A/N: I just realized I forgot to post this here! Supreme dork, am I. As you can see, this was my Christmas ficlet. It's crossposted at the fanfiction subforum for and also at my livejournal.

A/N 2: I know the Eppes are Jewish. However, I am not, and I didn't want to write about something I am unfamiliar with.

To Charlie, From Santa

When Charlie was three, Santa Claus was a big deal. He happily wrote a letter to the mythical fellow, outlining his Christmas wishes in green and red crayon, and became positively spastic as Dad brought in the tree to be decorated. Though Don protested the younger boy's involvement in the handling of Christmas ornaments, Mom assured them both that this year, Charlie was a big enough boy to help. To emphasize his acknowledgement of her trust in him, the child would step in slow motion towards the tree, a delicate glass bulb cradled in his small hands as he would an egg, before carefully selecting the perfect branch to hang it from. Then he would dart back and choose another, the process repeating itself until the evergreen was literally glittering from all of the lights, garland and ornaments.

The trip to the mall that year to see Santa in person was mind-blowing. Charlie stood trembling somewhere between tremendous elation and total awe, hands held nervously up to his face as he waited with Mom and Don for the long line to shorten and finally end. Don was a little less enthusiastic as his brother, but still fully believed in the entire canon of the season; so it was together they sat on Santa's lap, Charlie fidgeting as he struggled to stop giggling long enough to murmur out something about a Tonka truck, Don deadly serious as he specified a particular jacket, listing every minute detail and giving the jolly old man a death glare as though to make him understand that there would be eight-year-old hell to pay if he messed this up.

By the time he was seven however, Charlie's little mind had developed. An age at which most children were still fully inundated by the myth of Santa, Charlie had decided the numbers just didn't add up, and by the end of November he had an elaborate equation detailing exactly why Santa couldn't possibly exist. Covering all the particulars of the story, from the reindeer to the sleigh to the old elf's preferred chimney entrance to the very fact that he was supposed to stop by every kid's house, Charlie debunked it all and announced a few days into December that he didn't believe Santa Claus existed.

It was a disappointment to Mom, who wasn't quite ready to give up the charade just yet. Don had already discovered the truth the previous year, in the unfortunate accident of uncovering the present stash three days before Christmas Eve. The event resulted in the talk that permanently ended his involvement in the Santa story, and while Mom had been disappointed, she was sure she would still have her baby boy to delight-- after all, who would expect a seven year old to give up Santa?

Christmas morning arrived, and presents were exchanged. In surprise, Charlie came across one package addressed to him, wrapped quite elegantly. In pretty, tight cursive script, it read "To Charlie, From Santa."

"See, I told you he exists," Mom urged, a knowing smile on her face. Charlie just rolled his eyes and thanked his mother for the gift. "It wasn't me," Mom insisted, "I promise."

It happened again the year after, and the year after. In fact, every Christmas since, he had recieved at least one gift from "Santa." And every year, Mom and Dad both insisted they weren't the gift-givers. By the year he turned thirteen, it had become a hassle.

"It's sort of stupid, don't you think?"

"What," asked Don half-heartedly. The older brother was sitting on one of the concrete benches outside the high school, checking his math homework against Charlie's. The younger boy was pacing in front of him. It was still early, only the teachers and extreme nerds were here at this time of the morning. Even Don wouldn't usually be here, except that Charlie was always early to school and he needed the help with the math. Ergo, Don was with him.

"The whole Santa thing. I stopped believing in that a long time ago," the younger Eppes complained, brushing a stubborn curl of hair from his eyes. "I keep asking Mom to cut it out, and she always just says the same thing. 'Charlie, sweetie, I told you it isn't me.' And Dad just laughs at me when I ask."

"Charlie, you're making a big deal out of it. Mom and Dad are just trying to keep you a kid for as long as they can."

Charlie turned a blank stare on his brother. "I'm thirteen. You stopped believing in Santa when you were eleven and they didn't throw fits."

"Yeah, well, I stopped after having a healthy relationship with the man," Don replied with a chuckle, "I believed in him for eleven whole years. You gave up on him after one night of number crunching. If that isn't a weak faith I don't know what is."

"It isn't a weak faith! I have faith! In my numbers."

"Uh-huh. Where are numbers gonna take you?"

"Everything is numbers, Don. If the numbers say he can't exist, then he doesn't. It's that simple." Charlie's voice was tight, and Don had to restrain a smirk at the realization that he was getting on his brother's nerves. He lifted his head to look at him. The boy was practically steaming from the ears from sheer mental work and irritation with the elder sibling. With a sympathetic smile, Don said, "Some things are about how you feel about it, buddy. Not what the numbers say."

One eyebrow rose. "What do you mean?"

Don looked back down at the notebook sheet in front of him. "Think about it. You're different from other kids. Hell, look at us; you're five years younger than me and we're in the same grade. You have the advantage of knowledge, you can look into these things for yourself, and after one night of research you decided on your own that you didn't believe in him anymore. That really bothered Mom. I heard her telling Dad one night a couple of years ago that she thought you were growing up too fast."

He paused for a moment to skim his paper, and then folded the notebook closed and returned Charlie's to him. Stuffing the homework into his bag, Don zipped it then turned back to his brother. "Mom's trying to keep you as little as she can for as long as she can. You can't blame her. She didn't exactly get a normal son when she had you."

Charlie's expression withered at his brother's words and he frowned. For a moment he considered this, then sighed in defeat. "Yeah." Don stood, slinging his backpack and reaching out to tousle Charlie's mop of brown curls. The boy didn't look up at the affectionate gesture, and Don nudged him.

"C'mon, let's get into class."

.n.

"Don, you did it again?"

"Yep."

"You know your brother hates that."

Don smirked as he set the carefully wrapped package underneath the tree, glancing back at his parents to meet their eyes. Mom was sipping a cup of hot cocoa, Dad reading the paper. Upstairs in bed Charlie was already asleep, as were most of the children on the block and in the country, dreaming sweet dreams as they waited for morning, anticipating the rewards left by the mythical elf. Don turned back to the present he'd bought for his brother earlier that week, stifling a laugh as he read the tag: To Charlie, From Santa.

"I know he does," the young man replied, "But he's my brother. It's my job to antagonize him."

Mom shook her head, clearly accepting but not understanding, while Dad just laughed. Don's smile faded slightly as he looked at the elegant gold script on the tag. What he'd told his brother the previous week was true: the giver was trying to keep Charlie a kid, for as long as possible.

It just wasn't his mother doing the giving.

END