Armstrong was a thirty pound fatso who liked to stretch and fill both of their laps at once; it was a nice enough excuse to curl up under Al's arm. If she sat any farther away, Armstrong would start yowling at them. Tama was much better behaved; he liked to sit on the arm of the couch and watch television with them.

And it certainly was a lot of television. Kikuko choked down laughter as Al read the lines with the actors in a dramatic voice. He'd clearly seen Jingle All the Way at least thirty times, to say nothing of Home Alone (and Home Alone 2), a dozen made-for-TV Christmas specials on Disney, and even the Christmas episode of Rugrats, which he insisted was a classic in between his dramatic reenactment of Angelica calling the dump and asking for Santa Claus.

Kikuko watched Al more than the movies, truth be told. His eyes lit up every single time that the kids realized Santa was real. Santa's platter of cookies was certainly enough to feed the man and all of his reindeer, and a whole pitcher of milk had been secured out of reach of the cats.

"We've gotta go to bed early, or Santa won't come," Al yawned. Kikuko glanced at the clock—only 9pm, a good six hours earlier than Al's usual bedtime. "I don't want to scare him away on our first Christmas."

Kikuko opened her mouth to point out that Santa couldn't actually be real, but shut it again. Maybe it was an elaborate tradition of his—after all, he surely couldn't believe in Santa, could he?

As they curled up in bed, though, doubt ate away at Kikuko. He'd never had a Christmas away from his family before; Arthur had brought him up on so many fairy tales that he might actually believe in Santa—Arthur might have kept labeling presents as coming from Santa even after Al left college. She imagined his crestfallen expression when only the presents from himself and Kikuko were waiting under the tree—the cookies uneaten—the milk untouched—

Thankful as ever that Al slept like a rock, Kikuko slept out of bed and padded down the hall in her slippers. As she approached the living room, she heard—crunching? She held her breath. Surely that was just Armstrong at his kibble. But, craning her neck, she could see both Armstrong and Tama curled up on the back of the couch, just barely in her line of sight from the hallway. She pressed herself against the wall and fumbled for something she could use to defend herself—a baseball bat.

The crunching was replaced by slurping. Kikuko readied the bat and lunged out of the shadows.

Arthur looked back at her, milk droplets and cookie crumbs coating his fake Santa beard. For a moment, neither of them moved.

"I've left your presents under the tree," Arthur said quietly. He set the pitcher down. He didn't even look drunk—mostly mortified. "Ahem. Hohoho." The laughter fell flat. Armstrong groaned and stretched in his sleep.

Silence lapsed again between them.

"Al plans to call you tomorrow," Kikuko managed. Arthur brightened.

"Good that he hasn't forgotten me, then." He coughed. "Er, please don't mention this to Alfred."

"Will you be back next year?" Kikuko asked, gesturing at his red suit. "Like…this?"

"I was hoping you'd be my co-conspirator, truthfully," Arthur muttered, red to the tips of his ears. "I tried telling him half a dozen times, but the foolish boy wouldn't listen. I couldn't—his heart would break."

Kikuko nodded.

"Oh, thank heavens," Arthur sighed. "Happy Christmas, then. I'll see you on the morrow."

Kikuko waved as he stole back up the chimney, leaving a trail of sooty bootprints and tripping three of Al's Santa Traps™.

"Merry Christmas."