It wasn't often Bruce Wayne ventured out into the city without a mask. If it wasn't the cowl, it was his Press Release smile, or charity function grin. There was always something he had to show, whether he felt like it or not.
In all honesty, he wasn't sure what he felt. He hadn't known for sure since he was eight years old.
But that was in the past, and for now – for once – it would stay there. Bruce milled around with the heaving crowds, taking his time to peruse the shelves. Somewhere in the maze of shops and boutiques he knew he'd find the perfect gift for Barbara, Tim, Dick and Alfred. Jim Gordon, too.
Having all the money in the world made it simple, and he could have easily sent Alfred to pick up suitable gifts during his errands, but this year Bruce had decided he would add a personal touch. So, he found himself in the Gotham Mall, wearing thick glasses, a fake beard and layers of clothing so that nobody would recognise him.
For once, the paparazzi weren't swarming around him. Instead, it was the public that swarmed. Not trying to get his attention; quite the opposite. They were oblivious to him, his identity, even his existence. They bumped his shoulders, stepped on his toes, cut across him and now and then walked straight through him.
Bruce hadn't realized how hectic Gotham could be. He was used to being surrounded by photographers and security, but they all kept their distance, giving him some space to move. He'd always considered it a suffocating small space, but just then he longed for that much room to breathe.
Emerging from the fourth boutique, he hefted the shopping bag proudly. A bottle of perfume for Barbara – affordable but classy, and reminiscent of the fragrances his mother used to wear – a video game for Tim, and a bottle of bourbon for Jim.
Dick was a more difficult prospect. Their relationship had been tense ever since the teen wonder had quit his role as Robin, and although things had got better, Bruce no longer knew him as well as he once had. Did he still like magic? Probably not.
Wading through the tide of parkas, and woolly hats, Bruce found a less trampled area over by the green fence of Santa's Grotto. He leaned back against the fence and let out a sigh of relief, watching the little boys and girls wait excitedly to speak to jolly St. Nick.
Bruce couldn't remember ever visiting a grotto, or writing a letter to the North Pole. In fact, he remembered very little of his youth, or the magic that accompanies it. The tooth fairy, the Easter bunny, Halloween… all of it had faded into obscurity, purged from his memory by two ringing gunshots. He couldn't remember if he'd ever believed in Santa.
There was a child at the front of the queue, similarly unaffected by the festive season. A husky boy with ginger hair and beady green eyes, his expression soured more by the second. He'd joined the line, it seemed, to make his parents happy – although the free gift was probably an incentive, too.
"Go on, Billy," his mom urged him. "Get your picture taken with Santa and you can tell him what you want for Christmas."
"And not get it," Billy grumbled. "Like last year."
His mom looked hurt. "Billy, we can't always have everything we want. Not even Santa Clause can make every wish come true. But that doesn't mean we should stop wishing. Especially at this time of year. Now go on, it's your turn."
Bruce turned away. What would Dick wish for?
Over the years, Bruce had given many gifts to his ward, but the vast majority had been useful texts and equipment, or educational at the very least; atlases, encyclopaedias, Sun Tzu's Art of War, the complete works of William Shakespeare, chemistry sets, telescopes, survival kits, classes for various activities that could come in handy for a vigilante crime-fighter.
On the odd occasion he had bought something purely for the boy's entertainment, it had consisted of sports paraphernalia or arts and crafts. Neither of which, Bruce had since deduced, interested him in the least. Entertainment had been solely Alfred's domain.
Now that he came to think of it, he didn't know what Dick did like to do outside of his Robin persona. And since becoming Nightwing, the distance between them had only grown. Think, Bruce, think. He'd been spending a lot of time with Zatanna lately. Perhaps a magic set. Was he too old for magic?
The booming voice from the workshop roused him from his reverie.
"Hohoho! And what's your name?"
"Billy," he spat.
The kid sat on the Santa's lap with his arms crossed and his brow furrowed. He stared away into the masses of shoppers as if he'd rather be anywhere else but in the Grotto, and the sentiment was conveyed clearly in his words.
Unperturbed, the rotund, red-suited St. Nick chuckled merrily.
"Have you been a good boy this year, Billy?"
"Shouldn't you know? Haven't you made a list?"
"Hohoho! And checked it twice, my boy," Santa said. "But it's a very long list, with a great many names of all the boys and girls in all the world."
Bruce frowned. There was something familiar about that voice. Something that worried him. In the back of his mind, he thought he recognized a feeling of déjà vu. Not his own experience, something he'd read. An old case file.
"Right," Billy sighed.
"Now, Billy, what do you want for Christmas?"
"Who cares? You're not even the real Santa."
Kris Kringle let out a mock gasp, peering at the boy over half-moon spectacles in disbelief. There was something familiar about his eyes, but Bruce couldn't place it. The beard and glasses made it difficult, but something told him it there was more to it. It wasn't the rosy cheeks or the laughter lines around his eyes that were ringing alarm bells. It was the eyes themselves; just the eyes and nothing else. The cold grey irises that he'd felt he'd stared into before.
"Not real? Hohoho! Don't I have the white beard that Santa has? The rosy cheeks? The jolly smile? The round belly? Who else could I be but Father Christmas?"
That vicarious déjà vu was growing stronger. There was definitely something familiar. Something about the Mall and the voice he was hearing. And the time of year. He couldn't remember any of the rogues dressed as Santa, but there was something. Batgirl, he thought. One of her solo activities. What was it?
"You're just an actor. If you were real, you could do magic."
"Is that so? How about this?"
Bruce turned in time to see the Santa wink and hold out one black gloved hand. Suddenly, his palm began to crawl and bubble, and a moment later a shape appeared, pushing out of Santa's hand. It was like watching a man swallowed by quicksand in rewind.
Billy's eyes grew large and his mouth dropped open. Bruce's face was a fair reflection. The boy almost fell of the Santa's knee as, there before him, a toy horse materialized out of nothing. The Santa smiled and handed the clay figure to the boy.
Now, Bruce knew where he'd heard that voice. And he remembered the case, too.
Priming himself for a battle, Bruce dropped the bag of gifts gently to the floor. Any moment he expected Clayface to attack, holding the boy for hostage or else plundering the Mall for whichever items he took a liking to. Instead, he chortled and winked and listened to the boy's Christmas wish list.
And once Billy had gone back to his parents – now believing in all the season's magic – Clayface saw the next child, and the child after that. Eventually, Bruce had to move on and still there was no sign of any criminal motive.
Making his way out into the fresh winter air, Bruce contacted his butler.
"How is the shopping trip progressing, sir?"
"Just fine, Alfred. I think I just saw something on the GCPD's wish list. Most Wanted."
"I see. Then you'll require the suit?"
Batman watched from the veranda as Clayface strolled away from the winter wonderland set-up. Still in the shape of Santa, the shape-shifter made his way into the mall parking area, with the vigilante shadowing him all the way.
A few feet from the bay entrance, Clayface stopped. He frisked the pockets of his Santa coat, and pulled out a packet of snuff from the inside pocket. Instead of producing roll-ups, he held out his hand, cupping the fingers while pointing the thumb outwards. Before his eyes, Batman watched the hand morph into a clay pipe.
Clayface tipped the tobacco into his 'pipe', and put the snuff away before producing a book of matches. He fiddled with them for a moment, one-handed, then slipped the book back into his coat. Scratching the match against a concrete beam, he lit his pipe and began to smoke.
"Come to bring me my lumps of coal?"
So, he'd known he was being followed. Batman wondered how long. And what had tipped him off. He was getting sloppy. Or Clayface was getting much, much better. The Dark Knight made a mental note to keep track of that. Clayface was formidable as an opponent, but he was usually no better than a hired thug when it came to strategy. He needed to know if that had changed.
With a rush of air billowing beneath his cape, Batman dropped from his hiding place. He settled soundlessly behind Clayface, and glowered suspiciously at the villain's back. Clayface didn't turn around. He just puffed smoke into the stale air.
"I thought I smelled a rat this afternoon. You've been watching me all day. See anything you like?"
"What are you doing here, Clayface?"
"What's it look like I'm doing? I'm in show business, like I always wanted. This is just a publicity stunt." His words literally dripped with sarcasm. "I'm giving toys to kids, you schmuck."
Batman's eyes narrowed. "Why?"
"Because it's Christmas. Some of us care about things like that. Even us clay-things have a heart." He sighed in frustration. "The mall's a Santa down. Too much of the old egg nog. Only option was a skinny guy with a fake beard. I thought I'd step in."
Slowly, Santa Clay's skin returned to grey as his face bubbled and expanded. The beard retracted, curling up back into his face. Moments later, he once again appeared the clay creature Batman was so used to facing. The Santa costume bulged, hanging open at the front, the pants straining against the belt and buckle. The shiny black wellingtons dripped with clay.
"I can fill these boots."
Batman glared, considering. It wouldn't be the first time a criminal had chosen to do good at Christmas. Nonetheless, he wasn't about to take it at face value. Even if Clayface wasn't planning anything, he still had more than enough felonies under his belt to secure a cell in Arkham. Could he really risk the exposure of children to a villain like Clayface?
On the other hand, did he want to risk provoking the villain? If he got away, the very kids he had happily sat with all afternoon could become his victims. And with so much else going on in the lead-up to Christmas, one less problem would be a gift in itself.
"The horses?"
"What's the word: inert? I can't control them," Clayface replied gesturing with his hand/pipe. "There's no big scheme here Bats. I'm just doing something nice for once. Woulda thought you'd appreciate that."
After a long silence, Batman nodded and gathered his cape around him. With preternatural ease, he drifted away and receded into the shadows, but his voice emanated, echoing in the empty mall.
"Don't do anything stupid, Clayface," the voice rumbled. "Santa's not the only one with a list."