Prompter: DominusTempori

Prompt: So at some point, I'm guessing, both Davey and Wynn figure out that their Dad "helps" Santa/Father Christmas by putting on the red suit and passing out toys to the neighborhood kids nearly every Christmas, when they're both a little older?

Originally posted: 19 December 2016

Notes: 1007 words; takes place early/mid December, 1964; makes references to main story things including John and Clara's first set of neighbors, the kids' pet rabbits, sewing abilities, and two very unconventional Santas


"Mum, this makes me look like a nutter," Davey scowled. He frowned at the reflection staring back at him in his parents' full-length mirror, apparently the only other face that agreed with him. Just because red and green were opposites did not make him think that they looked good together, and just because he was complaining did not mean that his mother paid him any heed as she mended the right cuff of his coat.

"Nah—makes you look like a ponce," Wynn snarked. She was sitting at the vanity as she fussed with her hair. It wasn't curling the way she wanted it to, which was only making her cranky.

"At least I'm not wearing candy canes on my legs."

"They're striped leggings, you nit—"

"Oswynne, stop making fun of your brother," Clara scolded. "David, I am armed with sharp objects—don't make me use them for alternative purposes."

"Dad sews better anyhow," the boy muttered.

"You don't know how true that is," his mother mumbled. She finished tying off the thread and quickly snipped it before stepping back and observing her handiwork. "It'll have to do. Come on now; get a move on or you're going to be late."

"Dad's not even close to ready!"

"Cut the sass, David, I'm warning you," Clara threatened. She knew it was simply her son being a teenaged boy, but she also knew that she, as his mother, did not have to tolerate it. "Go have a cuppa to brace yourself while I straighten out your father—both of you."

The teens both sulked out of the room, allowing Clara to put away her needle and thread before barging into the ensuite, where John was still showering. She double-checked the red suit that was hanging on the towel rack, making sure she didn't have to mend that as well; investing in one had proven to be worthwhile in the end, though it also meant that they were in charge of the mending, which seemed to pop up at the most inopportune times.

"Can you please shut the door? All the steam's getting out," John requested, poking his head out the curtain.

"You should be a prune at this rate," she replied. He grumbled as he turned off the water and grabbed a towel to dry off. "The kids are both ready—all the elves need now is a Santa."

"Dunno why I got talked into doing this," he groused. "I thought that the neighborhood kids all getting older meant I could finally get rid of this stupid suit."

"…because your editor asked and you can't say no to the sight of children discovering Father Christmas showed up at their parents' work party," Clara chuckled. With a towel wrapped around her husband's waist, she hugged him from behind despite the fact he was still sopping wet. "You know… I was thinking about our first Christmas together earlier today. You remember?"

"In retrospect, it's probably a good thing that couch was burnt to a crisp in the bombing," John said. "It saw a bit too much in my opinion."

"Then I pity the people who got the flat after we did," she said. She let go and stepped back, allowing him to continue drying off and getting ready. "Still, I don't think we could have imagined this back then."

"A house in London? Kids?"

"You playing Santa—that first Christmas was just us curled up together, contemplating and hoping the War would end soon so that you could get away from the neighborhood kids."

"You know how it was, watching a bright face turn dull as their brain went to pudding," he said sadly. "Think of all the ones you saw, then maybe more than triple that, and that was my life on Wissforn."

"I know… I know," she frowned. Clara handed John his trousers once he had his pants and vest on, helping him into his coat afterwards. "Still good deep down though."

"…and that is what helps the most," he agreed. John finished putting the costume on and examined himself in the nearly-defogged mirror, nodding in something akin to approval. "Wee rascals won't know what hit them."

"It's just a good thing not many of your coworkers bring in their children in a season that's not the summer," Clara laughed. She stroked her husband's seasonal beard, still a bit damp from the shower, and perched on her toes to peck his lips. "Father Christmas never looked so shaggable."

"…moreso than last year?"

"Possibly; one never really knows these things for certain," she winked. She sent him out the room with a gentle tap on his rear, to which he immediately went downstairs and into the kitchen where the kids were waiting on him.

"Alright elves—you ready?" he asked.

"Still don't know why we have to do this," Davey pouted. "They'll know it's us."

"That's not the point," John said. "The point is that someone showed up in the suit with presents and that means that Santa came. Come on now; into the sleigh and be glad we're not taking the bus like last time." The kids both stood up and their father immediately snapped his fingers, holding out his hand. "David, give the owl here."

"He's a better idea than Dillon and Flynn the Christmas Buns from last year," the teen protested. He took the stuffed toy from his pocket and placed it on the table next to the utensil cup. "Isn't Mum coming?"

"Mrs. Claus gets to wrap things for Santa and the elves while they're gone, so get a move on," Clara announced as she entered the kitchen. She ushered her family towards the front door, nearly shoving them out on the porch. "Go on, shoo! Or Strax gets to play Santa at this house Christmas morning."

That put the proper amount of terror into them and Santa and his elves quickly piled in his junker sleigh, riding off with a sputter-bang and a distinct reluctance to see if Mrs. Claus was bluffing or not.