"Freddie, that was incredibly immature."

"It was necessary." Freddie is stubborn, even as he's escorted – as is mall policy – out of the small, tidy "cell" that he'd been delegated to an hour ago by an exasperated mall cop with very large biceps. He'd spent most of his time in the cell eyeing them from between the bars, wondering if it would be possible for him to negotiate his bail if he gave the guy his number.

He'd discarded the idea after watching the child's simpering mother flirt with the man under the guise of "thanking" him for rescuing her child from that delinquent (read: Freddie), for at least ten minutes before she'd been forced to leave with her whining, sticky-fingered son.

Fucking straight people. Why did they have to ruin his every passing fantasy?

So he'd waited, sullenly, for another forty minutes until Florence had finally shown up, looking visibly harassed and borderline amused at the sight of Freddie slumped dejectedly against the bars like a kicked puppy.

"What, exactly, was necessary about ripping the beard off of Santa?" she demanded, at her wit's end already. She'd been called in the middle of a meeting and had had to cut it short, and she'd be damned if she was going to let Freddie ruin a perfectly good business opportunity.

He just smirked sideways at her and swept his bangs out of his eyes, looking rather pompous. (that was admittedly probably the purpose of the motion)

"Well, their parents weren't going to tell them – who better than me?" he asked, nonchalant as could be. Florence wonders if some of the women that they passed were really still glaring at him, or if she were just imagining it. "I have nothing to lose."

"Frederick Trumper, fountain of youthful wisdom?" she muttered acerbically, but he either didn't hear her or pretended that he hadn't.

The parking lot was an absolute mess. Half of her commute had been spent just trying to find a spot, which she'd promptly forgotten, and when they emerged from the building and into the crisp air she stared out over the glittering sea of parked cars in despair.

If she'd had her way, she would have avoided the mall for the duration of the Christmas season. Her shopping, of course, had been done over a month ago.

But Freddie had a habit of gleefully throwing a wrench into all of her plans.

"My parents never bothered with that Santa bullshit. I don't have the sentimental attachment," he explained patiently, watching her out of the corner of his eye, as if waiting for approval. Despite himself, Freddie did always give himself away like that. He could be as contrary as he liked – Florence knew that he was desperate to get a reaction out of her, good or bad.

He did prefer the good reactions, though. Especially when they ended with sweat and salt and panting breaths.

She cleared her throat and her mind, grabbing his wrist and marching him bravely into the lot.

"Because you had model parents, didn't you?" She sighs, not even bothering to listen for his answer. He trips over his own arguments. He'd never last a day on the debate team.

He turns to give her a withering look, but somehow refrains from making a nasty comment. In the early days of their friendship, Freddie has been irrepressibly quick to anger, but several years in he'd finally learned a few things.

Not enough, apparently.

"You don't understand," he sighed, deeply, as if she were missing some big picture. "Kids shouldn't be lied to. They need to know they can't trust their parents."

Florence grimly suspects the beginnings of a horrid migraine. "Some people do have decent parents, Freddie. Mine were nice enough."

"They weren't your real parents, they don't count," he scoffed.

Aggravating. Self-absorbed. Piece of shit.

Good Lord, one of these days she really is going to knock him out.

The car is in sight. With a new, triumphant determination she increases her stride and Freddie pants a little in his effort to keep up.

"I was doing a good thing!" he insists, pouting at her intensely as if he didn't know she was immune by now. "In the spirit of Christmas!"

"Freddie," she said slowly, as they came to a stop by the driver's door. She pushed him up against it and met his eyes steadily, slowly arching one perfect eyebrow. "Stop talking."

With her lips on his, he didn't have any objections to raise.