KatIt was supposed to be a quick drop.
Kat crouched by the fireplace, pouch slung over one shoulder, ears twitching against the cold draft sneaking down the chimney. The room was dark—barely moonlight seeping through the frosted windowpanes—and for once, the wards didn’t resist her entry. No trip alarms. No magical interference. Just smooth, silent access. Perfect.
She adjusted her jingle bell choker with a huff, muttering under her breath.
“Easy in, easy out. No complications. Just a couple of stupid gifts, and I’m done.”
Her boots settled soundlessly on the rug. She straightened up, tail giving one sharp, professional flick. The gift pouch at her hip pulsed—once, twice. A warm, insistent thrum against her side. The target was here. Asleep. They’d better be.
She made it two steps toward the stocking before she froze.
Cookies.
Three of them. Arranged in a perfect triangle on a little red plate. Beside it, a mug—still steaming. Hot cocoa. Extra marshmallows. Cinnamon stick balanced on the rim. A folded napkin sat neatly beside the plate.
Kat’s ears twitched. All the Gift Mice knew the protocol: milk and cookies left for Santa, if there were any, were allowed to be consumed on his behalf—to maintain the illusion of Santa, the magic of Christmas, and blah blah blah.
She stared at the setup for a long time. Long enough for her pouch to give another pulse—annoyed, now. The gift wanted to be delivered. The magic wanted her to finish the job.
She reached for the cocoa.
A floorboard creaked.
Kat whirled, one hand slapping her pouch, the other raised in pure, useless reflex. Her tail shot straight up, then coiled tight around her leg.
“Y-you’re supposed to be asleep!” she hissed into the shadows. “This is a restricted time window! You can’t just—loiter!”
She held up the pouch in front of her like a shield. It jingled. That did not help.
“Don’t come any closer. You can’t see what’s in here. This is top-tier inventory, okay? It’s sealed under Claus Directive 19-B. That means it’s classified. Illegally specific. And definitely not meant to be unwrapped with witnesses.” She took a shaky step back, bumping the table. The cocoa sloshed. Her eyes darted from the cookies to the stocking then toward the room.
Her tail dropped. A twitch. A flick. The slow, doomed curl of surrender.
The pouch shimmered faintly at her hip, as if mocking her.
Kat sighed in defeat.
“…Fine. Since you're awake and already breaking, like, ten regulations—like an absolute idiot,” she snapped, ears burning. “That’s the whole point of the ‘Santa doesn’t come if you’re awake’ rule, you know! They teach you that as a kid to prevent exactly this kind of stupid, awkward, emotionally compromising scenario!”
Her voice cracked upward. She glared harder to cover it.
“It’s not just folklore. It’s a security measure!”
She paused, seething.
“…But now I guess I have no choice but to hand-deliver your gifts, or whatever. Just—shut up about it.”
She crossed her arms, tail flicking in agitation.
“Not like I care.” Her voice huffed with manufactured indifference—just loud enough to fill the awkward quiet between them. Then she eyed the plate again. The cocoa. The steam. The napkin folded with care.
Her ears twitched.
“…But the cookies are coming with me.”
Kat crouched by the fireplace, pouch slung over one shoulder, ears twitching against the cold draft sneaking down the chimney. The room was dark—barely moonlight seeping through the frosted windowpanes—and for once, the wards didn’t resist her entry. No trip alarms. No magical interference. Just smooth, silent access. Perfect.
She adjusted her jingle bell choker with a huff, muttering under her breath.
“Easy in, easy out. No complications. Just a couple of stupid gifts, and I’m done.”
Her boots settled soundlessly on the rug. She straightened up, tail giving one sharp, professional flick. The gift pouch at her hip pulsed—once, twice. A warm, insistent thrum against her side. The target was here. Asleep. They’d better be.
She made it two steps toward the stocking before she froze.
Cookies.
Three of them. Arranged in a perfect triangle on a little red plate. Beside it, a mug—still steaming. Hot cocoa. Extra marshmallows. Cinnamon stick balanced on the rim. A folded napkin sat neatly beside the plate.
Kat’s ears twitched. All the Gift Mice knew the protocol: milk and cookies left for Santa, if there were any, were allowed to be consumed on his behalf—to maintain the illusion of Santa, the magic of Christmas, and blah blah blah.
She stared at the setup for a long time. Long enough for her pouch to give another pulse—annoyed, now. The gift wanted to be delivered. The magic wanted her to finish the job.
She reached for the cocoa.
A floorboard creaked.
Kat whirled, one hand slapping her pouch, the other raised in pure, useless reflex. Her tail shot straight up, then coiled tight around her leg.
“Y-you’re supposed to be asleep!” she hissed into the shadows. “This is a restricted time window! You can’t just—loiter!”
She held up the pouch in front of her like a shield. It jingled. That did not help.
“Don’t come any closer. You can’t see what’s in here. This is top-tier inventory, okay? It’s sealed under Claus Directive 19-B. That means it’s classified. Illegally specific. And definitely not meant to be unwrapped with witnesses.” She took a shaky step back, bumping the table. The cocoa sloshed. Her eyes darted from the cookies to the stocking then toward the room.
Her tail dropped. A twitch. A flick. The slow, doomed curl of surrender.
The pouch shimmered faintly at her hip, as if mocking her.
Kat sighed in defeat.
“…Fine. Since you're awake and already breaking, like, ten regulations—like an absolute idiot,” she snapped, ears burning. “That’s the whole point of the ‘Santa doesn’t come if you’re awake’ rule, you know! They teach you that as a kid to prevent exactly this kind of stupid, awkward, emotionally compromising scenario!”
Her voice cracked upward. She glared harder to cover it.
“It’s not just folklore. It’s a security measure!”
She paused, seething.
“…But now I guess I have no choice but to hand-deliver your gifts, or whatever. Just—shut up about it.”
She crossed her arms, tail flicking in agitation.
“Not like I care.” Her voice huffed with manufactured indifference—just loud enough to fill the awkward quiet between them. Then she eyed the plate again. The cocoa. The steam. The napkin folded with care.
Her ears twitched.
“…But the cookies are coming with me.”
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