The Birds Who Smile: Christmas 2018 - Santa Claus (theme 24) [rough draft]
A Batman fanfic by Raberba girl
Carl Tannen exhaled a plume of cigarette smoke and leaned against the wall in relief. After a couple of minutes, he unfastened the jacket of his costume and let it hang open, allowing the cold breeze coming through the alley behind the mall to bring some relief to his sweaty body.
'Damn kids.' He kind of hated them, hated their grossness and their selfishness and basically everything else about them, and having to spend hours holding them in his lap and listening to their crap wasn't doing any favors to his mental state. Taking this job when the original hire bailed out last-minute had been an act of desperation; it had been either this or running drugs again. He knew he'd had an absurd amount of luck to get out without ever being caught by either the police or the Bats, and he knew not to push that luck in a city like Gotham.
After a weird series of thumps, the door opened, and Carl silently cursed. He could tolerate Pat, the guy always came out here to text in peace and never looked anyone in the eye or spoke if he could help it, even when he was on the clock. Anyone else, though, particularly doesn't-know-how-to-shut-up Elsiebeth, Carl knew that in his current state of mind, it'd be difficult not to punch them...
It was worse than Elsiebeth. So, so much worse.
The tiny boy stared up at him, an initial grin of delight fading to confusion and then- Was that a judgmental frown on the little brat's face? The kid pointed and exclaimed indignantly, "San'a Caus no ssmoki'! Das bad for you!"
"I'm on my break, you little snot, I can do what I want!" Carl snarled.
He expected the kid to burst into tears, run off and tattle on him, and get him fired, but the boy simply crossed his arms disapprovingly. "No, da cigare' make you sick. Da ssmoke come innor rung an'-! *cough cough* Ohhhh, it hurt, it hurt! Poor li'l rung! Look, I show you." He pulled out a cell phone and tapped at it, far too expertly for such tiny fingers, then righteously showed Carl a picture of a healthy lung juxtaposed with a picture of a smoke-damaged one. "See, it b'ack! *cough cough* So sick an' har' ta beave, oh no, San'a Caus habe cansa!"
Carl stared, caught off guard despite himself. He didn't really know how to react to being lectured about lung cancer by a kindergartener.
"Why San'a Caus be ssmoki', hurt poor li'l rung?!"
"Because I have anxiety and can't afford the meds," Carl grumbled, expecting the kid to have no idea what that meant.
Instead, the little face softened sympathetically. "Ohh, poor San'a Caus, I habe a'siety, too. I sscare, *gasp gasp gasp*!" He fluttered his hands in front of his chest demonstratively. "Bu' look, I habe chew piggy!" He fished around inside his shirt and pulled out what looked like a rubbery toy on a string, covered with tooth marks. "Eat da chew piggy, *gnaw gnaw gnaw*, an' feel better! Da a'siety go *haaaah*." He spread his hands out and downward in a calming gesture. "Here! San'a Caus habe chew piggy, feel better!" He held out the toy.
Carl leaned back in disgust. "That's nasty."
The child stared at him, then at the thing. "Oh. It dirty, it habe Jackie germ! 'S okay, San'a Caus, I buy you new one." He reached for Carl's hand, and the man barely managed to jerk away in time. "You can't buy me anything, you're, like, four."
"I buy ting wi' money! Daddy gibe me money, see?" And the kid took out a wallet, opened it, and pulled out a freaking fifty dollar bill.
"Give me that money," Carl said at once, stubbing out his cigarette. "Santa needs money to buy your presents. You want presents this year, don't you?"
The kid held the bill to his chest protectively. "No! Dis money for chew piggy! Come on, San'a Caus."
Carl let the boy tow him back inside, wondering if it would be worth going so far as to grab the cash out of the kid's hand. They went through the stocking area (how did the kid even get back here unnoticed, anyway?), and then they were in the workroom and it was too late. Carl's coworkers stared as he continued helplessly trailing after the tiny weirdo dragging him along by the hand.
The boy took him all the way out into the mall proper, chattering half-intelligibly the whole way, and into the closest store, which happened to sell lingerie. They didn't stop until they'd gone right up to the counter, upon which the child placed his fifty dollar bill. "E'sscuse me!" he told the staring young lady behind the register, "I buy chew piggy for San'a Caus, becau' he habe a'siety; feel better! Pees gimme chew piggy."
Carl and the young lady, whose name tag said 'Jaevonn,' stared at each other for about three seconds until a voice announced over the mall-wide intercom, "Will Jack Thomas Drake-Wayne please report to Customer Service - your family is looking for you. Jack Thomas Drake-Wayne, please report to Customer Service."
The little boy pointed toward the closest speaker. "Dat Jack Thoma' Dake-'Ayne, dat me!"
"You want me to take him?" Jaevonn asked, smiling a little in amusement.
"Please." As the young woman went to inform her supervisor, Carl turned to Jack Thomas Drake-Wayne, who wouldn't miss that fifty at all if his daddy was who it sounded like. "Jack, let Santa Claus have that fifty so he can buy a...chew piggy for anxiety." The thing looked nothing like a pig, but whatever.
"San'a Caus be good, no more ssmoki'?"
"No more smoking, cross my heart and hope to die."
"San'a Caus no die." The child readily handed over the cash. "Be ggood, or San'a Caus no get pesents!"
Which made no sense, but whatever; Carl was already shoving the money deep into his pocket. "I'll be good as gold, kid, don't worry."
"San'a Caus goo' boy," Jack said approvingly.
Jaevonn came back to walk the child to Customer Service, and Carl went back to finish his break for real.
After his shift, he stopped by a convenience store for a new pack. At the counter, though, he hesitated for a long time, thinking of the little person who had given him the money he was currently holding in his hand, whose illusions hadn't been shattered by seeing Santa Claus as a disheveled, addicted loser in a back alley, who'd trusted him to buy whatever the hell a 'chew piggy' was with this money to stave off the anxiety so he wouldn't smoke and die of cancer.
Carl sighed deeply and ended up buying a package of nicotine patches.
o.o.o
A/N: Carl is bad at estimating children's ages; Jack is definitely older than four.
Breezy art on AO3