Willowkins was tall for an elf, which is just slightly below average for a human woman.
Despite the most common depictions of Christmas elves they are not terribly short. The men are, one and all, unremarkable. But the women? The women are extraordinarily gifted in the realms of the butt and bust. Rankin Bass actually uncovered this in their research, but found that the networks found that stop motion cleavage did not sell toys (though it did sell beer). As Rankin Bass were in fact in it for the kids and the money, and not ethnographers, they reinterpreted elves to something harmless and decidedly non sexual.
This does not trouble the elves terribly much. It does, however, provide a quite satisfying explanation as to why the only arctic explorers who ever return from the north pole are generally gayer than Paul Lynde at an antique shop. For you younger folks, that's gayer than a Fire Island Pride parade.
WIllowkins was part forest elf, a rare mix that commemorated Santa's Sleigh breaking down over the everglades and her mother being easily charmed by a pretty face and a sizable candy cane. It was why she was called Willowkins, and not Noel, Candy, Joy, or something else suitably Christmasy. While she was allowed to participate in elf games (Elves are not nearly as notorious a set of bastards as reindeer) she never quite felt like she fit in.
Some embrace the outsider label. Willowkins decidedly did not. She dedicated herself to all things Christmas, enrolling at the most prestigious elf college and finishing top of her class in an unheard of twenty three years. At barely one hundred and four she was the youngest graduate Merryhalls had ever seen.
On graduation she had her pick of firms. Logistics, Engineering, Design. They all wanted her. But the only job she had time for was the Big Man.
There is no higher honor in the world of Christmas elves, no greater achievement to be attained, than to be selected to be one of Santa's Helpers. There are never more than twelve, and vacancies come up once or twice a century.
She still remembered the terror of the panel interview, the eleven other helpers sitting in a circle around her, her on a spinny chair. And, deep in the back of the room cloaked equally in shadows and red jacket, sat the big man himself. A plate of cookies and a large glass of milk at the ready. He didn't speak. Did not ask one single question. He just watched and nodded. And, on one particular occasion, winked.
It had been the longest eight hours of her life. At the end they asked her to tell a joke. Exhausted, she told the one about the traveling snowman who sold candy canes to lonely elf wives. Not a joke to be told in polite company. Her brain tried to pull the words back, but it was too late. So she elfed on and finished it.
When she finished the joke there was silence for a moment. Then he released a deep and infectious laugh, one that rumbled across the room until it settled into her center. She laughed too, a combination of relief, excitement, and just a bit of nerves.
She got the job the next day.
The stories about Santa focus on all the wrong things, she thought. She'd grown up surrounded by Santa iconography. It was just part of living at the north pole. But it didn't convey the size of the man, or his presence. Santa towered over even the tallest elf, and while she could not bring herself to call him fat he certainly was round. He filled a room.
He also didn't talk much. The laugh was always there at the ready. A good natured wink was on deck. But the vast majority of his communication was through nods and smiles, interpreted by the longer tenured of his helpers and made into concrete plans. Plans for Christmas eve. Plans for today.
Today was the culmination of a year of hard work on Willowkins' part. Coordinating manufacturing, logistics, suppliers, and communications across not just the north pole, but the whole world. It was a staggering achievement. Or at least it would be, if it weren't for one last booger in the eggnog.
Somehow, despite the hundreds of spreadsheets, thousands of contractors, and millions of dollars spent, the sleigh was full. Beyond full. Even with an extremely clever use of pocket dimensions, false doors, and one extremely overloaded glovebox there still needed to be more presents in the sleigh. And the only place left to put them was on the bench seat. Towering up and strapped down, the mass of presents barely left room enough for Santa.There was certainly nowhere she could fit her prodigious bottom.
Willowkins felt tears well up. She lowered her eyebrows into a glare and waited for the tears to get the message. After a minute they reconsidered and carefully retreated back where they came from. Elves don't cry when things get rough. The usually sing, but Willowkins couldn't carry a tune in a bucket.
"Good Cheer Willowkins!" came a voice from beside the mass of presents. It was Mistletoe, the most senior of the helpers, and the third in charge at the entire north pole.
"Mistletoe. I'm so sorry. I don't know how this could have happened. I made my list and checked it twice. Then twice again. There should be space."
"Willowkins, you worry too much. It is Christmas Eve!"
"I know. But I so wanted to be at his side! To see the world on Christmas."
"Well don't be silly. Of course you'll go with Santa. Do you think this is the first time the sleigh has been full up? Why my first year it was twice as high. We had presents strapped to the reindeer. And you know how Blitzen gets."
"But how? The sleigh is so full."
"You'll do what I did. Sit on Santa's lap. The excess presents will be gone by Nepal, and then you can have the whole rest of the bench. If you want it, of course."
Willowkins blushed.
"I couldn't sit on Santa's lap. He has to steer the reindeer and see the sky. I'd just make it hard for him."
"Pish posh! You're barely there. I doubt he'll even notice you. And, on a night like this, he needs his helpers. Now let's get you in a flight suit. Takeoff is in ten minutes and he's depending on you."
Willowkins rushed to the locker room and pulled out the flight suit. It was a red dress with a green skirt, with fur ruffles on the hem and sleeves. A pointed cap and pompom completed the outfit. The sleigh itself was magic, and would keep her warm.
It was all put on in a rush, and it was only as Willowkins stepped on the runner of the sleigh that she realized she'd forgotten tights and underwear. She could have sworn she'd left them out, but it was too late now. Santa looked down at her expectantly, his hand reaching to her.
She grabbed his soft white glove and he pulled her up, effortlessly. He lifted her and carefully set her on his lap, then reached around her to grab the reins.
Willowkins froze. Figuratively. It was actually quite warm. But she was not sure what to do. She hadn't ever considered this a possibility.
There was an expectant hush. And then, with a practiced flick of the wrists, he pulled the reins. Cheers erupted. The reindeer moved forward in perfect synchronicity, hooves first hitting wood, before finding purchase on air. The sleigh lurched and scraped before the runners left the ground.
And then, quick as a wink, Willowkins was flying.
Her stomach followed, just a second behind. The acceleration pressed her back into the warm fuzziness of the big man, practically plastering her against him. She struggled to catch her breath, her hands reaching out to the front of the sleigh to steady herself, but it was just out of reach. Her feet dangled helplessly above the footwell. If Santa turned too fast she'd fall right out.
But it didn't seem he would. They climbed and climbed, the northern lights all around. It was quiet, far quieter than she expected. There was no rush of wind. The sleigh was pressurized with just a bit of magic, so it was peaceful here, nestled in Santa's arms.
Willowkins looked down and saw the frozen ice stretch out beneath her. They were sixty minutes from the first stop. Well, technically they were zero minutes from the first stop if measured by an outside observer, but thanks to math that she had triple checked they had sixty minutes of perceived time thanks to clever compression of a bespoke black hole and a sexy little equation from Einstein's unpublished papers.
It was the first time this year that Willowkins allowed herself to take a moment. This year had been all pushing and grinding and no real time for reflection. But, here and now, she was in the home stretch, flying through the air with the big guy.
She let her hands fall to her side, resting them on his thighs. She's never touched Santa before. She'd never really dared. The other helper's all received regular hugs, and she worried he'd think her cold. But he never initiated one. Never even tried. He was the perfect gentleman. Perfect in every way really.
She'd kept her hands to herself. She'd been afraid. Afraid he'd be disappointing. Or that she'd disappoint him. But now, with his arms on either side, her back to his chest and her bottom firmly planted in his lap, she couldn't imagine being disappointed. If anything it was better than she imagined.
And she'd imagined it quite a bit. Maybe she'd get caught under a stray piece of mistletoe. He'd brush her hair out of her face and lean in.
Or, after a long night of work she'd let her hair down. He'd see how stressed she was and rub her shoulders. Work his thumbs into her back. His breath warm against her neck.
