Shameless Plug: I posted a bunch of one-shots back on Tuesday, if anyone is interested. If not, then that's okay. Sometimes I have enough time to do prompts, I fill some on my writing tumblr (which isn't too often; I don't have an open-door policy on prompts for a reason), leading to a backlog in things, hence the spam session.


Chapter Fifty-Three: December 1947

"I still don't know why you're making me do this," John frowned. He adjusted the belt holding his coat in place and examined himself in the bedroom's full-length mirror. Red velvet broken by white trim and a shiny black belt—it was appalling. "I mean, I look ridiculous… like a gangly pimple."

"No, you look like Father Christmas," Clara insisted from the bathroom, her voice filtering in from the attached room. "Why grow the beard if you don't even make use of it every now and then?"

"It's to keep my face warm," he whined, "you know, in case we have another winter like the last one?" After fiddling with the suit again, he tried looking at himself sideways to see if that made a difference. Clara then walked into the bedroom, smoothing out the white pinafore of her matching red dress. She made her way over towards her husband and wrapped her arms around him from behind.

"Just think that it's multipurpose," she said. The hired coat still smelled like moth balls, but at least not as bad as when she first picked it up. She was the one that had volunteered them to dress up and distribute presents to the neighborhood children down the street at the tree sitting in the dead end, and it seemed like he was trying to find every possible reason to complain about it. "You've been growing it since October, and you fit the suit well enough."

"Yeah, but Father Christmas is old and… well…" John bemoaned. His wife simply shook her head and rubbed her nose in his back.

"It's great practice for later," she chuckled. "Besides, it's only for this year."

"Yeah, they said the neighborhood isn't going to do this every year, but what happens when they want to do it again? Get Vastra to do it? Her brother? Strax would toss a smaller child in the tree and tell the rest that the only presents given on the battlefield are honor and glory."

"Straton is barely taller than half the kids on the block," Clara said, rolling her eyes. She looked at the two of them in the mirror and rubbed his stomach. "Who knows how you'll feel about it next time around—you might actually enjoy yourself tonight, Heaven forbid."

John turned around and faced Clara, leaning down to kiss her behind the ear. "At least I'm getting a nice bottle of whisky out of this."

"I would think that the kids' faces should be reward enough," she scolded. "Aren't you looking forward to all the surprised gasps and starry eyes?"

"They know who I am—they're not stupid," John frowned. He pulled his face back and looked down into Clara's eyes. "They know I'm Mr. Smith from down the lane, not Mr. Claus from the North Pole."

"Yes, but as long as you're in this suit you are Father Christmas. It doesn't matter who you are when you take it off. They know that as long as someone wears the suit, he's real." She brushed some lint from his shoulders and sighed sadly. "Just relax and enjoy yourself—it's just tangerines and little things the parents gave us."

"We don't even have to be down there until after nightfall." He was right, as it had took them less time to get ready than anticipated and the sun was still above the rooftops. "I think we should just take these getups off until the sun has actually set." The corner of his mouth turned up and his teeth flashed devilishly.

"Don't you dare," Clara scolded. She tried not to laugh as hands found her bottom and beard tickled her neck. "We're going to be Santa and Mrs. Claus in a few hours… we shouldn't…"

"At least a good snog, please?" John pleaded softly. The hairs of his mustache tickled her ear, sending her knees knocking. "Come on… I've been exceptionally good this year, Clara. I thought you knew."

"You could have fooled me," she breathed, creeping up on her toes to press their lips together. "Because it seems to me that out of all people, Father Christmas has been the naughty one." She slid onto his lap as he sat down at the foot of the bed, tossing his cap to the floor so she could ruffle his hair as they continued the kiss. Parting, she inhaled sharply as she nuzzled her nose into his beard; the exhale was just as heavy, turning into a defeated sigh.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"Why do I even bother?" she groaned, only half out of irritation. She pushed John onto his back and gathered her skirts so that she could straddle his waist as she unbuckled his belt and slowly slipped it off. The metal of the buckle made a loud clink as it fell on the floor, discarded.

"Looks like Father Christmas isn't the only naughty one," John smirked as he cupped his wife's face in his hands and pulled her down for a kiss. Throwing open his red coat, Clara trailed her hands over his stomach and across his chest as she leaned in to his caress.

"Unzip me, please," she requested, coming loose from his grip and trailing kisses over his jaw and down the curve of his neck. "I don't want to take this back to the fancy dress shop and need to pay a cleaning surcharge."

"As long as that's what puts me back on the nice list," he chuckled. As he unzipped her dress he grazed his fingertips down her spine, an action he discovered she was enjoying with increasing enthusiasm as of late. She grasped for his trouser belt as he reached the base of her spine and rubbed in a tight circle.

At least one part of his evening was guaranteed to be enjoyable.


Hours later, long after the sun had set, the neighborhood children were all standing under the tree in the street's dead end. Twenty-six eyes stared at the house down the lane where they knew their fun was coming from, nearly bouncing in anticipation. It was cold outside, making their teeth chatter and breath condense into wispy mist.

"Aren't Mr. and Mrs. Smith supposed to be here by now?" one kid asked. "My face is starting to feel numb."

"Mum and Dad said after dark, so maybe we came out too early once it was dark," another suggested. They all sort of shrugged as they huddled together, silent until one kid caught sight of their quarry.

"There he is! Santa's here!" The kids all cheered as they watched Mr. Smith run down the street, arm flapping about and a sack thrown over his shoulder. They quieted, however, when he came closer and it was apparent to them that he had just rolled out of bed.

"Hey, sorry I'm late kids—had to do a few last-minute things. Ho, ho, ho and all that," he said a little too sharply for a proper apology. One of the girls folded her arms and tapped her foot.

"Where's Mrs. Claus?" she asked. "I thought it was supposed to be you and Mrs. Claus."

"Mrs. Claus is… busy… at the moment… and… it's just better she stay at the North Pole," John replied nervously.

"What's she doing?" another child asked.

"Recovering from a long ride…" he said. He then winced immediately—too much information for someone too under-informed. "Erm… what I mean is, Mrs. Claus is highly integral to operations at the North Pole, overseeing elves and all that, and being out all day in the sleigh today wore her out. She went to uh… Surrey. Yes; she went to Surrey and back today." Hopefully they bought the lie and if not, well, they were going to have to deal with it anyways.

"Did being out in the sleigh wear you out too?" one of the smaller children asked. John's face went blank.

"Why would you say that…?"

"Your hair looks like Daddy's in the morning and he's always tired," was the response. He reached a hand up and felt his hair—yes, he forgot to comb through it after Clara had thoroughly done so earlier. Wait… where was his cap? Shit, the floor…

"I guess my hat-hair was worse than I thought," he muttered.

"Mr. Smith, you're a rubbish Santa," a kid frowned. The man furrowed his eyebrows and glared, not having any of it.

"Do you want your tangerine and toy rocket or am I going to have a snack and a new mantelpiece later?" he snarled. The kids all stayed silent. "Good. Now queue up, single-file, and no sass."

The children did as their rubbish Santa instructed and soon the presents were distributed. John slunk back to his house and grumbled as he closed the door with his back, leaning up against it. He kicked off his boots and continued to remove articles of clothing as he sluggishly made his way back up the stairs. By the time he reached his bedroom he was down to his pants and slid back underneath the warmth of the duvet to join a sleeping Clara. As soon as he touched his skin to hers, she jolted awake.

"Christ, you're freezing," she cursed. John rubbed his beard on her stomach and pressed his lips above her navel before beginning to trail up to her breasts, shimmying up as he did so.

"It's cold outside, and the kids needed their stuff," he murmured between kisses. "Besides, Mrs. Claus knows exactly how to warm her husband back up."

Clara rolled her eyes and groaned at her husband's questionable sense of humor as she rolled John over until he was gazing up at her. "By allowing him to grow a beard," she smirked. She lowered herself back down and curled up in his embrace. "Did the wee rascals behave for Santa?"

"That Owens boy has some cheek on him, calling me rubbish," John responded. "Our bairns won't treat Father Christmas like that, not if I have anything to do with it."

"Does this mean that you're willing to do this again?" Clara yawned as she settled into her husband's shoulder.

"Maybe, if the whisky's any good." He listened for a response, a chuckle or a groan or anything, and was met by silence. Fast asleep again, the only sound she made was her soft breathing. John kissed his wife on the top of her head and pulled the blanket up to make sure she was covered before allowing himself to also slip into sleep.


A/N: During WWII, many children that were in effected nations grew up incredibly quick due to a heightened sense of responsibility from a variety of factors (contributing to the war effort, uprooting, being left alone due to either orphaning or a lack of regular childcare due to working parents, ever-looming threat of danger, etc). It would not surprise me if very few of the kids ever really got to believe in Santa/Father Christmas (by the 1940s, the two icons of differing origins had essentially merged). However, there is a key difference between Santa Claus the Catholic-saint-turned-mythological-figure and being the Santa that brings kids gifts. A good movie that addresses this concept is the Sony/Aardman feature Arthur Christmas, if you've never seen it.