#my execution?

"a playstation and a puppy, got it. i won't make any promises, kid, but if you don't give your parents a hard time, your chances are looking good."

The monster child, wearing a very festive green-and-red striped shirt, nods solemnly. "I'll behave, I promise!"

Stretch taps a white-gloved finger to his skull, just beneath the socket. "i'll hold you to that. now look over there and give the nice person behind the camera a big smile."

From your place in line, you beam like an idiot, then conceal said smile with your hand. You already look like a weirdo - no need to make it worse by grinning like a crazy person at someone's kid.

But this whole situation is in that perfect sweet spot between absurd and endearing and no matter how hard you try, you can't fight the smile off your face. You rock back and forth on the balls of your feet excitedly, fighting the urge to fidget with your sweater.

You don’t rock far, though, because you’re crammed between two families with small children and want to avoid stepping on anyone’s toes.

It’s been like this ever since you got to the mall. It’s crowded, buzzing with activity. You'd driven around for a good ten minutes for a parking spot and had narrowly escaped with your life and front bumper intact after almost stealing a spot from a harried-looking woman in a minivan.

Now that you're inside, it's no better. The stores themselves are full-to-bursting with people doing their gift shopping and where you’re standing, lining up outside the roped-off area that serves as Santa’s Workshop, it’s even busier.

It’s cute, though. You’ll give them that. An elaborate set is constructed in the centre of the large open atrium, complete with fake snow, a red velvet throne, and a towering Christmas tree. Employees dressed as elves usher excited children and weary parents - and you, all by your lonesome - into line, while Stretch, clad in an impressive mall Santa get-up complete with a white beard and hat waits on his throne.

Mariah Carey blares from the speakers, just on this side of too loud. Not loud enough, though, to cover up the din of excited children chattering fills the air, punctuated by the occasional shriek or whine when someone gets stepped on or pushed.

You shuffle forward in line, dodging stray elbows and trying not to trip over any small children. The giant Christmas tree glitters with delicate glass ornaments, and the throne looks plush and luxurious.

As you get close to the front, the bored attendant waves you forward.

“Just you getting photos today?” they ask, raising their brow.

"Yep. That's my boyfriend," you say to them, feeling the urge to explain why you're a whole ass adult getting a solo photo taken with a mall Santa. It’s not weird if you’re dating said mall Santa, right?

"Good for you," the attendant says. They pick at their nails, painted a festive, glittery green.

"Yeah," you say softly, unable to stop your fond smile as you watch Stretch grin lazily at the camera, teeth almost hidden behind the fake beard. The lights flash and the next family are sent on their way. "Good for me."

The attendant makes a gagging noise under their breath, the bell at the top of their elf hat jingling.

You can't find it in yourself to be offended. You've worked customer service during the holidays; you get it. You'd be nauseated by you too.

As the family before you finishes up, the attendant turns to you. "Well, you're up. Three minutes with Santa and then you exit through the left - no clogging up the workshop. I don’t care if he’s your boyfriend, we're running on a tight schedule."

You give the attendant a thumbs-up and enter the little pen the throne, tree, and cameraperson are contained in, giving Stretch a little wave. He looks surprised to see you, browbone twitching under the brim of his hat.

“So,” you say, “how many Jack Skellington references have you heard today?” You’re fighting the urge to make one yourself.

“a few,” Stretch replies, sprawled across Santa’s chair like he owns not only the chair itself, but the entire mall. “tickled my funny bone the first fifty times, but they’re kinda losing their kick. what’re you doing here?”

You grin. “I've gotta get my Christmas wishlist straight to the top and I don't trust the postal service. You should get on that, actually - surely you could do some modernising. Email? FAX?"

"the big guy's more of a pen and paper traditionalist. i, heh, like your sweater."

You pluck said sweater; a woolen blue number, hideously lumpy, embossed with the words 'PUT YOUR BALLS ON ME'. It's patterned with lighter blue circles, but that's the only thing on it that vaguely alludes to anything festive. "You get it, right? Cause it's a --"

"stretch?"

"Yes!" You're so glad - you got some really weird looks in line and would've been heartbroken if it hadn't paid off. "I dug it out of a Goodwill bargain bin especially for you."

“aw, honey, you shouldn’t’ve.”

"Two minutes of holiday cheer left!" the attendant calls, tapping their pointy little elf-shoe covered foot.

You give them another thumbs-up, then turn back to Stretch. "Some operation, huh? I can't believe you're doing this - I know you lost that bet, but I fully thought you'd weasel your way out of it. Not like you to not leave yourself a loophole." He’s had some pretty weird odd-jobs, but mall Santa is out there, even for him.

“what do you mean? i'm having a great time. this is the perfect job for me; i get to sit on my ass all day eating candy canes. no loophole needed. ‘sides, who’s better to qualified than me to tell kids whether they’re naughty or nice?” he says.

“… that’s definitely one way to put it.” If that’s how he wants to use the judge, that's none of your business. It's hard to think of a child actually being deemed naughty by his standards, but then you think of what little you've been told about the resets and the judgement hall and swiftly shove that line of thought right out of your brain and into the not today bin.

By your count, you've got a minute and forty-five seconds left and you're not wasting any of it. Time to get this show on the road.

You plop down onto Stretch's lap, eliciting an "oof" from him as you make yourself comfortable. His hands come up to rest lightly on your waist. The cheap velvet of the Santa suit is scratchy against your legs, but you pay it no mind, focused entirely on your boyfriend's face.

The spirit gum holding on his fake beard is even more noticeable, little flecks of white dried adhesive visible along his jawline. The sheer ridiculousness of it forces a laugh out of you.

“hey, this is serious business. these photos are thirty-five bucks for the complete pack. extra ten if you want them sent to your email too.”

You whistle lowly. “That’s robbery. Highway robbery. What happened to having a generous, giving spirit?”

“what’s christmas if not a capitalist nightmare?” he says.

You cover your snort with your hand. “I hope you’re not telling the kids that.” 

He shrugs. “someone’s gotta. it’s a rough world out there.”

“And they’re smiling for the picture after that?”

“a few jokes and they perk right back up. usually save the best one right when the photo’s about to be snapped. speaking of, what do you call Santa when he's wearing earmuffs?” He covers the sides of his head with his hands, gloved phalanges pressed over his acoustic meatus.

“What?” you ask, fighting a smile. 

“what?” he echoes.

“What do you call him?” you say, a little louder.

He tilts his skull to the side, looking confused. “sorry, what?”

“I said wha- oh, fuck you,” you say, rolling your eyes. You’ve heard about a hundred different plays on that exact joke and have fallen for it about a hundred times. “I get it, hah hah, he can’t hear you. Very funny.”

You can see his shit-eating grin even through the beard. “i know, i’m hilarious. okay, what about this; what does gyftrot have hanging on their antlers?”

“…what?” you say, a little wary.

“horn-aments.”

That punches an uncouth snort out of you. “Poor Gyftrot.” You hope their antlers are free of decorations.

“poor gyftrot,” he agrees. 

“Photo time, guys,” the camera person says. Though wearing the same elf costume, they seem marginally more friendly than the attendant. Good for them. They jingle a bell right above the lens of their camera to draw your attention, the way you might wave a rattle at a baby, or a toy bone at an overly excited dog.

You turn to face the camera, angling your body to show off your sweater. It’s a little awkward, balancing on his boney, felt-covered lap, but you make do with minimal flailing. Stretch shifts too, straightening a little. You wipe an errant bit of spirit gum from his jaw.

“don’t worry, you can use my employee discount for the pictures,” he says. “in the spirit of holiday giving and all.”

“Yeah?” you ask, amused. “And what’s that?”

“one hundred percent off, ‘cause i’ll swipe the sd card at the end of my shift.”

That sounds about right. “Can you get me one of those novelty magnet frames too? I wanna put the picture on the fridge.”

“consider your holiday wish granted.”

“That’s perfect,” the cameraperson says. “On three, I want you to give me a nice big smile.”

You give a camera-ready smile and, as the cameraperson jingles their bell again, drawing your attention, you say to Stretch through your teeth, “Do I get your best joke now?”

“nah,” he whispers in your ear, “but you can jingle my bell anytime you want.”