12 Days of Christmas Fics 1/3

[katleept]

1. Rise of the Guardians' Jack Frost in

When they needed an example of how he cares for children better than they, Jack was quick to think of snow days, but later, when he is alone again, he thinks of other times where he knew and loved children better and more strongly than any of the other Guardians. He thinks of times he couldn't help them except to be there for them. He thinks of times he wishes he could forget but knows he never will.

He stares up at the moon from the tree limb upon which he is perched and wonders yet again not just how and why he's come to be and who and what he is but also why he had to be those kids' only helper at the times when they most needed the Guardians. He wonders why he had to see and feel their suffering, why he could not intervene, why he could not save them, and why no one else appeared. If the Guardians care so much for children, where were they then? Where were they when no Easter egg, dime, or Christmas toy could possibly help them? Where were they when their dreams stopped, and not simply because of Pitch and his darkness? Where were they when the children cried out for a friend and the only friend whose presence they appeared to earn was one who could not be seen by them?

Tears glisten in Jack Frost's blue eyes. He places a hand on the tree, but the tree, although alive, does not hug him tonight. It does not greet him, but he knows it recognizes his presence, and his sadness. A tune hums through its cold branches on this icy Winter night while they are alone, a sad tune, a tune of sorrow and of loss, a tune Jack knows all too well.

He wonders if it ever played for him before. He wonders if he ever heard it before he came into this life that he has now. He knows he had to be something before, if not some one. He could not simply have began his life as a young boy. No one started as a young boy. They all started as children, as babies actually, and not just humans. Every human, every animal, began as a baby, and every tree as a sapling.

He has to have had parents. He has to have been a baby himself at some point, but he does not remember when or what happened to him and them. He knows nothing of his life before the moon called to him. All he can do is wonder, and wonder he does.

He wonders if he ever heard Mother Nature cry out before, as the trees do for Her every time a child dies. He wonders if he ever knew sorrow and death before. He wonders if he ever held some one in his arms before as they breathed their last breath. He wonders if he was held when he died, or if he passed into this new life alone. Or, perhaps, did he ever even die?

He has no answers for himself, and so he thinks again of the children. The Guardians did help most of them to be happy. He knew that well for too many times had he heard children squeal in glee over Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and even the Tooth Fairy. Sand Man was mentioned almost as rarely as he this day and time, but still he'd heard children speak of him when they never spoke of him.

He shivers, but it is not because of the cold. He no longer feels cold as others do. He hasn't known warmth since the moment he became Jack Frost. Cold is a part of who he is, and so it never touches him as it does others. He shivers, instead, because his own forlorn thoughts have given his heart and spirit a chill deeper and scarier than anything his icy powers can do.

He looks up at the moon, questions again why he does not speak to him, tries to turn his thoughts away from the memories that have been haunting him all night and to something, anything, better and cheerier, but again, they come. He can not seem to stop his memories tonight. He's made children smile and laugh just as much, if not more often, as Santa and EB. He's given them much more reason to be happy than coins stuffed underneath their pillows and dreams that will never happen in their lifetimes. He's helped so many through so much, and yet, the Guardians had wanted to say, earlier today, that they knew more about children and making them happy than he did. He had stopped them immediately, changed their tunes with ease, but it wasn't enough to hush his own dismal thoughts.

They didn't know what it was like to love a child, not really. They knew what it was like to make children happy and gain glowing, joyful feelings from doing so. They knew, unlike himself, what it was like to be believed in and to be loved by children all around the world. But they didn't know what it was like to hold a child when they cried. They didn't know what it was like to be their only solace. They couldn't begin to comprehend how it felt to run cold winds over a child's trembling body because it was as close as they could come to touching them and no one else was there to offer comfort.

They didn't know what it was like to see a child lose his or her parents or sibling. They would never know the pain that came from such for they were only there for the kids in the good times. And if they were so special, Jack thought, sniffing as a tear started to slide down his cold cheek, if they made so many children happy, if all the children in the world really did love them, where was Santa when a homeless child cried himself to sleep on Christmas Eve? Where was the reward from the Tooth Fairy when a little girl got her teeth knocked out because she dared to steal food from a larger child who was also living on the streets and eating from garbage cans? Where was Sandy's sweet dreams for the children who never knew anything but pain and sorrow, even in their sleep? Why had EB never given the homeless a meal of his special eggs on Easter morning?

No, they didn't know kids, not really. They only knew the ones who already had families and safe places to lay their heads. They didn't know about the ones whose families were so poor that could afford neither a bed to sleep in or food to fill their tummies. They didn't know about the ones who had never been offered a shred of human kindness. They didn't know about the babies left on doorsteps or the teenagers who ran away from home because their parents beat them and took everything they had. Surely, Santa had never found out that little Jimmy Horn's father had taken the presents he'd left for the boy underneath the tree and sold them to get more beer. Nor did the Tooth Fairy realize that the tooth she took from underneath Sarah Darling's pillow was knocked loose by her own mother.

Jack closed his eyes against the tears that welled in them. The night was growing colder. He could sense it, though he did not feel the cold. The time was coming again when a child would need the friend that only he could be. All the trees in the park were singing now. Their song had no words, but Jack felt it vibrate in his heart no less. He swooped down from the tree and took the tiny, little girl who lay, trembling, at its base into his own, thin arms. He closed his eyes again as his chin rested, unseen and unfelt, upon her curly, blonde head.

For a moment, he thought of going to get the others, but what good would it do? They had never been there for a child who had no hope. It was silly of him to think that would change now. He trembled inside as the child trembled, but still, he held to her. She coughed and spat up blood that would be found on his snow in the morning, next to her cold and still body.

He could try to lead her to somebody. He had done so before with some of the kids, but on very rare occasions, had doing so helped them. There were places for homeless people and for children for whom nobody cared, but all too rarely did they actually have some one running them who cared. Children were full of love, but adults tended to be a heartless bunch.

This child had already lost her parents. He'd been there for her when she'd trembled in the falling snow and watched her home burn to the ground. Her father hadn't had time to make a call for help; he'd barely gotten her out and then dashed back inside for her mother. Neither had made it, and Jack had done all he could to hold her while she wailed for them, blowing her back away from the house and wishing he had the power to stop the raging inferno that had started from a small spark in the electric, Christmas tree.

He wondered how Santa would feel if he knew that his presents had gone up in smoke along with the girl's parents and she had been made homeless and destitute on that Christmas night. He wondered what he would do, if anything, if he knew that she hadn't gotten a single present he'd left her since then because of her greedy aunt and uncle. With his eyes shut again her pain and his own, Jack tried to press his freezing lips to the girl's forehead, but of course, his skin passed right through hers.

She could not feel him. She did not know he was doing his best to hold her and silently wishing, with all his heart, for a miracle. She could not have known, either, even if she had seen him that he hated that he had brought this blizzard to her city. But still, he thought, what was to come would be better for her than being found and returned to her aunt and uncle.

He wondered if the adults would notice how battered her little, fragile body was when they found her in the morning and rather they would bother to investigate. If they did, would they even consider her guardians to be suspects? Would the thought that they had caused so much harm to her that she had actually wanted to die ever enter their minds? He knew, from past experiences, just how unlikely that was. The adults in her life would probably go unpunished until their deaths. He wished he could take their lives, but he knows, no matter how much he would like to, he can not.

Santa doesn't know just how right he is. Jack is a Guardian, more than jolly, old Saint Nick will ever be. He doesn't just guard the children in keeping their dreams and hopes alive. He doesn't just watch out for the kids with families and homes already or give them presents on special days or when they lose a tooth. He is there for them always, whenever he's near them. He's there for them when they're happy and does all he can, if there's the slimmest chance he can be successful, to make them happy again when they're sad. He's led lost children home and helped others find a home they never thought they'd have, and then there are those into whose lives he's arrived too late to help them.

There's those for whom he can do nothing except be there for them, even unseen. He uses his icy breezes to stroke the girl's hair and skin. He wraps himself around her as she shivers uncontrollably. Then, suddenly, she stops. She smiles. "Mom? Dad?" she calls joyously with her last breath, leaving Jack alone to lift his tear-filled eyes to the golden, morning sun rising on another Winter morning in the city. She'll never see another Christmas Day, but Jack makes a silent vow. He is a Guardian, regardless of rather or not he holds the title, and he will do all within his power to make sure millions of other kids do get another happy Christmas, another happy Easter, sweet dreams, presents under their pillows, and joyous, safe, and healthy lives.

He wishes her goodbye as he stands and leaves her body for the humans to find, but it isn't long before he is finding another child who needs a smile. Jack gives him those reasons to smile and smiles again himself.

The End, rated PG-13/T




2. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles' Splinter and Turtle Tots in

His aging, wiry tail twitched with his agitation as he worked diligently on his plan. Months of scavenging every day and night had led him to this moment, and now, his whiskers bristling, Splinter began to fear that his scheme wasn't going to work after all. Perhaps it was the tape; maybe it was too old or still too wet from the sewage in which he had found it. Maybe it was his fur or the clumsiness of the hands he now had. Perhaps it was even the arthritis. No, he thought, that couldn't be it. Only his tail was hurting so far tonight, though he knew the Winter would bring far worse aches in his joints.

Maybe it was that he had been awake since before daybreak, caring for four children who needed him more greatly than he had ever needed his Master. Maybe his bones were weary from their clambering over his feet and arms and riding his shoulders. Or maybe, he admitted at last to himself, it was truly his fear. Other children received so much for Christmas. What if his boys didn't like the treasures he had found?

Some treasures, he thought with a touch of anger as he taped together another ripped page of the comic book on which he was working. Soggy comics, battered action figures, an abacus, a radio that already needed work, wet batteries that may or may not operate anything, and a worn book could hardly be considered Christmas presents, and yet, these were the best items he had been able to find for his sons. They weren't his sons, he reminded himself again. They were four baby turtles who desperately needed him, but they weren't his sons.

They might as well be, he thought with his next breath. His tail thumped the old seat behind him as if to confirm his silent declaration. He couldn't love these Turtles more if he had given birth to them himself. They were not blood, but their bonds were already stronger than most of the blood familial ties he had seen amongst the humans -- actually, he admitted, not just most but all. He loved his "sons" and would do anything for them, and they, he knew, tried every moment of every day and with their every breath to please him more.

They were a family, he thought, his arched paw touching the front of the comic book. They were his sons, and all he had to offer them for Christmas was a few things that still smelled from the sludge in which the humans had discarded them. He sighed. His ears and whiskers drooped. He hung his head, and his tail went limp beneath his scraggly robe.

He was so tired of them having to live this way. A sewer was no place to raise a family. They all deserved better, and yet, no matter how hard he tried and worked and schemed, he could not seem to find a way to a better life for them. They could not even go above ground for the humans would dissect them and then kill them if they did not just simply kill them outright. His long nose sniffed, and he realized, suddenly, that one of his sons was awake and standing in his doorway.

Splinter whirled around as two others of the baby turtles appeared. He hastily threw a cloth over his broken desk. "Raphael!" he called to the red-bandanaed turtle who bravely held his first sai. "Leonardo! Donatello! What are you doing awake?"

"We heard something, Maser Spliner," Leo, as usual, was the first to speak.

"Yeah. We thought it was one of those nasty humans you keep telling us about," Raphael declared. He was already beginning to grow angry at the human race for inadvernently keeping them trapped in the sewers at this tender age. Splinter's heart hurt for him, and for them all as it always did.

"We came to investigate," Donatello concluded.

"Dudes!" Splinter heard Mikey's little, green hands clapping excitedly together before he popped into the doorway with his brothers. "Ain't no need to in-invesi-invesiwhattamacallit! It's Christmas! Santa's here!"

"There's no such thing as Santa." Raphael stuck his tongue out at his brother.

"There is, too!" Mikey cried, sticking his own pink tongue back out at Raph. "Tell 'im, Maser Spliner!" he pleaded. "Tell him Santa's real! We know he's real, huh?"

When Splinter did not quickly answer him, Mikey forgot Raph momentarily and looked in concern at the only father he had ever known. "Maser Spliner?" he pleaded, his eyes growing big and watery.

Donatello reached out and gently touched his little brother's elbow. "We shouldn't bother Master Splinter right now," he urged quietly.

"Yeah. Come on. We'll find this human ourselves!"

Splinter blinked as he commanded all of his senses to come back together and regain control over the emotions riding him this night. His tail jerked. His ears flattened. His fur bristled. He spoke, "I'm sorry, Michelangelo. I was distracted by the news of our intruder."

Yet, even as he apologized, he hoped Mikey would not ask him again about Santa. After all, how could he tell him that Santa was real when he had so little to give him? Santa would never give children old, smelly, wet, or otherwise damaged toys. He glanced sorrowfully back to his desk, then quickened his pace to get in the lead of the line charging through their little home.

As he passed the baby Turtles crawling around in the murky water that always seemed to fill the bottom of their lair, Splinter reached down and scooped all four up into his arms. "Hey!" Raphael protested, sticking his sai into the air. "I can take 'im!"

Splinter had to smile at his bravado. "I am sure you can, Raphael," he said knowingly, "but you can better protect me and your brothers from this position."

"Really?" Raph looked doubtful; his little beak protruded in a pout.

"Really," Splinter assured him and then he grew still as he saw sparkling lights shining in the entrance tunnel of their home. His whiskers and fur bristled. He gripped his staff and swept his baby turtles to one arm. Had the humans really found them? he wondered fearfully, and then he gaped as he stepped into the tunnel and saw what awaited them.

"Cool!" Mikey was the first to exclaim. He giggled and clapped his hands together several times. "Chrismas! Chrismas! Chrismas!"

Donatello stared. "He is real," he whispered in awe his little mind speeding with the realization of what he was witnessing. If Santa was real, what, and who, else might be real? Could there be hope for them to have happy lives, after all, and just what had Santa left for them besides the huge and pretty Christmas tree? What had he left for him?

"Maser Spliner," Leo politely requested, "may we get down now?" He wriggled with anticipation and eyed the colorful presents placed underneath the tree.

"Daaaaaang," Raphael commented.

Mikey turned to him. "Told ya he was real!" he exclaimed and slapped Raph's dome with his hand.

"You two had best behave," Donatello warned them. "Santa Claus just left. He could always come back and take away your presents if you get on his naughty list now."

"Really?" Mikey asked as Raph rubbed his head.

Donatello nodded.

"Cool!" exclaimed Mikey. Then, he frowned. "I wanna see him," he said, "but I don't want him taking my present back!"

"Then you had best behave," Donnie advised his little brothers.

"Maser Spliner?" Leo asked, looking worriedly up into his adopted father's furry face.

It was his worried and caring eyes that finally moved Splinter into action again. He gave one last look to the tiny, scraggly tree and its raggedy decorations that he had found for them and then carried his sons to the real Christmas tree in the room. He sat them down at the presents, stood back and watched them with a glowing smile as they unwrapped their gifts -- a new sword, a brand new, blue, and silken sheath, and books on properly handling his first katana for Leonardo; some kind of white box with a black screen that lit up and made noises when Donatello pressed buttons on it for the budding Scientist in their family; a whole line of action figures for Raphael as well as some coal and a letter warning him to behave; and, for Mikey, all the issues, in mint condition, of his favorite comic book series.

Splinter had tears in his eyes as he watched his children on their first Christmas. He blinked them away as Leonardo called to him. "Maser Spliner," he said, "there's one more present here."

Donatello struggled to lift the large gift up toward him. "It has your name on it."

Splinter bent and scooped the present up from Donnie. Carefully, he opened it. His claws thrilled at the soft feel of a new, purple robe, but in one of the robe's pockets was the present that meant the most to him. It wasn't the money he found therein but rather the simple scrap of wrapping paper upon which a note had been hurriedly written. Thank you, it read, for being a loving and caring father.

At last, he cried. "Maser Spliner?" Leo asked in concern, hugging his ankle. Donnie grabbed his other foot and clung gently to it. Even Raphael stopped playing with his action figures and called Mikey's attention from his comics. They, too, hurried forward to comfort their father.

Splinter knelt with his sons before their Christmas tree. He gathered them all into his arms and hugged them tightly. "I'm all right, my children," he said. "I'm all right, and I love you."

"We love you, too!"

"Merry Chrismas, Maser Spliner!"

"Merry Christmas," he returned, the love and warmth in his heart shining far more brightly than the colorful lights on the tree or the stars in the night sky. It would be years still before they would actually meet Santa Claus, but Splinter would never forget this moment or the lesson he had learned this Christmas Eve. "Merry Christmas!"

The End, rated G/K




3. Once Upon A Time's Hook/Emma in

She walked alone as she'd once so often did. She walked alone through the streets of a little town that she actually knew, from its residents to its deepest, darkest secrets, as snowflakes fell, twisted and shimmered into her long, blonde hair, and quickly became mere droplets of water against her heat. She walked alone and remembered the events of the previous year.

It was amazing. She never once could have predicted what her life would become or how her world would change, even after her son had shown up on her doorstep, looking for his birth mother. She could have denied the kid the right to know that she was his mother. She could have denied so much, but thankfully, she hadn't lied.

She couldn't have lied, for long at least, any way to Henry, even if she'd wanted to. There was something about the boy. He would have known when she was lying, and he wouldn't have stopped until he'd gotten the truth. And he was happy because of that truth. He was happy to have her as his mother, not just as his birth mother or a second mother but as, as he is so often put it, his real mother. He still loved Regina as his mom, too, and that wasn't a love she would begrudge either of them, not any more, not after all they'd been through.

The Evil Queen was actually being good. She still got a chuckle deep inside of her throat whenever she thought those words. It was ridiculous that she should even think of a grown woman as the Evil Queen, let alone know the power that she evoked and respect it and her. She glanced at the sign to Mister Gold's pawn shop as she ambled down the street. He and Belle were already gone. She knew to whence they had gone, and there was another mystery, another impossibility made real because of Henry, and yet another ridiculous but true idea.

Regina was powerful, but Gold, or, better yet, Rumpelstiltskin was the most powerful of all. He could turn you into a mice just as soon as look at you, and she suspected that even his looks, if he let them, could kill. But like Regina, he was trying to be good. Unlike Regina, he had two people believing in him, two people spurring him on to be good and, as the old Army motto went, be all that he could be (without being evil). He had Belle, and he, too, had her son.

Emma's heart still gave a jump every time she thought of Henry as her son. He truly was, but yet, even living in a world of fairy tale characters come to life, his love seemed the most amazing thing of all to her. He had forgiven her for abandoning him. He loved her all the same, and he wanted her in his life. She'd often thought of seeking him out after she'd gotten out of prison, but she never would have been able to give him the happy and well sustained life he deserved. And yet now, they were both getting just that, because of him.

She looked up as a dog's bark interrupted the silence of the dawning night. She saw Pongo actually straining at his leash to get closer to the warm, baked, and (no doubt) delicious turkey Granny had baked. Archie heeled him, then smiled at her and waited, with his back holding the little cafe's door open, for her to join him. She waved him on. Part of her wanted to hurry to be with them, but the other part still couldn't stop reflecting.

A little reflection, her father had once said, was good for the soul, as long as it didn't probe too long or too deep. Her father. She had a dad! She had parents who loved her, and they were waiting just inside! Emma barely clamped down on her inner child's joyous squeals and kept herself from racing to be with her family.

That was what was waiting for her inside of Granny's, where Gold and Belle had gone, where Henry and her parents awaited her. She had a family! That was the most amazing thing of all. Every year, Emma had wished for the same thing at holidays and her birthdays. Every year, she hadn't gotten it, and eventually, she'd given up the childish hope that some one would come for her, that some one cared about her.

And now, she had just that. She had her own Christmas miracle and birthday wishes come true. She peered into Granny's festively lit window from the street outside and watched the merry happenings and happy people inside. Her father was spinning her son around the cafe. She could see her mother and Ruby smiling and, just beyond them, the Dwarfs. Her family included Dwarfs, the Evil Queen, and the Dark One! She was the daughter of Prince Charming and Snow White!

It was amazing! It was incredulous! It was ridiculous! And yet, they were all hers! She could have hugged herself in that bright and happy moment, though tears glittered in her blue eyes. She had never been so happy in all of her life!

But, suddenly, Emma realized she wasn't alone. A dark shadow fell across her and the few feet of snow still separating her from her family. She tensed with nervous, natural apprehension that didn't entirely go away as she turned to see another friend standing behind her.

He smiled at her, his gold earring winking in the growing shadows, but his rich voice, as he spoke, wasn't merry. Instead, it was full of concern, concern for her. Even Captain Hook cared for her, Emma realized with another little, jolt of giddiness. Captain Hook, who, like the others, was supposed to be a fairy tale but was real and vibrant with life and standing before her. Captain Hook, whose kiss she remembered well from Neverland and who had proven himself there time and again to be a true friend. Captain Hook, who had saved her father. Captain Hook, whose caress she still secretly longed for at night.

And he was holding mistletoe! Emma gaped at him in disbelief. "Not going to answer me, Swan?" Hook asked when the silence had stretched between them.

She blinked. "Whu-What?" Way to go, Emma. Sound even stupider than you're probably looking right now!

"I asked if you weren't going to join your family inside."

"I am." She could almost feel both their hearts beat in the moment that followed. "You can come, too, if you want."

"Oh, I intend too. I thank you for the last minute invite," he replied, his dark eyes twinkling, "but I was already asked to join your family's festivities by your father."

"That's Prince Charming for you. He doesn't want any one to be left out."

"Are you going to leave me out, Emma?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm holding mistletoe."

"I noticed."

He held it above her head, and when she still didn't move away, he took a step closer and then another. Her brain told her she should move. Her years of experience running from guys who would break her heart and throwing bad guys in jail added to its silent, screaming commands, but Emma wasn't going to move. She had waited for this moment for months; a secret part of her felt like she'd been waiting even longer.

Baelfire was inside Granny's, too, just a few feet away. He was the father of her son, but Emma knew she didn't love him. She couldn't care for him as anything more than a friend, not after what had happened between them, not after he'd hurt her, not after he'd shown her she couldn't trust him. But Hook, on the other hand, despite being a Pirate, had proven to her again and again that she could trust him. She had dreamed of him and this moment since the first time she'd allowed him to slip pass her defenses and they had kissed. Oh, how she had dreamed of him!

And now, like her other dreams, like her dreams of a family that couldn't exist but did, her dreams of a child who wouldn't hate her despite having every reason to do so and who truly loved her as she longed for him to do, after her dreams of belonging . . . All her other dreams had come true. Why couldn't she, Emma thought as she lifted her lips to meet Hook's descending mouth, have this dream come true, too?

Okay, so maybe she was selfish. She wanted it all. She wanted a family and a child and a man all to love her. She wanted to be loved in all the ways of the word, and didn't the daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming deserve to know what true love was? She lifted her mouth and didn't move, although her heart beat like all the drums of war inside her chest.

Once he realized that she actually wasn't going to run, Hook took his time in making both their forbidden dreams come true. He'd never thought he could feel this way again, after losing his Milah. Like Milah, Emma already had a son and every reason for her heart to belong to another man, but unlike Milah, Emma was a good person. She was true and honest and as beautiful as the day was long. Her eyes, when she was happy as she was now, even dulled the blue briny of the ocean. She was a Princess, for crying out loud, the daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming, and he was nothing more than a Pirate!

And yet, he realized, as his good hand touched the back of her neck and her blonde hair threaded lightly underneath his probing fingers, he'd never felt the way he felt about Emma about Milah. He'd never felt this way about any one before. Hook's eyes widened in surprise at his own thoughts. Could this be yet, then? he wondered. Could it be that he'd never actually Milah, despite caring for her deeply, and that it was only with the beautiful and bold woman before him that he could share True Love?

But he was a Pirate! What did he know of True Love? What could he know of it, with all the wrongs he had done, all the lives he had taken? In one boldly brazen move, Emma stepped forward, surging her lips against his and silencing both their thoughts.

James smiled against the supple press of her lips. He hadn't needed mistletoe, after all. He let the plant drop as he buried his hand deeper into her long, blonde hair and pressed his hook against her back. Her body moved closer against his at the touch of his hook, but she didn't turn away from him. She also didn't stop kissing him.

His hook wasn't cold as she'd thought it would be. If it had pressed against her flesh instead of clothes, it might have been, but it didn't. It pressed gently against her clothed back instead and didn't try to go any further even as Hook deepened their kiss. She felt his lips open against hers and the gentle, tentative probe of his tongue as it touched her lips.

She hesitated for only a moment longer, and then she opened herself completely to him. His warmth surged inside of her, and Emma realized, as snow swirled around them and their bodies pressed even more closely together, that she had been waiting for this moment her entire life. She touched her tongue to his and let him ravish her.

He felt her melt against and into him. He knew she was his in that moment. He could have done anything to her, but good form dictated that their second kiss go no further than this. He moved his hand to stroke her cheek and then slowly pulled away. He grinned at the little gasp he heard her emit as he lifted his mouth from hers. "Merry Christmas, Emma."

He was breath was hot and surprisingly empty of rum as he spoke to her. She was still in the midst of being dazzled by the moment and kiss they had shared. She didn't know when she had grasped his leather clad shoulder, but she clung to him now as he tried to move away. His darkly enchanting eyes smiled into hers, and for the first time in her life, Emma felt all the warmth of the season. She had a family, a home, a child, and a man who loved her! She had everything she'd ever wanted, and this time, when Hook offered her his arm, she didn't hesitate to accept it or him or to go where she belonged, with him, to her family, to spend her new favorite holiday, the rest of the year, and her very own happily ever after future.

The End, rated PG-13/T




4. Supernatural's kid!Dean in

His young, brave heart hammered in his thin chest like the explosive sounds of Sammy's video games as Dean turned the corner and lowered his gun. He could see the intruder moving from here and hoped he didn't have to get any closer. "Freeze!" he called out and then asked himself why. He wasn't the cops, and no self-respecting monster would stop or even pause because of the fuzz. "Don't move another muscle, or I'll blow your head off!" Presuming, he thought, that the thing had a head.

A deep, happy-sounding chuckle answered him. "Oh, really, young Dean Winchester?" The thing moved around to face him, and Dean saw, in the pale light of the crescent moon, that it appeared to be human. Most monsters did try to look human, he reminded himself, until they tried to eat you. It knew his name, so it must have come after him.

The being straightened, and a light suddenly appeared around it. It was warm and pink with a golden outline, but what gave Dean pause enough to begin slowly lowering his weapon was the creature's appearance. It was tall and round, dressed in fur-lined red, and looked like every picture he'd ever seen of the famous Santa Claus, whom he'd always wanted to visit him as a child but who, until now, he had never seen.

He'd also never received any presents from Santa or gotten so much as a real tree for Christmas since his mother's murder. He had no reason to believe in Santa. His father had told him he wasn't real one Christmas and then that he was but was evil the next. He raised his silver-loaded gun again and kept his flashlight beamed aimed at the apparently jolly man.

He was happy. He could see the twinkle of his beady, little, black eyes over the distance that still separated them. His cheeks were puffed out, and his nose was red but not the kind of red that his father's got when he drank too much, which was every night he wasn't out on a hunt. "Dean," the thing said, "you know who I am."

"I know who you're pretending to be," the boy called out in return, "but there ain't no such thing as Santa Claus!"

At that, the jolly man seemed to lose his happiness. Everything about him became suddenly dour and almost sad. "Ah, Dean," he said, "I was afraid of this, and I can't blame you, lad. Oh, no. It's that father of yours, shooting at me every Christmas Eve and threatening my very life if I dare to leave you any presents! I have left them, though, Dean. I've left them in chimneys and under doorsteps and in trees. I've left them everywhere I could think of, but he's always found every single one and destroyed them." He laid a finger against the side of his nose. "Your father, you see, Dean, refuses to believe that any magic can be good, but there are those of us out here who use magic for good, to protect and to heal and to make children happy."

For another moment, Dean hesitated, but then, he snorted. "Yeah, right. Like you and the Tooth Fairy."

"Oh, she is quite real, Dean, as real as I am."

"Yeah, well, the only reason I'm giving any belief to you is because I see you."

The thing looking like Santa laughed. "I know."

"But you're not really Santa Claus, 'cause Santa Claus doesn't exist. My Father told me so."

"The same father who leaves you and your little brother alone every Christmas." "Santa" continued as Dean was silent. "The same father who's letting you raise your own brother."

"He cares about us!" Dean cried, his gun and flashlight shaking. Then, he realized that the beam on his flashlight had not gone out like all the street lights had.

"I'm letting you see me, Dean," "Santa" explained, "because you need to know that not all magic is bad. I'm sorry about what happened to your mother -- I am --, but you boys deserve a happier and safer childhood than being shuttled from one hotel room to the next and living on a diet of fast food."

"We're happy enough," Dean countered, but his steadfast belief that Santa Claus was not real, or at least was evil, was beginning to waver.

"I didn't say you weren't, but I know you'd like to lay in your own bed for a change. You'd like to see Sammy be able to make friends who he actually got to keep and didn't have to leave within a week's time of meeting them. You want your little brother to be happy and safe, Dean, and there's nothing wrong with that. You both deserve it. You both deserve a real childhood."

"What do you know about it?" Dean questioned, reaiming his flashlight and shotgun.

"I know you're good kids," the being said, "and you deserve happy childhoods." He shook his head sadly. With that motion of his white head, bells chimed. Dean looked beyond him to the things that looked like reindeer but he knew couldn't be what they appeared. "I know, too, that John Winchester's never going to give you any of what you really deserve. He means well enough, he does, but he's too lost, Dean. He misses your mother too much."

"Yeah, and you're fat!" Way to go, Dean, the boy thought dryly to himself. Sound like a child! Now, he's really going to take you for a threat! But the truth of the creature's words hurt, and his retort was the first thing that had popped into his young mind. He was, after all, just a kid, whether or not he wanted to admit it.

The being chuckled, and again, Dean noted that his laughter seemed happy, carefree, and completely harmless. But things were too often not what they seemed. He kept his gun strained on him even as the creature admitted casually, "Too many cookies, son, but I'm not complaining."

"If you are Santa," Dean demanded, "prove it. What did I ask for in the last letter I wrote to Santa Claus?"

"You asked," Santa replied without hesitation, some of his joy fading, "for your mother to be returned alive, whole, and well to you and for her not to be a Zombie, a ghost, a ghoul, or any other resurrected dead thing, and you asked that if that was too much trouble, for your daddy, you, and your little brother to get a home of your own and become a family without her."

Dean lowered his head, his flashlight, and at last, his gun. The creature could be reading his mind, but to hear his own request repeated made him feel more than a little bad. He had no right to ask for his father, Sammy, and him to be able to be a family without their mother when she had been killed.

"You have every right, son," the being told him, his voice deep, warm, and reassuring in the cold of the night. He walked up to him and knelt down on one knee before him. Dean could have taken him right then and there, but still, he hesitated because there was something in him that was beginning to want to believe in the story the old, fat man was telling him. "You didn't ask for your mother to die, Dean, and wanting your family to be able to move on from her horrible death isn't wrong. You love your father, your brother, and your mother just like you should. You wouldn't want to be able to be a family still if you didn't love them."

Dean's chin quivered. His bottom lip trembled. But he remained silent and as strong as he could be. "Now I can't give you that, Dean. I wish I could, but I can't. It's not within my power to give. But I think you'll like this."

The little boy looked down into the ancient and kind face of the old man before him. Then his soulful gaze dropped to the thing he was holding up to him. It was wrapped in brightly colored, Christmas paper. Reindeer and snowmen seemed to dance on that paper as they looked up at him. Dean started to reach for the object but then hesitated. "For me?" he asked.

"Yes," the old man said and placed the object firmly in his young, cold hands.

Dean tore into the paper and then screeched his delight when he found a guitar. Tears filled the little boy's eyes, but he wouldn't let them fall even as he shook inside with the knowledge of what he had been given. He looked up into the old man's kind face, saw the way his dark eyes merrily glittered, and noted, for the first time, the pointiness of his white ears. "You are real!" he breathed.

"Yes, child, I am," Santa said, clasping Dean's back with a gentle, gloved hand. "But I don't blame you for not believing. Your father's done everything he could to keep me from reaching you, but he really is on a mission tonight."

"He's on a mission every night."

Santa didn't deny Dean's stated belief. The child didn't need to realize that only half of the times John Winchester left him and his little brother was because he was on the trail of a monster. He didn't need to know that John spent the other half of his life trying to drink away his worries and the memories of the woman who they had all loved and who had been taken from them far too soon. Instead, Santa used his arm clasping Dean's small back to bring him closer. "Come on. Let's see what I have for your brother."

"Sammy only likes books and video games."

"Is that so?" Santa chuckled and pointed to a pile of green-lidded bowls now softly glowing as they sat beside his magic bag. "I think he'll like these."

"Tupperware?!" Dean asked in disbelief.

"Open one," advised Santa.

The boy quickly did as he was asked and stared at what was inside. The small bowl held real food, not fast food or anything close to its ilk but real food, real dressing, like his mother had made. "Whoa!" He looked up at Santa with disbelief, shock, and a million and more questions shining in his big eyes.

Santa placed a finger against his nose and nodded. "Real food, Dean. In those bowls, you'll find everything you need for a real Christmas feast like you haven't had since your mother was killed and that Sammy never remembers having. As you empty each one, they'll disappear. You don't have to worry about the cleanup or about your father finding them. I can't have him finding out that I finally reached you, you see. I love your dad, but he's a bit paranoid."

"Tell me about it," Dean grumbled. "So," he asked, looking back up, "he really has tried to shoot you every year, huh?"

Santa nodded. "Every year since your mother died."

"I'm sorry."

"It's not for you to apologize over, Dean." His big hands gently clasped the boy's thin shoulders. He looked deeply into his eyes. "It's not for the child to make up for the mistakes of the parent."

Dean blinked back tears, and Santa, not wanting to embarrass him, moved on. He nodded to the guitar the kid hadn't relinquished. "Any way, that's why that's made of plastic and not the real thing. It'll sound real to you and to Sammy, but it's made of plastic so your father will believe you got it out of somebody else's trash or from underneath some one else's tree like you do every year. You know, Dean, you're doing a great job for your brother."

"What do you have for Sammy?" Dean quickly asked. He dabbed at his eyes with the backs of his hands. He was way too close to crying now for a grown boy!

Santa's smile was a mix of warmth and sympathetic sorrow. "This teddy bear," he said, reaching into his big, red bag and removing the toy.

"A teddy bear?! Teddy bears are lame, man!"

Santa laughed, and the warm, jolly sound prompted a smile from Dean. "Not this teddy bear, Dean," he reassured the little boy. "This teddy bear is special. It's just like the one Sammy lost in the fire when you two lost your mother, and this bear was kissed by an angel before I brought it to him. Whenever he holds it, he'll remember your mother, and he'll feel her love again."

"I've got something in my eye," Dean muttered, dabbing at his eyes again, but he took the bear and held it tightly, although it wasn't his.

"And there's this ball and bat," Santa said, producing the items from his bag. "There are other games you boys can play together besides video games, you know."

"I know," Dean managed to squeak out, barely able to talk for his flood of tears.

Santa smiled sympathetically. "How'm I gonna get this all back to Sammy?" Dean questioned, waving at the toys and food and trying his best to ignore his tears that were beginning to fall.

"That's what the wagon's for," Santa answered without hesitation. His bag dropped to the frost-tipped ground, and a sparkling, brand new, and cherry red wagon wheeled out by itself. "I wish I could stay with you longer, Dean, but you've got to get going back to Sammy. You've got a little less than two hours before your dad gets back tonight."

"And you've got to get to the rest of the kids in the world," Dean murmured thoughtfully, but before he could say or do anything else, Santa's big arms were around him and hugging him tightly.

The child was speechless when Santa finally released him, but he'd be damned if he'd admit to the tears running down his face. Instead, he asked a question whose answer he already knew, "How do you . . . "

Santa smiled, winked at him, and laid his index finger once more next to his nose. "Magic," he said. "Remember, Dean, there is good magic in this world." With that, he, his bag of tricks, his sleigh, and reindeer were all gone. Dean blinked, dried his tears several more times, and gazed down at the proof with which he'd been left: one cherry red Radio Flyer wagon filled with a magical teddy bear, a Christmas feast for two lonely, little boys, a ball and a bat, new books of which Santa hadn't spoken, and his very own guitar.

The child smiled through his tears, grasped the handle of the wagon, turned, and ran back to where he'd left Sammy in a dingy, old hotel room. He kept smiling, his grin beaming all across his young face, as he held, all night long, to two truths: Santa was real, and he was doing a fine job of taking care of his little brother!

The End, rated PG/K+




5. The Magnificent Seven's Ezra in

Winds rip mercilessly at him as he makes his way slowly to the building where the entire city seems to be heading. He has to keep a cold hand on his hat just to keep it from flying off of his head. He keeps his head down, his chin tucked into the top of his red jacket, to keep the majority of the winter storm from hitting him. Still, by the time he enters through the big, double doors, Ezra feels as though he's almost frozen solid.

He has no time to give thought to his condition, however, as he is instantly swept away into the sea of people. He's jostled to and fro and almost loses his balance several times before he finally manages to push his way free from the crowd. He mutters in disdain underneath his breath and straightens his clothes with a huff. People this day and time have no manners left to them whatsoever!

As soon as he's set his black hat straight again upon his head, the gambler is moving once more. He has no time to lose. Every second matters. He knows others are coming rapidly after what he seeks, but he will not -- can not -- allow them to succeed. He has to win this night. He has to get that for which he's been seeking all month, and years of experience in this field will help him to attain just that.

Quickly, he pushes his way through the crowd. He gives no thought to the hungry or the poor as he makes his way. He dodges pass security, not wanting to risk being delayed for any reason, and around people of every color and nationality. He doesn't waste a second, even when the delicious whiff of free food strikes his nose and his rumbling stomach reminds him that he hasn't eaten. Food can wait; he can always eat later. For now, there are much more important matters at hand.

His first stop is easy enough; no one else seems to be after this part of his puzzle. He wrenches his second prize from the hands of an old, tottering man and barely beats a screaming, little girl to his third. Two women are fighting over his fourth goal, but he slips in between them, grabs the item, and leaves before they realize what has happened.

He breathes an audible sigh of relief and wipes his brow as he learns that the fifth item on his list is also an easy task. It's unseasonably warm in here. A blizzard is approaching the city, and yet, he feels almost as though he's visited the desert. He dabs at his sweat, thinking it must be the hordes of people screaming and pressing amongst each other that's causing his discomfort rather than the actual temperature itself.

A booming voice stops him in his tracks just as he starts to move again. Everybody in the place, including himself, freezes, and then they all start to run at the news that comes over the intercom. Ezra's heart pounds. He has so little time left, but he must make it! He has to get what he's come after, and the item he's most sought -- the one he's been seeking for a month -- is the farthest away!

He thanks his luck that two of the items on his list are already marked off and hidden safely away in his apartment. He only has three more to go. He speeds through his next destination, breaking line and trying to pretend that he doesn't notice the senior lady in the black and white cloth standing behind him and scowling disapprovingly at his behavior. He hopes the Lord will forgive him for darting in front of her, but surely, He understands how important his quest is.

There's only one person left at his next destination, and they clearly do not wish to be there. They hurry him on his way, and Ezra is just as glad that they do not wish to entertain idle chit chat for he can feel the hands of time, and of doom, coming swiftly down upon him. He prays the item he wants is still there as he darts into the last room of the building. This is the farthest away, but if he can just get what he's after, his mission will be complete and he can take his time in his departure.

As he dives into the room, Ezra notices that many of the people walking pass him are already carrying their prizes high and close to their bodies. As he runs pass one after another, he begins to fret he might not be in time, after all. All of the proverbial jewels may be gone! He only needs one, but fear clutches at him, telling him it's too late. There's nothing, he thinks, that can possibly take its place and triples his speed.

He has never been a gentleman accustomed to menial labor. His face is red and pouring sweat as he runs. He's glad his team mates can not see him now, but then he hears laughter. His eyes cut toward the sound, and he blushes at the sight of Josiah's large bulk pressed against one wall, his beefy arms folded before him and his keen eyes watching him intently. He almost pauses, almost breaks from his determination, in his embarrassment, but then he remembers what he's doing and why and leaves the Preacher in his dust.

"Whoa! Easy there, pard." Ezra's eyes dart to the left, and he sees Vin holding both of his hands in the air. He's apparently stopped quickly, but Ezra has neither attention or time enough to apologize for almost running over him. Instead, spying the item he seeks on the very last week, he quickens his speed even more.

He can practically hear the minutes ticking off in his head, but he trains all of his focus on the last item left on the back wall. Just as he touches it, however, another hand darts forward from right beside him and grabs his prize. He almost reaches into his boot for his knife when the voice of his Captain stops him dead. "Hey, Ez," Chris draws idly, "wan't reachin' fer this, were ya?"

Ezra smiles thinly at Chris but then turns on the charm. He smiles his warmest grin at a figure behind Larabee. "Good evening, Missus Travis."

"Mary?!" Chris' grip on the item laxes immediately, and Ezra takes full advantage, snatching the box from the shelf and running even as Buck drawls out, "Who? Me? Chris, he's gettin' away with it!"

He hears the men yelling behind him, but it's too late as he lays his prize on the counter, mutters quickly that he has no need of wrapping, and shoves a hundred into the cashier's hand. He grabs his ticket and races out the door, leaving his team behind him. He knows he'll pay for his deceit later, but right now, Ezra just doesn't care. He runs all the way to his car, throws himself inside, and starts the motor and the heater. Only there, in its warm and safe luxury, does he finally let himself breathe. Then, he grins. His Christmas shopping is complete at last!

The End, rated G/K