The Ruin of Nicholas (Santa, Holiday)

Nicholas hated the warmth.

The heat had enveloped him in a sweltering blanket. He couldn’t recall the last time he sweat. Much less, been in such a heat that it made him pause. The island was a far cry from the poles. It was so hot-too hot-but this body, this person was used to it. He had taken a seat near the beach. Something he’d often seen on his list, often flown over, but never visited.

He sat, his borrowed back to a chair. He watched as the waves rolled in, and sweat dripped into his vision.

He thought of him. The man-the funny little man.

The funny man, so bent and haggard-he had warned of this. With a cigarette clenched between his yellowed smiling teeth, he laughed.

“Oh, you’re in for some shell shock alright,” said the funny man. Then he broke into a coughing fit. Red and yellow flem escaped the back of his throat and splattered against the floor. Nicholas and offered his handkercheif, but the man just waved it away. He reached for a glass of water on a shabby desk, and put it to his lips.

“I don’t need your sympathy,” said the funny man. He drank and drank, then sat the glass back down. Into his black and tattered bathrobe he reached, and pulled out another cigarette. With a snap of his finger, flame danced on his thumb. A moment later he snapped it again, and puffed away.

“So yeah,” said the man, “Shell shock. Twenty-four hours as someone else. All deals final. Are the terms agreeable with you?”

“Oh, I suppose,” Nicholas had said. He gave a laugh, one that sounded as jolly as always. But Nicholas knew it to be a lie.

He always laughed when he was nervous, or scared, or stressed. And since having stepped foot in the aged house, he hadn’t stopped laughing.

The funny little man, his dark hair streaked with gray, nodded. He lifted a hand to scratch at his chin, his eyes rolling back. “Alright. It’s settled then. I trust you’ve your affairs in order? It’s after christmas, but-” said the man. He trailed off, and glanced towards Nicholas. In those eyes, Nicholas thought he saw something. Perhaps what had been a boy he knew at one point, before life and years consumed him.

Nicholas nodded, his jowls tight as he gripped his jaw. He lifted a hand, and pulled away his mitt. Though his hands were callus by wood work, the grip of the man felt rough. Smooth as his palms were, the stranger gripped him like a vice. He tilted his head to look at up, his mouth a thin line.

“Don’t you fuck me, Claus. Don’t you fucking try. Because I know your face, your scent, your being. And I’ll fucking find you,” he said.

For the first time in a few centuries, Nicholas felt the color drain from his face. His lip wavered, but formed words at last. “I-I won’t, Jack. I…I promise,”

“That’s a good boy,” said the man. He took a drag, and let go of Nicholas’ hand. He lifted his own, the sleeve of his bathrobe falling back. Beyond his wrist, Nicholas watched as black ink swirled in the man’s skin. His hand poised, the man took a deep breath.

“One, two-” he’d started, but he never made it to three. He just snapped, and Nicholas found himself here. With no sleigh, no sack. No reindeer, and no idea how to get back. That had been his half of the bargain-twenty four hours with his effects. All for this, a seat at the ocean and utter isolation.

It was then, with the waves rolling over the sand, Nicholas had a realization. One that made the hairs of his lithe neck stand on end.

He knew where he had seen those eyes.

He knew where he had seen that very name. The one belonging to the funny little man, with his tattoos and magic.

Why, Jack had always been at the top of the naughty list. Practically since birth. Things had only grown worse in the last few years. The drab little warlock was even getting others on the list now.

And in his possession, right now, was everything that made Nicholas who he was. Including his magic.

Ho.

Ho.

Ho.