"what if i'm naughty all year but i want a lump of coal?" dick frowns, laying back against the carpet with both his hands running lazily over the fabric, eyes fixated on the ceiling, "y'know? what would santa do? give me the coal? give me nothing?"

dick had a... bad habit when he joined these 'gardening' sessions with you. he would spew the most out of pocket things, and ask the most off topic and bewildering questions.

the worst part? he didn't get the squinty red eyes, or the giggles, or that stupid shit-eating grin most people did. he looked so serious, so critical— you called it his resting stoner face.

"but, well, i mean. santa obviously isn't real. just another common instance of societal egregore." he then sat up some from his spot on the floor, his gaze shifting up to you. his face didn't change; only his brows furrowed, "unless you believe in santa still. then he's totally real..." he paused, "you don't believe in santa. do you? because oh boy, i have a lot to tell you—"