Slash Level: 1 (but the next chapter will be a definite 5)
As Donald Davenport looked at the three faces of the bionic kids, he remembered why he'd never told them about Santa before. How could they, raised amongst science, understand such a fantastical thing as a man who delivered untold numbers of toys to all good children in one night while riding around with flying reindeer? Adam would be lost two sentences in, Bree would wonder why Santa couldn't be a girl, and Chase would over-think things like he always did. In the end, he gave them 'Twas the Night Before Christmas' and a Little Golden book called "Santa's Toy Workshop".
"What?" Adam's brows knit together.
"Mrs. Claus must be working around the clock to feed all those elves while Santa plays around with reindeer and toys," Bree huffed. "Would it kill him to bake a quiche?"
"That's impossible," Chase said.
"What's impossible?" Davenport sighed. Never let it be said, he didn't know those kids.
Chase threw his arms up. "Everything! Even working around the clock, you'd need untold numbers of helpers in order to make enough toys for every child in the world to get what's on their Christmas list. I mean, a bike alone would take the better part of a week to make. And where do they get the raw materials? The books didn't mention what natural resources they have at the North Pole or what countries they trade with for parts. Not to mention that even with a high-speed mode of transportation, there's no way to visit every house in the world in one night. And don't get me started on how an old man could carry a bag big enough to carry all the toys. I've seen you struggle lifting twenty pound dumbbells."
Davenport was about to defend himself, 38 was hardly old, when Bree shook her head. "Seriously, I think Mrs. Claus deserves a vacation."
Adam had gone into the game room and returned with a jigsaw puzzle and a couple video games. "I checked the boxing gloves you gave me last year too. None of these say they were made at the North Pole."
Davenport frowned. "You're not meant to take it all so seriously."
"Why not?" Bree asked.
"Because... because," Davenport grasped for a way to explain magic to the teens. Their viewpoint on magic was scientifically based, that everything had a reasonable explanation and fairy tales were just stories. But he couldn't tell them Santa wasn't real when they'd just found out who he was. Leo had even stood up to jocks at the mall to help the bionic kids keep their faith in Santa intact.
"Is Santa bionic?" Chase asked, head tilted in contemplation.
Pausing, Davenport thought it through. "Yes. That's exactly it. Santa's bionic. "Strong enough to carry enough toys for everyone," he placed a hand on Adam's shoulder. "Fast enough to deliver them in one night," he tucked Bree against his shoulder. "And smart enough to know exactly what each kid most wanted and whether they are deserving," his other arm brought Chase into the embrace.
"Are we deserving?" Adam asked.
"Of course you are, all of you," Davenport tightened his grip on the kids. "I bet anything Santa already got your letters and has finished making all your gifts." Because they are hiding in shopping bags in Tasha's sewing room, he thought.
"I want to race Santa!" Bree exclaimed.
"I wanna arm-wrestle him," Adam added with a fist pump.
"I want to discuss his economic strategy. I mean, the man's obviously a business master," Chase grinned.
Davenport pouted. "Hey!" He shook his head. "Santa comes after you fall asleep. That's his deal. You can't catch him."
Bree frowned. "The man in 'Twas the Night Before Christmas' did."
"He's an adult," Davenport scrambled. "Only adults are allowed to see Santa. Privilege of adulthood." But the teens weren't listening to him anymore.
Chase and Adam were discussing the best places to hide so they could surprise Santa and Bree was running back and forth to the living room, clocking her time.
Davenport smiled to see his kids... the kids so excited about Santa. He was so grateful Tasha and Leo had come into their lives and made him see the teens as more than experiments.