Warning: Some suitably gag-worthy general Christmassy-ness.

Studio, London:

A woman in a black pencil skirt and holding a clipboard examined the sculptures in front of her with a practised eye. She turned to the small Taiwanese man standing next to her and raised a perfectly sculptured eyebrow. "Well? What are they?"

He was visibly shaking as he replied. "T-they're sculptures o-of these creatures I-I created."

"Go on," she said.

"Well, o-one day," he said, "I was s-standing looking after another exhibit when i-it suddenly h-hit me out of the blue what I should do next."

"And this was the result?"

He nodded, twisting his clothes nervously in his hands. "W-What do you t-think?"

The lady suddenly smiled. "I like them. You will exhibit them in the Christmas term."

A huge grin broke over the man's face. "You mean it?"

She blinked. "Yes. You will be ready?"

The man nodded, barely containing the urge to jump up and down like a child. "Yes, yes, I'll be ready!"

She inclined her head, then turned and exited.

Back in the studio Mr Lin finally lost control. He ran over to the nearest sculpture and started dancing with it, unaware for a moment that it was made out of stone. The lifeless elf looked back unblinkingly at him with soulless eyes.

Mr Lin whirled around and hugged a small squat creature next, before punching the air. This was it. He had done it! This was the best Christmas present he could've wished for.

Deep, deep underground Foaly was grinding his teeth. This was going to be an all nighter.

"Don't worry about us. We're not even here. We're just inspiration for your next exhibition." – Pg 272, the Lost Colony

Lower Haven:

Ruffle sniffed and rolled the red ball over the carpet. Even the fact that the red set off the filthy green of it (with some unidentifiable rotting substances in the corner) rather nicely couldn't take away from his mood.

It was three years, three months to the day that his precious, his sweet had left him. For all of his long goblin-y life he had thought of three as his lucky number, but ever since the event that had taken his single loved one, the one thing he actually cared about in his rather horrific life, away from him, he had steadily been losing faith.

He gazed mournfully at the two plates set out at the low table, that had long ago been defiled with a variety of drunken graffiti (Who knew who the 'LOP' were, or what they had to do with Ruffles?)

No one there. No one to share his Christmas meal with. He had spent a full half an hour on the street scavenging it as well. It was no easy task to try and get some half-eaten dog food off a couple of dwarf hobos, he could tell you that! Not to mention that he had even splashed out and bought two cans of 'Candwich', freshly smuggled from the surface, and apparently a sandwich in a can. He thought it sounded absolutely delicious, and was sure she would've loved it too.

Could goblins cry, Ruffles would've been wiping away a tear. It just wasn't fair. All around central Haven you could see advertisement boards full of happy couples, in their perfect apartments, with their perfect lives all celebrating the Christmas spirit together. And here he was, a very respectable young male goblin with some impressive colouring on his torso, all alone. (In his sorrow Ruffles conveniently forgot the countless convictions, his involvement with the B'Wa Kell and the year spent in Howlers Peak.)

Still licking his eyeballs sorrowfully Ruffles moved over to the table. He might as well start. He choked back a sob. Without her.

He crawled slowly on all fours to the table, and popped the first can (chicken flavoured).

Ruffles just watched as it fizzed up, lost in memories. The two of them, dancing in the artificial sunshine. The two of them splashing in the drains. No matter how strange people said it was, she loved water. The two of them-

Behind him the doorbell rang, momentarily startling him out of his reverie. Upset at losing the froth on top of the can he ambled over, taking his time.

The door whined open. "What?" he demanded at the small goblinette standing in his doorway. Then he noticed the small scrawny creature held gingerly out to him.

Ruffles went through a variety of emotions in the seconds that his brain took to process the image. First of all disbelief, of course, -what goblin would take anything on face value?- but that slowly mellowed into pure happiness, an emotion almost unknown to him.

Ruffles couldn't help himself. He threw himself on her and squealed like a girl.

"FLUUUUUUUFFY!"

The girl looked terrified. "Meh m-momma s-said dat y-you l-lost 'im," she managed to splutter out.

Ruffles was too busy smothering Fluffy to worry about a silly girl and her mother. Not even glancing at her, he closed the door and flung himself on the carpet with Fluffy.

This. . .this was the perfect Christmas.

"Pardon me, young elf, but my cat's climbed a stalactite," – pg 34, Artemis Fowl

The French Alps, France:

"But Papa, please. . !"

"No." Mr Paradizo was being surprisingly firm with his daughter, but Minerva wasn't worried. Irritated, highly, but not worried. She had got her way in harder situations.

"It's not happening, mon Cherie."

Minerva flounced off.

"What have I done to make you hate me so much?" Having had no success over the past two days Minerva had switched tactics. Now she was busy sobbing into her hands while her father read the newspaper on the other side of the breakfast table.

He remained stoic, apparently unaware of his daughter's tantrum.

Minerva picked up a cushion and howled into it.

Gaspard Paradizo Hmm-ed, got up, and wandered off.

"Paaaapaaaaa," Minerva was whining and she knew it, but her father had rejected her tears. Desperate times.

Mr Paradizo gave her an exasperated look over his coffee. "No. And if you continue pestering me I might just have to invite them over for the New Year as well.

Momentarily defeated, Minerva stalked off.

Thud

Thud

Thud

Suspicious sounds to be hearing at half past two in the morning. Gaspard Paradizo crept downstairs with a handy pillow to confront the intruder.

He rounded the corner. . .

"Ah, Papa." Minerva's smile was the smile of a child caught stealing from the cookie jar. Then her eyes alighted on her father's weapon of choice. "Interesting equipment," she said.

Mr Paradizo sniffed. "I," he said with dignity, "am not at my best at half past two in the morning."

"I could tell." Minerva stifled a giggle. Honestly, men.

Her father was not so amused. "What, young lady, are you doing with a suitcase at half past two in the morning?"

"Taking it for a walk?"

"Very funny. Call me an old man, but I think you're trying to run away."

Minerva gave a hopeful smile, "What would give you that idea, dear papa?"

"My study. Now." And then as an afterthought, "Leave the suitcase."

"But if only I could leave, just for while she's here, you have to understand. . ."

Mr Paradizo was pacing behind his desk, while Minerva was seated in a leather seat on the opposite side. Neither were backing down.

"I've told you, that that is simply not an option. Your mother specifically asked for you and Beau to be there."

"But why does he have to be there as well?"

There was a slight pause in the conversation before Gaspard responded. "Mr Gravois and your mother," he said with control, "are a soon-to-be married happy couple. It would be rude to invite one and ignore the existence of the other."

"You didn't have a problem with being rude when you told him never to darken your doorstep again." Minerva said sulkily.

"That was a long time ago. I was angry and overreacted, and this is going to show them that we have no animosity towards their relationship."

Minerva stood up and scowled at her father. "Me personally, papa," she said, flicking her hair, "hold very little goodwill towards the affair that practically tore our family apart."

And with that dramatic declaration, Minerva strode out.

Mr Paradizo rolled his eyes at her theatrics, sank down into his chair, and put his head in his hands.

"Artemis? Arte- Oh, good morning Mrs Fowl. Yes, yes the weather is good here. I was just wondering if I could speak to Art – Oh he's not there at the moment? Is there any way I could get hold of him? He's not answering his phone and I was just- Oh, of course. Could you ask him to call me back when he gets back? Merci, merci."

Minerva terminated the call and moaned delicately. She had been counting on Artemis to get her out of this. Her father could be so stubborn when he wanted to. Artemis had been her last-ditch attempt.

She sank into her chair. The morning after the stand-off, her father had cornered her by the bay window in her room, and guilt-tripped her into promising to at least show her face on her mother's visit. It was just- just so unfair.

Christmas day, and Minerva was feeling awful. It wasn't the seasonal tunes, or the impending visit from her mother, but an actual sickness. Flu, if she had correctly diagnosed it through the pounding headache.

"Bon Noël, darling." Mr Paradizo strode through her door and flung open her curtains onto a perfect winter wonderland. In the old days this would've been done by a member of staff, but ever since what she referred to as 'The Fowl Incident', all the Paradizo's were a little less trustful of staff.

Back in bed, Minerva groaned. "Papa I'm not feeling well,"

For a moment Gaspard was worried; then he remembered the upcoming visit of her mother.

"Come on now, out of bed." He leant over his daughter and pulled the covers down to the bottom of the bed. Minerva's limp hands didn't ever try to hold on.

"Please papa," she croaked, "Close the curtains."

Now he was getting a little irritated. "Just because your mother is coming this evening is no reason for you to put on this act."

Minerva gazed blearily up at him with unpleasantly bloodshot eyes. "Ma-?"

"You are an exceptional actress darling. Now, get up."

Minerva started to say something, but was interrupted by a coughing fit. Even in her state she was in, she was aware of a horrible feeling of being the boy who cried wolf once too often.

Mr Paradizo gazed at his daughter, feeling a little unfair.

But he'd been taken for a fool once too often, and was not going to back down on today of all days.

"Up. Now."

Dimly Minerva reached for her dressing gown. "Coming," she croaked.

Satisfied, Bernard left the room.

Minerva fell back into bed.

Brigitte soon-to-be Gravois, strutted into the drawing room and sat down as if she owned the place. Well, at one point, she had co-owned it.

She smiled charmingly across the room at her ex-husband. "Merry Christmas, Gaspard."

He smiled back, just as charmingly. "Thank you Brigitte. How was the journey?"

"Good, good. Claude drove most excellently in the snow."

To his credit, Mr Paradizo's smile didn't falter. "I suppose that was a little jibe on my driving ability?"

"Oh no, no, I would never."

After this short greeting they sat grinning a little inanely at each other in near-total silence, until Mr Claude Gravois came in from parking the car. Then the whole scene was repeated, with little variation.

"Merry Christmas Mr Gravois."

"Merry Christmas Mr Paradizo."

"How was your journey?"

"Rough going in parts, but nothing I couldn't handle. Brigitte was telling me all about your driving ability on the way here."

Another large, plastic, smile. "I'm sure she was."

Then silence descended again, and they sat awkwardly tapping fingers on armrests, or staring into the fire. So, when a chocolate-covered Beau exploded into the room, they were all heartily relieved for the distraction.

Unlike his father or sister, Beau had no qualms about running over and hugging his mother.

"MAMAAA!"

Gaspard immediately started apologizing for his state, but Brigitte just smiled, gingerly picking up the small confectionary-smeared boy. "And how are you Beau?"

"I GOT CHOCOLATE!" he yelled at top volume, a little unnecessarily.

Brigitte beamed down at him, "Truly? Now that you mention it, I might have a little something for you, out in the car. . . Claude darling would you be a dear and go fetch it?"

Claude gave a sickly sweet smile, and heaved his considerable bulk upwards. "Of course, dearest."

Surprising how well he's taken to the good life, Bernard thought bitterly. The good life using my divorce money.

But he had to keep up appearances, so he plastered a smile on his face and grinned until his cheeks hurt, even when Claude came back driving a small red fire truck.

For Beau, this was heaven. He had both his parents on speaking terms (not to mention a strange bonus man) and a red fire truck. The only thing missing was. . . "Where's Minnie?" he demanded.

Brigitte cooed. "That is just the cutest nickname I've ever heard."

Mr Paradizo gave a dim smile. "Yes, he's been calling her that ever since the discovery of Mickey Mouse."

Brigitte looked up. "But where is she? Surely she can't be spending Christmas day in the library?"

"Oh no, of course not," he replied. "She said she wasn't feeling very well earlier on, and went up for a little nap. I'll go call her." He rose to leave, but Brigitte stopped him.

"I can visit my own daughter. She is still in the same room, yes?"

"Well yes, but maybe it will be better if I-," he started.

"Nonsense," Brigitte interrupted. "I will go see her."

"But she really would prefer if-,"

Once more he was cut off. "No, no. I am sure Minerva would be delighted to see me."

Recognising defeat, Gaspard sank back down into his chair. He wasn't anxious to be there when Minerva realised that he'd let her mother get her alone.

Brigitte knocked gently on the door. "Minerva darling? Can I come in?"

When there was no reply she gently opened the door and stole inside. The room was almost identical to how it had been when she left, with the same pastel drapes and eclectic mix of posters. The only thing missing was the china doll collection she distinctly remembered being right over . . .

"Woos dere?" A bleary voice emanated from the covers.

Brigitte gulped. "It's me, sweetheart. Gasp- your father said you weren't feeling well."

"Ma-?" a dishevelled head poked its way out of the duvet, blinking.

Brigitte tiptoed over and sat gingerly on the chair next to the bed. "How are you feeling?"

A moan was answer enough.

"Can I get you anything? What about some water?"

"Mm-kay."

Quietly, so as not to disturb her, Brigitte took the empty glass from her bedside table and filled it up in the sink in her ensuite.

"There you are, sweetie."

Gently she helped her daughter up and tipped the glass to her dry lips, and then back down again as she finished.

"Thank you, Brigitte," Minerva said awkwardly.

"It's- I'm your mother. This is the sort of thing mother's do."

Minerva turned to her. "Really? I wouldn't know."

"I- er- yes, I suppose."

They sat in an uncomfortable silence for a little while, before Minerva finally broke it.

"Merry Christmas."

Brigitte was suddenly painfully aware of how much of a stranger the sick girl lying in bed was to her. "Merry Christmas," she said, awkwardly.

"Why did you run off with the gardener?"

"Oh." The sudden subject change caught Brigitte off guard, "I- It's not your fault."

Minerva brushed back a few of her sticky curls and propped herself up. "I am not a child, mother," she said formally, "I just want to know what you find so appealing about that fat man in the ill-fitting suit I saw coming in downstairs."

"How-," Brigitte began to ask before realising how pointless it would be. "I- Well I love him," she said at last.

"But not papa."

"I- No," she said. "There was an attraction –your father is by no means a plain man- but it was never really love."

Minerva didn't seem appeased. "Without quoting from a chick-flick, could you please then tell me why you decided to leave myself and Beau without a mother for a large portion of our childhood years?"

"It was not my wish but-,"

"You and papa didn't want to see each other, I get it! But I wanted to see you, and- and- you weren't there!" Minerva was suddenly yelling, her voice breaking with both sickness and emotion that had been suppressed for far too many years.

Brigitte tried to calm her. "I didn't want to not see you, but your father, you must understand-,"

"I understand perfectly!" Minerva cried. "You didn't want to see me at all, you were too busy trying to build your perfect life with that shitty man-," her voice broke off abruptly, and she leant into the pillows.

Brigitte lifted a hand and let it waver in the air for a moment before resting it on her daughter's back. "Darling. . ." she said quietly. "Darling, that's really what you thought?"

Minerva lifted a ruffled head. "Yes," she said with a jerky hiccup, before re-burying her face into the pillows and continuing to cry.

Brigitte lowered herself from the chair and kneeled next to the bed. "Minerva," she said softly, "Minerva, look at me."

Two puffy eyes peeked from behind a blanket.

"Minerva, darling, I never, ever, not once, wanted you to feel like this. I had read that what children need is stability, and that was something I couldn't give you at that time. Both your father and Claude thought that it would be best if we didn't have any contact till everything had settled down. I regret letting them talk me into it, but if I'm honest it was just easier. We had all the divorce payments to sort out, the only time Bernard and I spoke was at court, or the occasional screaming match over the phone, so not having to worry about childcare on top of everything was the easy way out. But that's not to say I didn't miss you – I did, every day. You're my babies."

Minerva sniffed. "That isn't an excuse."

Brigitte stroked her hot face, "I know that, of course I know it, but here I am, stand- kneeling in front of you, asking you to please forgive me, and maybe give us another chance."

Minerva rubbed her eyes, hiding her face. Then she swallowed with a dry throat, and looked her mother in the eye. "It is Christmas."

Brigitte gave a broad smile. "So I'm getting my little girl back again?"

Suddenly shy, Minerva nodded. "Only if I have a mama again."

Brigitte smiled. "Of course, darling."

And as she lent down gently to kiss her daughter, then back up again to go fetch her something for her throat, Minerva couldn't help quietly thinking that this was the absolute best present she had received all day.

Her mother had ran off with the gardener – the Lost Colony

Unknown village, Nambia:

Nuru sat under a baobab tree, utterly content. The sun was high in the sky, and most of his tribe were busy sleeping off the after effects of lunch in their huts, but Nuru had never quite managed to adapt himself to their afternoon catnap.

The lethargy at this time of day, however, was catching and so he usually spent the time out underneath this tree watching the horizon, or trying to catch a particularly irritating lizard that had chosen this particular spot for his home. Nuru often entertained himself with daydreams of eating this creature, which had the annoying habit of either dropping his tail when he came close, or biting him when cornered.

But later, his sleepy brain thought quietly, later we can catch Mo.

Nuru wasn't entirely sure why he had named this brute Mo, and he wasn't inclined to find out. Ever since arriving here last Machi he had found himself utterly willing to just be. He was always ready, with a large smile on his face, to help out whoever needed it, but other than that he was completely content to just sit humming to himself beneath this tree.

He shifted, getting comfortable against the rough bark, but, before his eyes could close, he spotted an unknown figure running on the horizon.

He whipped his cell phone out and dialled the chief. It was true that they were mainly at peace these days, but any stranger was to be reported immediately.

"Jambo, chief. There's a strange man, north of the camp. "Nido. Asante."

He cut the call and went back to the business of getting comfortable. No point in worrying.

The drums called him back to consciousness several hours later. Rolling his shoulders to get his circulation going, he wandered back into camp.

The new man was sitting next to the chief, apparently deep in conversation. Nuru waited, as was respectful, for them to finish before approaching.

"Habari ya jioni," he said. Good evening.

The man looked up, and Nuru started with surprise. This man had skin like him!

The man smiled at him. "Habari ya joini,"

"Who are you?" he dared to ask. Usually it was not customary to prolong conversation with a chief's visitor, but he was intrigued. Maybe he came from the same place that this man came from. Maybe they were originally from the same tribe!

The man was now talking, but Nuru couldn't concentrate. "Sorry?" he asked again.

"Ninatokea Uingereza. Nipo hapa kwa kazi. " I'm from the UK. I'm here on business.

"What is your business?" Nuru asked, intrigued.

The man brought something out of his pocket. A needle. "I'm a tattooist," he said.

"A tattooist. . ?" Nuru said thoughtfully. He knew what that was…somewhere in the back of his mind…no, it was slipping away…

"I place tattoos on your body," the man answered.

"I want one." Nuru said. He didn't know what a 'tattoo' was, he didn't know whether it would be painful, but he had to have one.

"It'll cost you," the man warned him.

"I don't care," Nuru said without hesitation. "How soon can I get one?"

The man smiled and rose from the ground. "Right away, if you wish. Come into my hut."

Nuru followed him like a puppy, almost treading on his heels. For some unknown reason, a thought rushed into his head. This, he thought, was the most amazing Christmas present I have ever got.

Then: I wonder what Christmas is?

"So, Loafers. What's the story behind all the tattoos?" - pg 126, Eternity Code

"I see. And, what is your name?"
Loafers, said Loafer's brain. "Nuru," said his mouth. - pg 151, Eternity Code

PI Agency, Central Haven:

"What the heck have you done this time, Mulch?" Doodah Day was clenching and unclenching his fists, trying to stop himself throttling the dwarf standing in front of him.

Mulch grinned shamelessly. "You see, old bud, it wasn't really anything important. They just took me in for doing my Christmas shopping too early."

"The shop wasn't even open!"

Mulch gave a beatific smile. "Exactly!"

Doodah spluttered indignantly, "What do you mean 'exactly'? Have you any clue how bad it is for business when the fecking owner of the agency is taken in for questioning every other day?"

Now Mulch was indignant. "What do you mean every other day? This was my first interrogation in months!"

"Months! What about that time, less than two weeks ago, when you stuck your arm through the window of that jewellery shop, then tried to smart-arse your way off a sentence by using the pathetic reasoning 'I merely inserted my arm into the window and removed a few trifling articles. My arm is not me, and I fail to see how you can punish the whole individual for an offense committed by his limb.'" The last part was said in a falsetto designed to give offence.

"Look, if that judge hadn't sentenced my arm to a year's imprisonment, and wanted to know whether I would accompany it, I would've been home and dry!"

"But the point remains, if Foaly hadn't taken time off from the Holly project, you would be currently sitting in jail!"

Mulch sniffed. "It's hardly likely I'd still be there. I am a far better escape artist than you credit me with being."

The veins in Doodah's neck stood out as he fought to keep himself from walking out right then and there. "That's not the point, Mulch," he managed. "We're running a detective agency, and the clients won't trust you with their money if you carry on like this."

Mulch shrugged. "But the criminals will. If I'm too much of a good guy, I won't be in the circle of trust."

Doodah drew a circle in the air with two shaking fingers. "The circle of trust," he sneered.

Mulch grabbed a chicken wing and started chomping silently, ignoring him. Doodah stood breathing deeply until his anger subsided.

"Look Mulch," he said eventually. "What were you stealing that was so important anyway?"

Mulch scowled and carried on chewing. Doodah poked him in the ribs. "Look- I'm sorry," he said. "I just- This is something I want to work, okay? It's not illegal, and it's a chance to- to do the right thing for once. Helping people, ya'know what I'm saying?"

Mulch turned and said gruffly, "I suppose I overreacted a bit too. Just- don't joke about the circle of trust again."

Doodah grinned. "Sure thing, old bud. It's lucky you're not a farmer."

Mulch looked up. "And why would that be?"

"Oh don't tell me you haven't heard the joke? It's so awful it should be copyrighted."

Mulch grinned. "Go on."

Doodah rolled his eyes. "Fine then. What did the farmer use to make crop circles?" he waited an appropriate length of time before answering his own question. "A protractor."

Mulch laughed and slapped his knee. "And that," he said, "is why we are such great business partners. A shared sense of the pathetic."

Doodah chortled. "You know it!"

Mulch abruptly stopped laughing and put on his best serious face, which reminded Doodah somewhat of a constipated swear toad. "And that Doodah is why I had to break into that shop, which was actually never a shop, but a document. . . place thingy."

"Huh?"

Mulch strode over to their main desk, and pulled out an official-looking document with a flourish. "This," he said, "is your Christmas present from yours truly."

Doodah took the document out of his hand and looked it over. "Erm, what is it?"

Mulch grinned delightedly. "This, moron deluxe, is the official document changing the Short and Diggums agency, to Diggums and Day, the best private detectives in Haven."

Doodah brought a shaky hand to his forehead. "Yo- Really?"

Mulch patted him on the back. "Of course, my birdbrained colleague. I could hardly have called it 'Mulch and his Doodah' now, could I?"

Doodah gave a weak grin, "Quite." Then, feeling like he should show a little more of how grateful he was, he started another sentence. "I- Er- Thanks Mulch. It- It's the best Christmas present since sliced bread."

Mulch's brows drew together. "I'm not sure you've got the right end of the dwarf there, buddy. But- I'm glad you liked it."

Mulch has kept the PI going. Well, more than that, actually, it's thriving. He signed up a new partner. […] Doodah Day. – pg 376, Lost Colony

J Argon's Clinic, Haven:

A nurse strode down the corridor, with the enforced cheerfulness of someone who spent every day working in a clinic.

A few metres above her, Cupid bobbed, surveying the scene. If he had had a choice he wouldn't have been here at all, but when all your minions are threatening to go on a strike if the big boss doesn't move his big behind and do some work, you have very little say in the matter.

So here he was, doing his stuff, in the J Argon clinic, central Haven. He was actually here to help the Mud Man (Yes! A Mud Man.) who was feeling slightly homesick in the Christmas season (not that he would have admitted it to anyone).

He scratched his navel irritably. Honestly, what was this? Here he was, one of the only true immortals, helping a fifteen year old kid with a case of the holiday blues. This could almost be a terrible advert; 'Cupid, good for all heartbreak, true love and seasonal celebrations'. What was next? Help with Hanukkah?

Down beneath him, the nurse had reached the kid's room and there was no more time for his grumbles. Cupid flew down and hovered by the side of his bed. Right now the Mud Man was asleep, suiting his purposes perfectly. He flapped his metaphorical wings and took some mistletoe out of his bag. The nurse was bustling around, clearing the table for a plate of food, and didn't notice as he quietly hung it above the door.

The next problem was how to get the nurse out, and then them both under the door. At this point she wasn't even in the building.

Cupid rolled his eyes and transported. He then scowled and rubbed them. It wasn't wise to be moving anything at all when you were warping time and space.

The female in question was currently paying for her lunch at the cafeteria. Cupid gave her meal a quick check. Vole curry with a salad side dish. He pulled a face, thinking of the awful breath that would result in, and floated down to her level, appearing beside her as a young sprite. No one even blinked, so used to teenagers' irritating habit of shielding and unshielding at awkward moments.

Cupid casually leaned over and plucked a green leaf from her salad. He popped it into his mouth and chewed, winking at her.

The lady scowled and turned her body away, shielding her tray from further pilfering. Cupid gave an easy grin and moved round so that she was forced to face him.

"What?" she said irritably.

He flashed her another smile. "That looks good," he said, nodding at the food, but implying her body.

"It's the dish of the day," she said shortly, trying to push past him.

He blocked her, grinning wider. "You know where I think it would look even better?"

"No." She tried ducking under his arm, but he casually shifted his body so that she hit into his chest instead.

"Right about…here." As he talked, he flicked his hand up, hitting the bottom of the tray and sending the dish of the day all down the front of her chest. He gave another grin. "Much better, don't you think?"

The girl gasped and her hands flew into the air.

Cupid saluted and vanished, appearing behind her as a concerned citizen.

"My dear, what on earth did that hooligan do to you?"

She smiled gratefully at the elderly man who now held her elbow. "It- It was nothing. I'm fine."

Cupid guided her to a chair. "Are you quite sure you are all right?"

She nodded, dabbing herself with a napkin. "Yes, really. Thanks."

He smiled, but didn't leave. "I know this may come slightly out of the blue, but would you mind helping me with a little problem I have?"

"Of course," she said at once, looking up.

Internally, Cupid was smiling. Only fools agreed to help without knowing what it was they were agreeing to. But on the outside he was wiping away an imaginary tear. "It's- It's my grandson's friend," he said sorrowfully.

The lady was immediately on her feet with her arm round him. Cupid would've actually have been much happier if she had remained seated – vole curry had a rather unappealing look when spread over the front of someone's shirt. He tried to unobtrusively edge away, but her concerned arm anchored him to her body.

"What is it- is he sick? Or in hospital? I'm not a nurse, but I'll do anything I possibly can to help of course."

"Well, you see, I heard how you'd saved all these people, and he is just so sad about this time of month, and maybe you can use whatever magic it is you use and help him?" Cupid turned to her, subtly changing his eyes into pools of warm chocolate sparks.

Weaker women then her had been ensnared by those peepers. She immediately began babbling, promising him anything, anything, if she could help in any way possible, she could give him her clothes if necessary. Amused, Cupid assured her that they wouldn't be needed, just that if she would come along with him now-

Before he had finished she was pushing him, telling him that wherever he went she would follow, to please, please, let her help, if only she could assist him her life would be complete.

Giving a slight grimace at her vice-like grip on her back, he said: "If you could just follow me to The J Argon Clinic-," once more, before he'd finished the sentence, she was off, racing down the corridors, searching for his mysterious brother's friend.

Cupid shrugged and transported outside Artemis's door. The lady appeared a ten minutes later, out of breath and still searching.

He flashed her a smile. "In you go, my dear."

So enraptured with this man, the lady didn't even question how he had got there before her, although she did do a sudden double take when she noticed the sole occupant of the room.

"A- A Mud Man?" she squealed, unable to scream with the enchantment slowing her, but still with mind enough to be terrified.

Cupid gave her a look of intense boredom, then sent her a couple more relax vibes. Her voice immediately dropped three octaves, and she gave a dreamy smile. "You were saying?" she asked sweetly.

He gave an obligatory smile back, wondering how long it was going to take to get the point across and him to be allowed off. "This is a large elf," he told her. "You are to give him the perfect Christmas present."

She sighed blissfully. "And what would that be?"

He stretched his grin. "You're a massage therapist. Give him a massage."

Tiffany Field flexed her fingers, took some suddenly appearing oil off the cupboard, and expertly started massaging the Mud Man on the bed.

Cupid watched as Artemis Fowl started groaning happily and he gave an impatient smile, before leaping up and away to his Christmas dinner.

I've still got it, he thought.

Which was appropriate, considering Cupid was her great-grandfather – pg 31, Artemis Fowl

So, there's my entry, folks. I apologise for the prose, and slight pointlessness of it, but I was suddenly reminded of the competition less than a week ago. I think it conforms to the word count rules (technically, there are three different stories here, compressed) and I'm feeling very Christmassy. There's something about Christmas Eve which returns my mental age into single digits.

J Argon's Clinic, Haven: