"Christmas is doing a little something extra for someone."
–Charles M. Schulz

A SHARP YELP TUMBLED from my parted lips as my bare foot collided with a foreign object buried deeply within the grass.

I heavily squinted, falling to my knees to view the dingy ground as I struggled to see what I could've possibly stepped on several feet outside of the front door. Unfortunately, it was only four-oh-two in the morning, and completely pitch black outside, all except for the low orange glow of my cigarette.

Several nearly inaudible obscenities littered the air as I hobbled back into the direction of the deeply disheveled sidewalk, bare toes gliding along the vicious cracks in the concrete as I stuffed the lit object between my dry lips once more.

The frigid pavement prompted the soles of my feet to go harshly numb, courtesy of the cold December air as I violently shivered in place. My insides were effectively warmed by the harsh tobacco entering my lungs — my limbs, however, were beginning to fall numb.

I always wondered what it was like to sleep past four in the morning. I envied the Joker, who typically slept soundly til seven or so, that was, when he was able to sleep. He was a raging insomniac, I'd noticed. Luckily, I'd never struggled with falling asleep, and managed to succumb to a deep slumber within minutes of my skull hitting the pillow. According to the madman, it took him nearly two hours to fall asleep every single night.

How could anyone live like that?

I took an exceptionally long drag off of my cigarette, an immediate sense of warmth coating my every limb as my mind drifted towards vivid thoughts of his tri-colored, greasepaint cloaked face. I couldn't help but wonder if the story he'd told me was true — the one about the so-called wife he had, that was, until they took her away.

Who were they? Why was she taken away?

Who was she?

My stomach churned at the thought of Joker taking a wife—of him standing at the altar and saying, "I do" whilst dressed in his Sunday best. Complexion free of mutilation, the absence of layers of gaudy greasepaint as he kissed his beautiful wife for the very first time. She was beautiful, I knew that much. I'd gotten a glimpse of two of Joker's conquests over the past year: the late Marissa and Raven, the woman who was sleeping with Travis in room 303 at the Inn. By the looks of it, the clown was able to reel in some pretty gorgeous girls, so it would only make sense that his betrothed was also effortlessly stunning.

No wonder he'd never want me.

I trudged back into the comforting, warm abyss of the hideout, slender fingers aching from the cold as I shuffled about the kitchen in search of some coffee grounds. The kitchen was impossibly dark; illuminated solely by the harsh moonlight which bled through the smudged glass window, enveloping the cracked tile floor with a fluorescent blue hue as my frozen fingers collided with a bag of ground beans. An exasperated sigh escaped my lips as the flimsy paper bag toppled sideways, spilling a multitude of grounds along the counter.

"Fuck," the phrase throatily emerged, rigid digits messily pouring a handful of grounds into the filter. My eyes struggled to adjust to the dim lighting, the persistent gurgling of the aging coffee pot filling the stale void as I lounged against the island counter.

Suddenly, Emily Oyler's complexion riddled my thoughts. A mess of thick, inky strands framing her heart-shaped face, emerald eyes boring deeply into mine as she promised to love me for an eternity, and forever more.

My stomach sorely churned at the thought of the beautiful girl, the woman who I definitely didn't deserve. I'd given her up for a fantasy; an unrealistic desire which could never become a reality. I'd given up the one good thing in my life because I was simply selfish.

The coffee pot groaned and spluttered, my fingers clenching into tight fists at my sides as furious trembles wracked through my veins. I needed to fix things, it was the only way. Otherwise, I'd simply never be happy.

"We don't have to go if you don't want to, boss. I know how much you hate Ryder's extravagant Christmas Eve parties." I pressed, fidgeting with the worn blade of an old pocket knife.

Joker simply grunt in response, crimson-tinted bottom lip tugged between rows of stained teeth as he impatiently paced the kitchen, ungloved fingers toying with the sloppily rolled sleeves of his vibrant green dress shirt.

"Although, I must say," the phrase emerged as a giggle, my thumb rotating the blade back into the holster as Joker eased the sleeves up the slopes of his arms. "The green shirt is pretty festive. And bright."

The disgruntled clown shot me a scolding glare, cocoa-hued orbs transforming into deepless pits of black as he efficiently tugged the crinkled sleeves over the pointy skin of his dry elbows.

"I'm trying to-uh," Joker lazily announced, pausing slightly to collect his jumbled thoughts as he laced a sleek black tie around his neck. "Ge-t into the Christmas spirit, I suppose."

"Not so much of a Grinch this year, are we?" I teased, a dramatic, toothy grin overcoming my features as the madman blatantly rolled his eyes in their sockets, straightening the sleek fabric of his tie as he smoothed it down against the buttons of his shirt with the palm of his hand.

"Don't forget, Horty," Joker drawled, snatching the sorry excuse for a switchblade from my clutch as he held it up to his painted face, twirling the object between stained fingers as he intently studied it. "In the end, the Grinch saved Christmas."

"Yeah, yeah," the phrase tumbled from my amused lips as we shuffled from the poorly lit hideout. The sun had just begun to set behind the thick brush surrounding the home, creating a warm glow across the typically bleak, colorless sky. An assortment of hues raided the atmosphere, soft pinks and vibrant yellows—mostly intermixing to create a deep orange. I gawked at the peculiar—yet absolutely stunning—sight, my hands shoved into the outer pockets of my leather coat as Joker, too, glanced upwards at the sky.

"Gorgeous, innit?" He thickly mused, lacing his fingers around the handle of the drivers side door as he aggressively yanked it open.

"Yes, actually." I breathed as we simultaneously clambered into the idle vehicle. I openly grimaced at the stale air present in the cabin, the distinct scent of cigarettes and yesterdays fast food filling my senses as Joker thrust the petite silver key into the ignition.

The surprisingly cheerful clown beside me ran a greedy hand through his freshly shampooed curls, several overgrown strands of vibrant green tumbling into his inky encircled eyes as the van tumbled down the routine dirt path.

"I hope Ryder has somma tha-t eggnog again," Joker chuckled, maneuvering his scrawny frame from the seat as he thrust a paint-littered palm into the depths of his plum pinstripe pants, desperate fingers lacing around a loose cigarette within the pocket as he retracted it with glee.

"Lighter." He dismissively grumbled, sticking the cancer stick between crimson stained lips as his palm hovered my lap.

An involuntary irate sigh slipped through my lips as I retrieved the white Bic lighter from the dashboard, placing the petite object into his hold as he aggressively retracted his hand from my space.

My mind wandered to the vivid visuals of Christmas Eve only one year prior, where Joker and I downed an obscene amount of eggnog and stupidly took a stroll deep within the Narrows in search of some freshly baked donuts. Within mere moments, the night managed to take a sharp turn south, and Joker found himself within the clutches of an abnormally large man with a crooked grin.

The recollection was enough to make my stomach violently churn and the urge to vomit exceedingly overpowering; and yet, as my gaze connected with a lively Joker beside me, a lit cigarette sat snug between painted lips as my heart inexplicably raced—the vivid visuals ceased. Because he was alive, and that was all that mattered.

Ryder's place was unbelievably warm and slightly musky, courtesy of the abundance of individuals in attendance and the lack of rotating ceiling fans. The buffet lay hardly touched, a profusion of vibrantly colored food littering the surface of the torn table as I paced along the side in search of something solid to eat.

Joker managed to slip between the crowd only moments after our arrival, the smell of nicotine irritably sticking the the collar of his clothes as he excused himself from sight. Truth be told, the thought of navigating the party alone was enough to make my stomach churn and head agonizingly spin. With that in mind, I rapidly approached a large crimson-hued plastic bowl, filled nearly to the brim with frothy eggnog as I thickly swallowed.

Swirls of kaleidoscopic colors littered the surface of the thick substance, my mouth blatantly salivating at the sight as slender digits laced around a nearby scarlet Solo cup. The staggeringly thin plastic instantaneously crinkled beneath my abrupt grasp, prompting an irate groan to slip off my parted lips as I viewed the contorted cup.

Just as I'd managed to lock my fingers around the cobalt ladel, a palm clamped down on my shoulder, evoking a sudden shiver to overcome my every limb as I glanced warily over at the intruder. A scarred-face Ryder stood dreadfully close, a partially chewed toothpick nudged between rows of chipping teeth.

"Evening, Hort." He lowly greeted, fingertips kneading into the thick skin of my clothed shoulder as my brows inexplicably raised.

"Er, hello." I blandly greeted, scooping a hearty amount of spiked eggnog into the depths of my crushed cup.

"Have you been a good boy this year?" Ryder creepily drawled, chewing mindlessly upon his toothpick as his low tone emerged partially muffled. I immediately stilled underneath his lingering hold, heart erratically thumping beneath my ribcage as I grew exceedingly uncomfortable by the moment.

"Uh, not exactly–" I murmured, a sharp yelp emerging through partially parted lips as Ryder spun me 'round, a mischevious grin plastered upon his aging features as an additional palm claimed my opposite shoulder. The thick liquid within my cup defiantly sloshed about, leaping upward to coat the underside of my thumb as the pain in my chest rapidly intensified.

"I think–" Ryder began, momentarily pausing to glance around the heavily populated room. "You should go check out our little guest."

"Who?" I croaked, fingernails impulsively digging into the softened material of my cup as Ryder released a hearty chuckle.

"The big man from the North Pole decided to make a visit," he said. "Why don't you go sit on his lap and tell him what you want for Christmas?"

I blatantly scoffed at his inquiry, abruptly yanking out of his exceedingly tight hold as I took several steps backwards.

"Jesus, Ryder." I spat, taking a swig from my alcoholic beverage before hesitantly swallowing. "I'm not a fucking child. I don't need to sit on Santa's lap."

"Pal," Ryder pressed, taking an additional step towards me as I inched backwards once again. "Trust me. You really should sit on Santa's lap. I think it'll be good for you."

With that, the marred man abandoned my rigid frame over by the buffet table, eyes wild with abandon as I glanced fleetingly in the direction of the guest of honor.

Curiously, the soles of my sneaker-clad feet dragged across the concrete floor, heart hammering beneath my heaving chest as I cautiously approached the designated corner where the apparent "Santa Claus" currently resided.

An abundance of exaggeratedly drunk attendees frolicked about the grand room, glancing dismissively in my antisocial direction as I rapidly approached a strange individual dressed in an abundance of red. A floppy holiday cap cloaked his skull, accompanied by a faux head of scraggly white hair that draped over the creases of his shoulders. And—of course—not to mention the hilariously long and artificial beard, which kept getting caught in the velcro of his sloppily made suit.

Warily, I took several steps forward, red Solo cup clutched closely to my chest as I skeptically viewed the scrawny fella dressed as Santa. The least he could do was maybe stuff his suit to give off the illusion that he was larger than normal, but then I remembered where I was. This wasn't some upscale shopping mall, where little kids paid a ridiculous amount of money to sit on a strangers lap and ask for something that they'd surely never receive. No—this was a carefully planned Christmas party thrown for a bunch of criminals.

Currently, a petite, leggy woman with vibrantly colored violet hair and blatantly false eyelashes sat snug on his lap, her legs draped over his knees as she mindlessly toyed with the frayed strands of his beard. Their tones were dark and hushed, preventing me from being able to nosily eavesdrop as the exceedingly noisy Christmas music littered my ears.

Awkwardly, I diverted my gaze from the duo, slowly sipping my spiked drink as I glanced in the direction of the crowd. A majority of the attendees were piled together in something like a ginormous mosh pit, exchanging a profusion of hearty laughs and spilling drinks all over the stained cement floor. Ryder, however, didn't seem to particularly mind. Instead, the skipped around the group, releasing heightened chuckles as he glanced skeptically in my direction. Before he could attempt to communicate with me from across the room, I managed to divert my gaze to the ground.

Eventually, the purple-haired girl strut past me, halting momentarily before my rigid frame as a toothy grin tugged at her wildly attractive features. Just as my lips parted to speak, she managed to lace her frigid fingers around my wrist, assertively yanking my broad frame forward as her smeared painted lips met the shell of my ear.

"When he asks you what you want for Christmas, ask for a kiss." She spoke, suddenly tearing away from my skeptical frame as she stifled a giggle.

"Trust me," she added, glancing confidently in Santa's direction. "Best kiss you'll ever have. Guaranteed."

With that, the woman abandoned my stunned form, brows raised in horror as I glanced warily over my shoulder to view Ryder's Santa Claus, who currently picked at the excess skin surrounding his nails. Anxiously, I set my half-full cup down on a nearby rickety table, swallowing thickly as I approached the confident man dressed as Father Christmas.

"Er," I stammered, shifting my weight from either foot as I stood before the man, who currently sat upon an aging wicker chair. "Ryder told me–"

"Sit." The man ordered, his voice low and hoarse as he outstretched his arms, legs inordinately spreading as he offered up his lap to me. Hesitantly, I inched forward, pulse rapidly quickening as I lowered onto the strangers lap.

"Sorry," I stammered, easing onto his leg. "I'm fat."

"Knock it off," he darkly pressed, readjusting his frame beneath my hefty weight as he wrapped a confident arm around my waist. A growing sense of immense discomfort instantly settled in my every limb, eyes frantically wandering the crowd as realization set in: how ridiculous must this look? A grown ass man sitting on Santa's lap? Fucking yikes...

"Hey," Santa drawled, fingertips digging into my bony hip as I avoided his gaze. "Look at me."

A petite whine caught in my throat, fingers interlacing into a clammy fist upon my lap as I diverted my gaze to meet the man beneath my ass, our faces mere inches apart as I cautiously held my breath.

My cobalt gaze was met with a striking set of warm chocolate orbs, which managed to heartily twinkle beneath the fluorescent lighting of the warehouse. A profusion of freckles littered the exposed flesh of his face like a series of constellations—intently dipping between the crevices of his perfectly shaped nose and scattering along the tip. His forehead was creased and also littered with perfectly placed freckles, brows raised in curiosity as I intently observed his wildly attractive and oddly entrancing complexion.

"What's your name?" He purred, staring deeply into my conflicted orbs as I shied away from his stare.

"Christopher." I dismissed, glare diverting to meet my clamped palms as I shifted my weight upon his legs (which had surely gone numb beneath my fat ass).

"Tell me—Christopher—What do you want for Christmas?"

Joker's complex expression instantaneously littered my thoughts, prompting my stomach to violently churn as I choked back a series of staggers.

"Honestly?" I croaked, meeting Santa's curious, comforting gaze once more. "True love, I suppose."

Ask for a kiss.

Santa remained deathly silent, my skeptical glare intently studying his wildly familiar features as my brows quizzically raised.

Best kiss you'll ever have.

I thickly swallowed, mentally shaking my head as I attempted to stifle a giggle. Purple-haired girl was wrong—the best kiss I'd ever have would be with the Joker, guaranteed.

"I have to go," I hastily murmured, sloppily removing myself from Santa's warm lap as I scurried in the direction of the nearby bathroom, my cup of eggnog laying forgotten on the table as the tears freely flowed.

Luckily, the surprisingly clean restroom was entirely vacant, which allowed me to stumble into the petite premises with ease, my quivering fingers expertly latching the door shut as a mess of staggered sobs crawled up the length of my throat.

How fucking pitiful—how fucking embarassing and disgusting and sad was it that I was disastrously in love with my employer—with a calamitous clown who had zero empathy whatsoever for the well-being of anyone on the planet (besides maybe me, of course). Not to mention the fact that the purple haired bitch told me to ask for a kiss—what the fuck did that even mean? Am I that transparent? Could everyone, even the Joker, see right fucking through me?

Just as I managed to choke back an additional round of vociferous cries, a sudden knock emerged, knocking me from my momentary trance as I wiped the salty tears from my cheeks with the back of my palm and hastily opened the door.

Much to my surprise, (or lack thereof), fucking Santa Claus stood opposite me, left arm supporting his weight against the metal frame of the door as he skeptically eyed my distressed complexion.

"Horty?" Santa breathed, voice slightly muffled by the obstruction of his false beard as my stomach churned.

My eyes instantly widened at the sound of that oh-so-familiar voice, heart instantaneously plummeting to the pits of my bubbling belly as I eyed the man opposite me. How did I not even fucking realize..?

"Boss?" I croaked, arm outstretching to meet the frozen man opposite me as my fingers tangled in the mysterious material of his beard. Curiously, I latched them around the faux hair, attempting to tug the beard away from his partially concealed complexion to reveal those alluring set of scars that I'd dreamt of for all of an eternity–

Just as I'd prepared myself to tear the beard right from Joker's face, an exceedingly noisy crash emerged from beyond the wall, followed by a chorus of strangled shouts as I found myself tumbling to the ground.

A/N: I'm total shit at multitasking jfkfnnsnfn. I literally can only write one book at a time, it seems!!!!

I know this was *slightly* short but I hope it was a fun chapter nonetheless. Also, Joker dressed up as Santa is hilarious to me idk why???

Hopefully the next update won't take me 5 more months!!!