Casper Gets His Wish

by Cooper, R.

  For Daphne

  Most saw him coming. One by one their heads popped up over the tops of the gingerbread and licorice walls of their cubicles to watch him storm through their midst. The ones unfortunate enough to be in his way froze when his gaze crossed theirs, an uncomfortable mix of fear and amusement on their features for the second before they recovered and stepped to the side or pretended to go back to their work.

  Casper nearly snorted. “Work,” in this particular department meant countless elves seated in front of gaming systems, or on the floor playing with bits of brightly painted wood and plastic. Until he’d stepped off the elevator, the sounds of jingly jangly chiming bells and laughter had filled the air, all of it in time to the beeps and clashes from the computer screens as games were tested and new equipment was designed.

  Sticky notes and sketches were stuck to the walls, filing cabinets were left open, and the files in them were labeled so haphazardly, Casper could see at least six that were out of place as he walked by. He frowned, and another elf who had gone silent to watch him pass quickly slammed one of their cabinet drawers closed, too late for Casper not to see the sad state of their recently overhauled and reorganized filing system.

  He bit back a curse. The mess now surrounding each cubicle would have been described as organized only by an elf who feeling very generous.

  Casper was not that elf.

  Gift Development had been a scene of pampered and cozy chaos since Casper’s first day of work at the Pole, but ever since they’d gotten their new department head a decade ago, their disorganized antics had gone from a mild irritation to something absolutely infuriating.

  If their output hadn’t actually increased in the last ten years and their new creations hadn’t been so stunning, it wouldn’t have been tolerated, not even by the Big Man. But as it was, because Casper’s life sucked and he never got what he wanted, Gift Development and its department head would go on being the amazing, talented, unfailingly worshipped darlings of the Pole for years and years and years, and Casper would spend the rest of his career cleaning up after them and watching them be utterly unaccountable to every other department.

  Every other department but one, he reminded himself. But that thought did not bring him the tidings of comfort and joy that it should have.

  Casper clenched his hands at his sides but otherwise didn’t react to the gathering of interest around him, or the whispers and giggles that followed him. He knew to them he was ridiculous, that his business would never compare in the eyes of other elves to the work done on the creative floors, but it was his business and he did it well.

  He observed the emerald greens of their sloppy t-shirts, the fuzzy warmth of a thousand bejeweled sweaters, the glitter and the knitted scarves, and smoothed a touch over the gray silk of his suit. It was well-made, tailored to fit him, as no-frills as the short black length of his hair, parted evenly and slicked down around the points of his ears. His only concession to where he was and what he did was his carefully chosen fine red tie, the design an elegant crisscross of a hundred tiny candy canes.

  He thought he looked good, but of course some elves had no appreciation for quality tailoring or a tasteful pocket square. Their thoughts on waistcoats were not even worth mentioning.

  He steamed past areas that were meant to be wide open but which were filled with disassembled controllers and hammers and a million other safety hazards and code violations, and then to the other end of the floor, where the offices were. Offices, he snorted again. Creative elves didn’t know the meaning of an office. All their offices had been designed with walls of melted sugar glass in order to “better share inspiration.” Curtains were there too, if privacy was desired, but the only office that had bothered to close them was the one he was headed toward.

  Those in the break room between the offices didn’t bother to hide their peals of laughter at Casper’s approach, and the room itself smelled like burnt cinnamon sticks and nog despite it being the middle of the day.

  At that extremely irksome realization, with his cheeks hot at once again being a joke, Casper shoved open the office door without bothering to knock and marched inside.

  He interrupted a no doubt brilliant discussion about some arcane and obscure creative elf topic that could never be of any interest to someone like Casper, but he didn’t care. The chairs in the room were occupied by dolls and trains and sparkly plastic hoops. There wasn’t a window with a view of the grounds in this office, something that calmed him, just a little, and let him feel the faintest bit smug. But it didn’t last. It never did.

  In the middle of the room sat a large, heavy desk of oak, shining with polish and care. It was the only thing in the entire office that Casper could approve of. But it was littered with broken toys, drawings, and candy, of course it was, because no one in this taste-forsaken department had the sense to treat things as they deserved to be treated. Seeing it only inflamed him more.

  He stopped in front of the desk, in front of its owner, and began without preamble, asking the question that had been burning in his mind for so long that he felt like he was on fire.

  “Why is it that with all of your department’s productivity, you are the only section that never turns in their paperwork on time?” His voice was as icy as the sparkling snow outside the thick, spicy-scented walls, but he had to swallow to hide his slight shortness of breath.

  He was aware, though dimly, that there were others in the room. A game tester who slipped out with a squeak, as well as Miss Pinebough, Hollyberry’s executive assistant, but Casper kept his eyes on the ever-slouching figure of Dmitri Hollyberry, the head of this department and the thorn in Casper’s side for the last ten years.

  Hollyberry was standing—leaning—against the side of his desk, his head still angled toward his assistant although his gaze had locked onto Casper the moment he had walked in. The man had likely learned his terrible posture from humans, when he’d lived among them, earning fame and success before choosing to bring the skills he’d acquired over the centuries to the Pole.

  Unlike Casper and most of the other elves that chose to work at the Pole, Dmitri Hollyberry hadn’t been raised here, though his parents had worked in Gift Development in their youth before moving south. He’d been born somewhere without snow and had lived among the humans and the other elves far too long, judging from his manners and clear lack of dress sense. Perhaps those were the reasons he simply didn’t understand the way things were, or why he didn’t care. But rules and protocol were there for a reason and everyone had their roles.

  Casper was an accountant, and damn good one, and the very least the man could have done was acknowledge that by handing in his expense reports and budgets on time. But no, Hollyberry had strolled into work every day for ten years wearing the stupid human clothes that he favored, in that punk style, his shirts always obscene and ripped and too thin, his eyes smeared with dark liner, his hair a series of green spikes, and had never once bothered to hand in his monthly reports in a timely manner.

  Casper tore his attention from the leather dog collar tight at the other elf’s throat and narrowed his eyes. He didn’t consider the baggy jeans, the loose chains dangling from his belt, or, worse, that skateboard propped against the wall. He didn’t dare. He might explode. But the purpose of a belt was to hold pants up, not to let them hang at his hips and offer hints of skin covered in tantalizing swirls of dark ink. The man was gifted. He could have at least dressed like it. Or admitted skateboards didn’t work well on snow and ice.

  Casper regrouped and focused back on Hollyberry’s face. Realizing he was being observed in return, Casper resisted the need to pat his suit. It was admittedly human-created, but he’d bought it in the early part of the previous century, and had al
ways loved its neat lines, the precise, controlled pinstripes, the stiff, starched white collar it demanded.

  Hollyberry finally moved, his mouth curving up toward his twinkly eyes.

  “Maybe because of our productivity?” he offered, and the very idea that he was smiling, when nothing about this was funny, made Casper’s blood positively boil. But he clenched his fists at his sides and kept his words crisp and clear.

  “Nonsense. Every month it’s the same routine, and when you are late, I am late. Do you think I want to get my chestnuts roasted for your incompetence?”

  If possible, which it shouldn’t have been, Hollyberry only looked more slouchy and amused and then, when Casper bit back a gasp, even more twinkly-eyed.

  “Look, Casper—”

  “Silverbell.” Casper instantly jerked his chin up. “Mister Silverbell to you, Mr. Hollyberry.” He would be taken seriously even if he wasn’t creative or a genius. He’d been dealing with this kind of reindeershit all his life and being direct was the only solution that had ever offered any sort of result.

  “Okay.” The loose shrug and ready agreement took him by surprise. Casper stopped, feeling the slight frown between his eyes. Nothing in his experience with this elf had ever been easy. He almost glanced at Pinebough, hoping the assistant might offer some insight, but then Hollyberry went on. “Mr. Silverbell. I’m sorry, what can I say? I didn’t mean to endanger your chestnuts. Believe me, that’s the last thing I’d want.”

  Casper registered the quirk to his full lips, too late, and felt his frown go from slight to monumental to think that he’d almost been taken in by such an obviously fake flirtation. Of course it had been a joke. Hollyberry thought this situation, thought Casper was hilarious. He always had, smiling like this at Casper from day one, as though he was the funniest thing he’d ever seen.

  It wasn’t a great shock, though Hollyberry bothering to flirt with him for even a moment was surprising. After all, Casper was a non-creative elf, and nobody wanted to date a non-creative elf, at least not long term. Every busy, buzzing, artistic elf knew they’d have nothing to talk about with an elf who didn’t make anything. Making things was the be all and end all of Pole elf existence, and an elf who instead monitored what other elves created, well, he was barely an elf at all.

  Not for the first time, Casper considered leaving the Pole and finding work elsewhere, maybe tallying the books at a shoe store somewhere among the humans, or perhaps ordering supplies for a baking company or two, but then he shook it off. He was who he was and he liked his job just fine, even loved it when he didn’t have to hobnob with snotty, superior creative types.

  He straightened to an even more correct posture, as tall and balanced as a column in a spreadsheet. Maybe he wasn’t a maker elf, but accounts had to be balanced, reports filed, even in the Pole, otherwise no one would get a Big Day. His job was just as important as theirs.

  “I don’t especially care what you want, Mr. Hollyberry.” He pulled at his suit, seeking comfort in the hand stitching and ignoring how Hollyberry’s eyes followed the gesture and watched closely as his hand skimmed over his hip. “Just get your paperwork in on time.”

  Hollyberry didn’t say a word.

  Casper blinked, not quite looking away as he waited for an answer. The urge to touch himself again was overpowering, an old nervous habit suddenly front and center. He knew his suit looked perfect, but he slid palm down over his tie, his chest, anyway, taking pleasure in the soft, crisp contradiction of tie and waistcoat, and each and every button.

  Hollyberry observed that too, his stare so intent that Casper wanted to tug at his collar. He was burning up under the heavy lines of his beloved suit and blamed the heating system, the thermostat, whatever it was that kept Hollyberry so warm in here that he could get away with wearing barely anything.

  That stare probably meant a remark about his suit and tie being too old-fashioned or lacking the proper spirit. Whatever it was, Casper had heard them all long before he’d ever met Hollyberry; the man didn’t need to attempt one now. Casper wasn’t a joke and someday Dmitri Hollyberry and everyone like him were going to take Casper seriously.

  He inhaled, a long breath that brought Hollyberry’s head up and made him stand straight. He looked almost like he was listening.

  Casper didn’t waste his chance. “But since I’m here, do you have it now?”

  The assistant moved, scurrying over to grab a pile of loose papers from the top of the desk. There was a half-eaten candy cane stuck to them, wet where someone had recently sucked on it. Casper looked up again, caught that damn twinkle just in time, and froze.

  Dmitri had the sheen of peppermint on his mouth. “A pleasure to see you as always, Casper. A joy to be working with you.”

  Their one agreed-upon rule was apparently already forgotten. Casper tightened his lips and felt the itch in his throat that meant his voice was going to crack when he spoke. He felt like a pot of fudge about to bubble over and gritted his teeth to contain the explosion.

  “Just don’t make me have to come down here again!” he snapped, as he turned on his heels and headed out. It wasn’t clever or witty, but he was only an accountant, and no one expected creativity from him, as he was painfully aware.

  His rosy cheeks were not from the cold and he could feel too many eyes on him, all of them full of amusement as he walked back out through their privileged, crazy workspace toward the elevator to go back to his floor.

  –

  Exactly one month later it was the same thing. Casper was steaming out of his ears as he pushed past the artists and toy designers in his way and cleared a path to Hollyberry’s office with the twitching of one eyebrow.

  He’d warned him. He had repeatedly and even, on occasion, quite nicely, told the man that he had to get his monthly billing statements and expense reports done on time. In the early days, he had emailed, he had sent memos, ordered clerks to retrieve paperwork that couldn’t be retrieved because it hadn’t been filled out. Yet that very first year he’d ended up heading down to Gift Development himself because it was the only way to ensure a response from the slackers in that department. From the head slacker. From a cosseted, overappreciated, overindulged genius who probably never thought of anyone but himself.

  Casper sailed in and interrupted Hollyberry’s conversation once again, and once again he didn’t give a flying fudge. Pinebough was there, as always, wearing a reindeer sweater that was too tight and making a face as she taste-tested some candy and toy combination. The candy looked gooey. Casper thought of it getting near his suit and nearly shuddered. But then he forgot about the sticky sugar as he focused on his target.

  “And yet here I am again,” he announced in a snarl. He spoke as though no time has passed since he’d last been in this office, as though there hadn’t been a long, boring month of work completed easily and going home alone, four solid weeks of knowing Dmitri Hollyberry would forget all about him—his paperwork—and how Casper would have to face him again.

  Dmitri blinked, then came out from around his impressive desk and offered Casper a smile brighter than the midnight sun. His gaze went up and down, no doubt taking in everything from the pin in Casper’s tie to the gleam on his shoes. Then his smile grew wider.

  “Did you forget what manners are, up there in your big office?” Hollyberry sounded polite, even curious, but Casper knew the truth. Hollyberry had meant that Casper had forgotten his manners because he had no one to talk to up there. Casper’s office was so big because he was the only one in it. Yes, it was rather large, but he was Assistant to the Director of all Non-Creative Divisions, accountable only to Director Frostyair and the Big Guy himself; he needed a lot of space and no distractions to finish his work.

  But the idea that even his office was a joke to Hollyberry stung. Casper knew he was an unwanted creature. There was no need to rub in that he was lonely as well. Hollyberry might as well be taking a shot at Casper’s rather pitiful love life, though if he tried, if he dared, Casper was
prepared to—

  He stopped himself there, feeling his skin go hot as though his tie was too tight, and glanced away, only to immediately make himself scowl back in Hollyberry’s direction.

  “Manners aren’t productive,” he declared boldly. It was the best he could do. Trying to be flippant wasn’t really in his nature, but he was watching Hollyberry, so he got to see the twinkle in the other elf’s eyes dim, as though with hurt or disappointment.

  That was all Casper needed, the precious artist getting his feelings hurt. Luckily, if that were true, it would mean that Casper mattered to him, and clearly he didn’t.

  But he dropped his gaze and tugged at his suit jacket all the same because it really wasn’t in the proper holiday spirit to be rude. His suit, delicious though it was, was little comfort. He’d chosen all black today, with a red and white striped tie. He thought it fit him well, and that its tone, while serious, hinted at something playful.

  He had no idea what Hollyberry thought, though the way the elf was watching him doubtless meant he had something to say. Casper decided to cut him off.

  “I’m here for your expense reports, which, naturally, you didn’t send up with everything else.” The fact that everything else had been sent up at all had been a surprise, a surprise pleasant enough to make Casper pause, and then somehow disappointing enough to make him frown. Then Casper had noticed the missing bits and hadn’t thought about anything else but how fast he could make it down here.