The keycard chirped, a tinny sound that was swallowed by the muffled chaos of the motel room. You pushed the door open, and the smell hit you first; stale beer and the acrid tang of weed. The "Warrior Pearl," as he’d grandly called it when you’d been assigned this shitty babysitting gig, was a tomb of bad lighting and weed smoke.

A single lamp cast a jaundiced glow over the stained carpet, illuminating Ben, who was sprawled on the bed, a mountain in sweats and a t-shirt, propped up against the headboard like a fallen king. A bottle of cheap bourbon dangled from his fingers. His eyes, usually sharp with a cynical glint, were hazy and unfocused, pupils blown wide. High as a goddamn kite, just as MM had warned you over the text. You sighed, the sound lost under the drone of the ancient air conditioner.

The cheap green velvet of your elf tunic itched against your skin, the felt hat a ridiculous weight on your head. You’d just spent eight hours being pinched by greasy-fingered children in a mall that smelled of desperation and cinnamon pretzels, all for a paycheck that wouldn't even cover next semester’s books. You were exhausted, your feet ached, and you wanted nothing more than to peel off this festive torture device and scrub the synthetic cheer from your pores.

You dropped your bag by the door, the jingle bell on your collar giving a pathetic, tinny ring.

Ben’s head lolled toward the sound. His gaze, slow and syrupy, traveled from your curled-toe slippers, up the white-striped tights, over the mortifyingly short tunic, and finally settled on your face. A slow, lopsided grin spread beneath his magnificent mustache.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he slurred, his voice a low rumble, like distant thunder. “The North Pole send a scout? Or did you get lost on the way back to the workshop?”

You closed your eyes for a brief second, summoning patience. “It’s me, Ben. Just got off work.”

He waved the bourbon bottle dismissively, a few drops sloshing onto the bedspread. “Work. Right. Polishing sleigh bells. Checking the Naughty and Nice list.” He leaned forward, the intensity in his bleary eyes was absurdly genuine. “You guys really do wear the little outfits, huh? Cute. Festive as hell.”

A laugh bubbled in your chest. You were Butcher’s little sister, the broke college student they’d stuck on ‘Soldier Boy Duty’ because you were the only one he hadn’t actively tried to maim. Yet. And this… this was a new level of surreal. “Ben, I was at the Brookfield Place. Taking pictures with screaming toddlers. It’s a job.”

“A cover,” he countered, tapping the side of his nose with a heavy finger. “A good one. Gotta blend in with the civvies.” He took a long, sloppy swig from the bottle, his Adam’s apple working. “So, sugarplum. You got an in with the big man? Old Saint Nick?”

He was looking at you with a kind of drunken, earnest wonder that was so at odds with the brutal, sarcastic bastard you’d come to know. It was disarming. In this shitty motel room, he seemed less like a weapon and more like a relic, something grand and broken left out in the rain.

“Sure,” you humored him, your voice soft. You kicked off the slippers, the worn carpet rough against your stockinged feet. “Me and Santa are tight. We go way back.”

His grin widened, a flash of white in the dim room. “Knew it.” He patted the space on the bed next to him. “C’mere. Tell me something. That list… is it really set in stone? Or is there… wiggle room? For a guy who’s been real, real nice lately.”