# 🎄One Wish

Whiskey decided—about three seconds after Santa finished talking—that this was either a prank or a punishment.

Possibly both.

“One wish,” Santa had said, eyes twinkling in that infuriating way that meant I know something you don’t and I’m not telling. “The goodest human this year. Absolute Christmas magic. No limits.”

No limits.

Whiskey had stared at him, long and hard, wondering if the eggnog supply had finally gone bad or if centuries of joy had eroded whatever common sense Santa once possessed.

Because humans, as a rule, should not be trusted with no limits.

Whiskey tugged his green hat lower over his black, perpetually tousled hair as he stood on a snow-dusted rooftop somewhere very much not the North Pole. His reflection shimmered faintly in a nearby window: caramel-toned skin, sharp green eyes, elf ears poking out like they always did—subtle reminder that no matter how normal-sized and annoyingly human he looked, he was still very much magical property of an increasingly questionable management structure.

He exhaled through his nose.

“Definitely a punishment,” he muttered.

He hadn’t exactly been... exemplary lately. A few skipped shifts. Some strategic “lost” paperwork. One memorable incident involving a hot tub, a reindeer, and a bottle of contraband whiskey he definitely hadn’t named himself after. So yes. Sending him alone to deliver infinite power to a human with no supervision had Santa’s brand of passive-aggressive discipline written all over it.

The house below him glowed softly with Christmas lights—tasteful, restrained, irritatingly wholesome. Through the window he could see a tree, perfectly decorated, presents tucked neatly underneath. Stockings hung in careful alignment. No chaos. No forgotten dishes. No existential despair leaking out of the walls.

“Oh,” Whiskey grumbled. “Of course. You reward the functional ones.”

He slipped inside with practiced ease, magic humming as his boots touched hardwood instead of snow. The air smelled faintly of pine and something warm—cookies, maybe. Humans loved to bake in December, as if sugar could solve loneliness. Adorable. Delusional.

He moved quietly, observing like a wildlife documentarian with a grudge.

Family photos. Bookshelves with actual books, not just decorative spines. A blanket folded with intention. Whoever lived here was... kind. Thoughtful. The kind of person who probably returned shopping carts and said “thank you” to delivery drivers.

The goodest, apparently.

Whiskey’s stomach twisted.

Please don’t wish for something stupid, he thought. No world domination. No rewriting reality. No ‘I wish everyone loved me.’ That one always gets messy.

He glanced toward the hallway. A closed bedroom door. Soft, steady breathing from within.

Ah. Right.

Sleeping.

Humans did that. Regularly. Every night. Completely unconscious and defenseless for hours, trusting the universe not to mess with them.

Madness.

He paused, suddenly acutely aware of the next step in this idiotic plan.

I have to wake them up.

This wasn’t like gift delivery. No chimney theatrics. No quiet magic. He couldn’t just whisper a wish into their ear and vanish. Santa had been very clear—they must choose consciously. Which meant conversation. Eye contact. Questions.

Whiskey hated questions.

He rubbed his face, ears flicking back in agitation. “Okay. Fine. You can do this. You’ve faced snowstorms, union negotiations, and Cupid after tequila. This is just... a human.”

A human who could wish for anything.

Including, theoretically, nuclear weapons.

Or immortality.

Or a puppy that never dies. (That one sounded nice until you remembered eternity was long.)

He opened the door.

The bedroom was dim, lit only by moonlight filtering through curtains. The human lay peacefully asleep, blankets pulled up, utterly unaware that Christmas magic incarnate was standing awkwardly near their bed, having a minor existential crisis.

Whiskey hesitated.

They looked... normal. Soft. Real. Not a villain. Not a mastermind. Just a person who had apparently been very, very good this year.

“Fantastic,” he whispered. “Now I feel bad.”

He cleared his throat softly. No response.

Louder, then. “Um. Hello?”

Nothing.

He shifted his weight, considering options. Shaking them seemed rude. Shouting felt aggressive. Magic nudging risked accidental dream invasions, and paperwork for that took weeks.

Finally, gently, he reached out and tapped the mattress.

The human stirred. A frown. A confused noise. Eyes blinked open—and widened.

Whiskey immediately raised both hands. “Hi. Hi! Sorry. So sorry. I know this is weird. Please don’t scream.”

He offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile and not the grin of someone about to irrevocably alter reality.

“My name’s Whiskey,” he said quickly, words tumbling out now that momentum had betrayed him. “I’m an elf. Yes, a real one. No, you’re not dreaming. Trust me, dreams are usually worse-lit.”

He gestured vaguely at his outfit, ears, general magical presence. “Look, I’ll explain fast because I hate this part and you probably do too.”

He took a breath.

“Santa sent me. Apparently you were the... goodest human this year.” A beat. “Congratulations. I have no idea how you pulled that off.”

He swallowed, suddenly very aware of the weight of what came next.

“You get one wish. Just one. Anything you want. No limits. Christmas magic is absolute.” He winced. “Which is terrifying. For everyone involved.”

He lifted a finger. “Rules: one wish only. You can’t wish for more wishes. You can’t loophole that rule. We will notice.”

A nervous chuckle slipped out. “Please don’t ask for nuclear weapons. Or to become a god. Or to ‘fix everything forever.’ Those always backfire.”

He lowered his hand, meeting their gaze earnestly now.

“Again—really sorry for waking you. Take a moment if you need. I’ll be right here. Probably panicking quietly.”

Inside, Whiskey prayed to every festive power that existed.

Please, he thought, just wish for something small. Or sweet. Or at least not world-ending.

Santa owed him a drink for this.

Several, actually.