the main road, down into the subway and packs himself into the crowd. 

He loses him somewhere between Herald Square and 7th Avenue, the crowds sweeping Pete up and the traffic making him dizzy. He has no idea how humans live like this. Everyone’s in a hurry - Pete’s the odd one out, wandering in circles as he searches for the tiny, angry man with the baby. He’s nowhere to be seen. Then, Pete spots the Macy’s. 

It’s heaving with frantic parents grabbing last-minute gifts from the richly populated shelves. Pete’s skin crawls as he pushes through knots of them. Their greedy eyes slide right past him. 

He finds Patrick staring at the Lego as if he’s reading his own gravestone. When he touches Patrick’s arm, Patrick lets out a hoarse scream. 

“Jesus Christ, Pete,” he breathes. The baby is still blubbering at his chest. “You followed me?” 

“You left your coat,” Pete says blandly, offering it to Patrick. Patrick snatches it without a word. “What’s the matter?” 

“Nothing,” Patrick snaps. “Just - nothing.” He grabs his basket from the floor and marches in the direction of the electronics. Pete trails after him like a scorned child. Perhaps he doesn’t understand humans as thoroughly as he’d like to think. 

He stays out of Patrick’s way until he’s left the checkout with a small bag of toys. He looks utterly defeated. Pete wishes he had magic enough to know what Patrick’s thinking. Then he’d know the precise Christmas miracle to perform. 

“What did you buy,” Pete asks once Patrick’s squashed into a seat on the subway. He tries to peer into the bag clutched in Patrick’s hands, but Patrick snatches it shut. He leans forward in his seat and runs a hand through his thinning hair. 

“I was supposed to get paid last week,” he says finally. “I gave them a few days to make the payment, but they didn’t. Now they’ve told me they’re not happy with the work and they want it redone before they pay me, which is bullshit ‘cause they didn’t say anything about it last week when I could’ve actually fixed it, so now I’m barely gonna be able to pay my credit card, let alone get the kids the actual presents they want. I got them some stuff,” - he kicks at the bag - “but it’s just cheap stuff, knock-off shit.” 

“I’m sure they’ll be happy with anything,” Pete says. Children seem to love everything brightly coloured. 

“No,” Patrick says, looking up at Pete with tired eyes. “You don’t get it. I can’t explain this to them. I can’t tell them Santa doesn’t like them as much as he likes their friends. I can’t tell them daddy can’t afford nice things because he doesn’t have a stable job. They’re gonna be crushed.” 

“They have so many toys already,” Pete reasons. “What does it matter that they don’t get the exact toys they wanted?” 

“It’s not about the toys!” Patrick cries, and a few commuters glance at him with alarm. He looks away from Pete. “It’s about Santa bringing them what they ask for. It’s about Christmas and magic and not their useless dad disappointing them. They’re kids - all kids want toys. And all parents wanna give their kids toys. I can’t even do that.” 

With a little luck, the man beside Patrick drops his wallet and it skitters across the floor. When he lurches after it, Pete slips into the empty seat and places a gentle hand on Patrick’s arm. “I’m so sorry,” he says quietly. For the first time ever, he resents the ban on material miracles. 

“‘S not your fault I’m a shitty father,” he says. Pete can barely hear him over the buzz of the carriage. He leans closer and strokes his thumb over Patrick’s wrist. 

“That’s not true,” Pete says. “You’re not a shitty father. I’ve seen a few fathers in my time. Some were absolute scum. Drinkers and the like. Others just didn’t care. Even the good ones just seemed to take their sons out for the occasional ball game and leave the rest to their wives. They didn’t even sign the tags, let alone buy the gifts. You’re by far the best dad I’ve met. By far .” 

If Patrick smiles, Pete doesn’t see it. He stays quiet for the rest of the rattling journey, attempting to calm Ava as she cries. Patrick looks seconds away from crying himself. Pete’s never felt so useless in his life. 

-

But Patrick does what Patrick does best - he soldiers on, and by the time the kids are dropped back home, he’s got a big smile on his face, hugging them tight and watching them open the final doors of their advent calendars with glee. Christmas Eve is full of games and laughter - Pete learns how to play a bastardised version of charades that somehow includes animals and foodstuffs and makes a complete fool of himself. For the first time in his life, he doesn’t much care. The smile on Patrick’s face makes that flutter return. It’s quite disconcerting. 

The kids are nearly vibrating with excitement by the time Patrick persuades them to go to sleep. They lay their stockings under the tree, along with a few carrots, a mince pie and a glass of whiskey. They both insist upon hugging Pete goodnight. 

“Do you have to leave tomorrow?” Sophia says as Pete tucks her into bed. Both Finn and Patrick look at him curiously. “I don’t want you to go.”

“I don’t want to go either,” Pete says. He’s rather got used to the new clothes - pyjamas are a particularly good invention. “But - I have to.” Miracle or no miracle, his duties have come to an end. “Christmas will be over.” 

“Will you stay for Christmas day?” Finn asks. “I wanna show you my presents.” 

“I’ll try,” he says. He’ll go whenever Gabe says he’ll go, but Gabe is mostly late and always laid-back. Pete could probably persuade him to stop for a scoop of Christmas pudding. 

“It’ll be weird without you,” Patrick says as he sips Santa’s whiskey later that evening. “We got used to having an elf around.” 

Pete doesn’t trust himself to say anything. He’s always so eager to leave. Now, he can barely think about it without a lump forming in his throat. When Patrick wanders out of the room, Pete misses him. 

-

It’s around eleven at night when Patrick creeps back into the lounge, two plastic bags full of gifts in his hands. Pete sits up on the sofa bed, pulling the blankets up around him. 

“Elf or no, I’ve still gotta be Santa,” Patrick whispers, gesturing to the empty stockings under the tree. He hasn’t dressed up - Pete’s mildly disappointed. 

“What did you get them?” Pete asks, watching Patrick tip each bag into a pile. 

“Not much,” he says, “just some little things. None of the big stuff they wanted.” 

“It’s not your fault,” Pete asserts, “and they’ll love all the gifts they do get.” 

 Patrick stuffs each stocking full of gifts. He looks tired - his eyelids droop and his brows draw in concentration as he tries to figure out which gifts are which. Pete hopes, for one night of the year, he gets a decent sleep. 

“I hope so,” he hums, and Pete finds he takes pleasure simply in watching Patrick fuss over his children, position the stockings just so and placing a few presents artfully around them. Once again, Pete is at a loss for ideas - their Christmas miracle is already here, stuck halfway under the tree and fumbling for the lightswitch. 

He manages to wriggle out with considerable lack of grace, and sits up, brushing his fringe from his flustered face. Pete wonders what will happen come the morning, when no Christmas miracle arrives for the family. 

“Night,” he grins, his gaze twining with Pete’s for a few seconds before he shuffles from the room with a yawn. Pete stares after him. He’s grown far too attached. He slumps into bed and stares at the ceiling - he must be the worst elf in all the world. 

-

He hears Patrick’s footsteps in the early hours of Christmas morning, stumbling for the kitchen to fetch the baby’s bottle. Pete watches him shuffle through the door, his soft pyjamas creased and stretched, his eyes barely open. He cries out when he smacks his hip on the edge of the table, tripping into the kitchen cabinet with a clatter of crockery. Pete decides he might need a hand. 

He catches Patrick’s wrist just as trying to shove the rim of the bottle into place, smoothing a hand down his spine. “Hey - easy,” Pete whispers, twisting the plastic until he hears a click, “there.” 

“Thanks,” Patrick mumbles, his voice thick with sleep. “I forgot to prep it last night. Uh - I need the, um…” 

Pete helps him mix and microwave the baby’s formula, then they stagger down the corridor together, Ava’s screams ringing in their ears. Patrick scoops her from her cot and slumps onto the bed, taking the bottle from Pete and shoving it into her mouth. Pete sits carefully beside him, watching her gulp down the milk. 

Patrick’s eyes droop and his head topples to Pete’s shoulder, his jaw slack, sleepy. Pete shakes him gently until his eyes open once more and he blinks up at Pete, a wistful smile touching his lips. “Need you here every night,” he says. 

Pete’s not had much experience when it comes to seduction, but he doesn’t think humans rest their heads on just anyone’s shoulder. He places a hand at the small of Patrick’s back to test the water, and Patrick lets out a small sigh. Pete may not know what to get him for Christmas, but he thinks he knows what Patrick wants right at this moment. 

Pete kisses Patrick gently, teasing at his bottom lip and letting their noses bump in the dark. Patrick hums softly, his mouth moving slowly, sleepily, before he turns back to Ava, happily slurping in Patrick’s arms. Pete slides an arm around Patrick’s waist and holds him until she’s done. 

“Night,” Pete whispers once she’s back in her cot and drifting off to sleep. He turns to leave, but Patrick catches his arm. 

“Stay,” he says, tugging Pete back to the bed. He crawls under the covers and peers out at Pete, patting the sheets beside him. Pete’s spent the last few minutes processing the minutes before that. He’s pretty sure another kiss would kill him. It’s a risk he’s willing to take. 

Pete would never have foreseen laying side by side with a human this Christmas. Patrick’s warm, cuddly, his lips soft as Pete presses another kiss to them and his sleepy eyes lit with contentedness. Pete pulls the covers over both of them and loops an arm over Patrick’s middle. Tomorrow might bring disappointment, failure and goodbyes, but right now, with Patrick’s soft body curled in his arms, Pete’s Christmas is one of the best. 

He opens his mouth to wish Patrick goodnight, but Patrick’s already sound asleep. 

-

The children wake them up at fourteen minutes past five. They’ve been asleep for two hours and one minute. Pete growls into the pillow. Patrick’s pillow. Because he’s in Patrick’s bed. Because he kissed Patrick. Ah, yes. 

Patrick’s turned a light on and Pete shuts his eyes to prevent them burning into ash. “Has Santa been?” Patrick asks. Pete jams his fingers into his eyes. It’s too early to be alive. If it wasn’t for the fact that Patrick’s there beside him, he’d assume he was in hell. 

“Yes!” says one of Satan’s minions, “And he ate the mince pie!” 

“That’s great,” Patrick replies, “what about the carrots?” 

“Only the tops are left!” 

“Wow, good thing you thought of that,” Patrick says. Pete has no idea how he’s managing to sound so enthusiastic. “Why don’t you bring your presents in here whilst daddy makes some coffee?” 

With that, they scamper away, and Patrick falls back to the bed. Pete can barely open his eyes long enough to look at him, so he simply shuffles closer until he can feel Patrick breathing. Then he remembers that this is the last day. This is it. 

When Patrick starts to shift, Pete pulls on his t-shirt. “No,” he murmurs. “I’m gonna make you coffee.” He slithers out of bed and pushes Patrick back to the pillows. “Coffee,” he repeats. “Yeah.” 

The apartment is another world in the dark, and Pete stumbles blindly towards the kitchen. A child with a present the size of its head dashes past him and he nearly falls over, but he manages to make it to the coffee machine without knocking himself out and by the time the coffee is brewed, he’s feeling half awake. 

Patrick’s fallen asleep again when Pete wanders back into the bedroom, dodging presents and children. He looks so peaceful, his lips parted and his eyelashes fanned across his cheeks - but Pete’s not about to let him get away with it. “Patrick,” he says, touching Patrick’s chest. “Waking up time.” 

“Daddy!” Sophia cries, and leaps directly onto Patrick’s crotch. That wakes him up. 

“Holy - ow,” Patrick groans, curling into a pained ball. 

“Merry Christmas!” she shouts, settling herself in Patrick’s lap. Pete guides the coffee into Patrick’s hands and he takes it like its the holy grail. 

Pete stands awkwardly beside the bed. It occurs to him that Patrick may not want to broadcast their night together to his children. He eyes the space beside Patrick. Perhaps it’s better if he lets Sophia fill it. 

But Patrick pats the space beside him like he did the night before. “Come here,” he smiles. “I’m losing warmth.” 

Pete hops back into bed, eyeing the two children before he gets too close to Patrick. Then he feels Patrick’s arm around his waist, pulling him closer, and he shuffles to snuggle up to Patrick. When Patrick turns his head, he’s near enough to kiss. Pete settles for linking their arms. 

“Now, remember, Santa can’t always get you everything on your list,” Patrick warns as Finn and Sophia shovel the last of their gifts onto the bed and try to make room for themselves. 

“I know,” they chorus. Pete rubs his eyes and squints at the boxes. They don’t look like the gifts Patrick wrapped last night. The look on Patrick’s face suggests he’s thinking the same thing. 

Soon enough, there’s wrapping paper everywhere, and Finn is staring in awe at his Lego castle, complete with drawbridge, king and six knights. “It’s awesome,” he breathes. 

“Yeah,” Patrick says, “it is.” He looks at Pete, and Pete holds up his hands. 

“I didn’t do anything,” Pete says, and for once, it’s completely true. “I would’ve wanted credit if I had.” 

Patrick frowns at him, then watches Sophia open her one hundred piece surgeon kit, complete with operable teddy bear. “Wow!” she squeals, “he knew what I wanted!” 

“She,” Pete sighs into Patrick’s shoulder. “She’s a she.” The awe on Sophia’s face makes him glad he revealed one of the Pole’s best kept secrets. Patrick is positively beaming. 

“This is amazing,” he whispers, “I can’t believe you did this.” 

“It wasn’t me,” Pete says. “I swear, it wasn’t me. I wouldn’t have let you suffer on the subway if I had this up my sleeve.” 

“But it might’ve been - your lot,” Patrick says. “Since you couldn’t think of a miracle. Maybe they took pity on you.” 

“Maybe,” Pete frowns. He’s been trying not to think about what all the other elves will say once he returns a failure. It’s hard to worry when the kids are practically singing with happiness and Patrick’s arm is wrapped tight around his waist. 

“Hey, we’ve got a present for you, too!” Sophia suddenly pipes up, flinging herself into Pete’s lap. “I’ll go and get it!” 

“Oh,” Pete says, glancing at Patrick. “You shouldn’t have, you know.” 

Patrick shakes his head. “It’s just silly. I promise you we spent next to no money on this.” 

Soon there’s a thin package flying at Pete’s head. It’s no bigger than his hand, and wrapped with dancing reindeer paper. Pete opens it carefully and lets the gift fall into his lap. When he peers at it, he feels tears heat in his eyes. 

It’s a photo - the photo - of them, the one they took in the toy store, Patrick’s smile wide and Ava mid-squirm in Pete’s arms. Sophia is hugging Pete’s waist and Finn is smiling up at his dad. They’ve framed it, and decorated the frame with glittery snowflakes and painted lolly sticks and dried pasta. Pete scrubs at his eye before the tears can fall. 

“Do you like it?” Finn asks. Pete nods vigorously. “I did the painting. Sophia did the sticking and Ava did that scribble there.” 

“Yeah. I love it. I really love it.” 

“You look so grumpy!” Sophia says, pointing a chubby finger at Pete’s tiny, ignorant past-self. That elf didn’t know what he was in for. 

“Thank you,” he says to all of them, his gaze falling on Patrick. “Really. Thank you.” 

Patrick catches his hand and squeezes softly. Pete has to look away from him before he ruins their Christmas morning by blubbing all over it. 

“Can we go and play?” Finn asks, grabbing the box of Lego and shaking it. “Will you build it with me, daddy?” 

“Sure I will,” Patrick says, “why don’t you clear up some of this paper and we’ll all go into the lounge and have some breakfast.” 

They look remarkably like the crude human idea of elves as they busy themselves with collecting armfuls of wrapping paper and scampering off with it. “Merry Christmas,” Patrick says once they’ve vanished into the living room. Then he kisses Pete on the lips and Pete blacks out for a few seconds. He’s not entirely used to this physical affection thing. It keeps catching him unawares. 

Then, there’s a knock at the door. Gabe sure does have timing. 

He knows it’s Gabe because Patrick doesn’t hear it. It’s time to go. He sighs and shifts from Patrick’s arms. “I think that’s my lift,” he says. 

Patrick’s face falls. “Already?”

Pete shrugs. “Maybe not. Might just be a long lost relative of yours,” he says as cheerfully as he can. “I’ll go check.” 

He was banking on being able to slip away quietly, skipping the awkward goodbyes and the pain on Patrick’s face. But Patrick insists upon following him to the front door with the baby clutched in one arm. Pete looks through the spyhole. It’s Gabe. He looks at Patrick and nods slightly. 

“I guess this is it, then,” Pete sighs. 

“Have you got everything?” Patrick asks. “Your robes and stuff?” 

Pete shrugs. “It’ll go with me.” He looks at the photo frame in his hands. “This is all I need.” 

Patrick smiles sadly. “Will we see you next Christmas?” 

Pete shakes his head. “I’ll be assigned a different family.” 

“For the record, I thought you were a pretty good elf,” Patrick says. “We’re all gonna miss you.” He bounces Ava in his arms. 

“I’ll miss you too,” Pete mumbles. Patrick’s making this far more difficult than it needs to be. Pete can barely look at him. He wants to kiss him one last time, to tell him what a wonderful father he is and how kind and funny and sexy he can be. But Pete’s never had a high pain threshold and he thinks it might just push him over the edge, so he simply ducks his head and runs out of the door, away from love and family and all those scary things.

Gabe lounges against the railing as Pete closes the door behind him. “Merry Christmas,” he smirks. “Sorry to interrupt your little family gathering. Nice pyjamas.” 

“Look, I’m not in the mood for this,” Pete says. “Just tell me I’ve failed and get me out of here.” 

“Failed?” Gabe asks. “What makes you think you’ve failed?” 

“I didn’t give them a miracle,” Pete replies, “someone else had to intervene just so the kids weren’t disappointed. I might as well have not been there at all.” 

Gabe laughs - laughs - at Pete’s dejection. “You,” he snorts, “are the biggest fucking moron I’ve ever known.” 

“No need to rub it in,” Pete snaps. “I’m sure I’ll get quite enough of that back at the Pole.” 

“You like him, huh,” Gabe smirks. 

Pete folds his arms. “He’s - ridiculous. And funny-looking. So, yeah, I like him.” 

“And he likes you?’ 

“Is there a point to this? Or are you just aiming to ridicule me?” 

“Peter,” Gabe says seriously. “You were sent here. They saw you. You like him. He likes you back. Do you not think this is more than a coincidence?” 

“So - you did this deliberately? Just to show me up?!” Pete exclaims. Perhaps Mother Claus is crueler than he first thought. 

“No,” Gabe says calmly. He looks this close to giving Pete a slap. “Have a little think, Pete. Why exactly might you have been sent here?”

“Uh…” Pete starts, wondering if this is all some strange brain teaser. “I don’t know.” 

“For Santa’s sake, Pete, you’re the miracle!” Gabe all but yells. “ You’re the tiding of great joy!” 

Pete’s mouth hangs open for a few, dumbstruck seconds. The strange feeling in his chest since he met Patrick suddenly makes sense. Patrick’s miracle has been in every mirror. “Oh,” he says eventually. “Well - right. So - I can stay?” 

“If you want to,” Gabe shrugs. “It’s up to you - Mother Claus has everything in place. You’d start to be seen, of course, but you can keep the bling and we’ll keep in touch.” 

“So - what about the presents? I thought I wasn’t allowed to grant material miracles?” 

Gabe smiles wickedly. “ You’re not. Call it a retirement gift.” He fishes around in his vast, sparkly coat and retrieves a brown envelope. “Here. Documents and so forth. Humans like documents.” 

Pete takes it absently, barely able to get his head around all this. “I - don’t know what to say.” 

“Thanks,” Gabe suggests. “Gabe, you’re the most awesome elf I’ve ever known. Gabe, if I weren’t boning the gnome-man I would ride you like a reindeer. Gabe, I -” 

“That’s enough,” Pete says, wrinkling his nose. “ Thanks will suffice.” 

“Merry Christmas to you too,” Gabe grins. “Never thought I’d see anyone melt that heart of yours. But congrats, miracle-man.” 

“If only I could miracle you away from me,” Pete scowls, “but alas. You persist.” 

“Yes I do, baby,” Gabe beams. “Right, well. I’ll leave you to it. Gimme a shout if you need anything. Use protection. And I’ll see you round.” He’s disappeared before Pete can hit him. 

Pete stares at the empty space. Behind him, the door opens. “Everything alright?” Patrick asks. 

Pete turns around and looks at him, the funny little man in snowman-dotted pyjamas and fluffed-up bed hair. A moment later, he’s something he swore he’d never, ever be - spontaneous. He takes Patrick by the hips and kisses him with all the love he’s been lacking for every past Christmas. He wants Patrick, and everything Patrick entails - the carpet of Lego, the early mornings, the weird little baby. 

 “Yeah,” Pete replies, “Everything’s brilliant.”