Feeling Not So Jolly St. Nick
Did I start another new fic without finishing the last two I mentioned? You bet I did! But I actually finished this one, so here ya go!
Warning: implied food poisoning
This was the last time Toby didn't anything out of the goodness of his heart.
Sure, he got paid for it, and the second income was nice for the holidays, but there had to be other ways than volunteering to be a mall Santa.
He loved kids, or at least he thought he did, but he learned quickly that maybe that love extended only towards his little sister.
These kids—these kids were like wild animal at the zoo or literal hellions from the underworld. The crying and screaming and questioning and demanding things of him soon became more cumbersome than it was worth.
Today was exceptionally bad, because on top of everything else, Toby felt like absolute shit.
The mall was crowded with everyone trying to fit in their last minute shopping, and of course, have their kids take a picture with Santa.
Toby felt like he was suffocating. His suit was much too hot, and the fake beard prickled his skin uncomfortably. Having a kid sit on his lap only reaffirmed how sensitive his skin was and sent chills down his spine.
His food court lunch sat heavy in his gut and every hug from an innocent tyke threatened to send his orange chicken and rice pouring into his lap. He knew it had tasted funny, but the idea of finishing his shift without a meal seemed far worse at the time than the possible consequences of soiled food. Of course, he sorely regretted that decision now:
One little girl, very attuned to Santa's predicament, actually asked him if he was okay. Toby, in an attempt at a hearty chuckle, quickly brought a fist to his lips and stifled a nauseated burp.
That was the turning point.
Right after the little girl hopped off his lap, he wished her a rather lame Merry Christmas, and signaled that he needed a break.
The photographer did not show their frustration well—after all, they'd just breaked for lunch not long ago—but Toby figured they'd be even more upset if he ruined the magic of Christmas by vomiting all over himself in front of the entire mall. Now wouldn't that be the perfect Christmas picture?
He slipped into the nearest employee bathroom, ripped the fake beard from his face, and immediately started gagging. However, other than some acidic saliva and burps that tasted vaguely of Mountain Dew, Toby wasn't able to bring anything up. It seemed that whatever was curdling the inside of his stomach was content to stay there and make him miserable.
Groaning, he splashed some cold water on his face, donned his disguise, and headed back into the mall. One of the photographers helpers, dressed like an elf, manhandled his askew beard back into its proper place, while Toby readied himself to fake some over the top holiday cheer.
An hour passed, or maybe more. Time was a construct Toby couldn't even begin to comprehend, especially not with the feeling of his stomach contents slowly trying to worm their way up his esophagus. Several times the photographer reminded him to sit up straight and to stop hunching forward. Toby was sure several families would look back on their Christmas photos and wonder why Santa had an arm wrapped protectively around his belly.
He'd stopped actually listening to the kids as they read from their Christmas lists, replying instead with a few well-placed "uh huhs" and "yeahs," though a couples times all that came out were sick groans.
He could not ever remember being this nauseous. He felt lightheaded from trying to keep himself together, and he was so unbearably warm. He wore his own clothes beneath the Santa suit, and his T-shirt was sticky with sweat, unpleasantly clinging against his skin.
How long was this shift again? He could hardly think, let alone try to pretend that he gave a damn about Timmy wanting a puppy or Susie requesting a baby doll that made noises when you cared for it.
"And I want a pony, and a..."
Toby's mouth started to water. Shit.
"Okay, very good," he replied, swallowing, trying to lift the kid from his lap. "Next!"
"But I'm not done," the kid pouted.
"But I am," Toby said. In hindsight, being a jerk while dressed as Santa was probably not doing this kid any favors, but he didn't have a choice. His breath hitched. He was about to barf. "Next!"
The surprised mom came to collect her kid, and Toby signaled the photographer by making a T with his hands.
"Again?" The photographer rolled their eyes, miffed.
Toby responded with a wet belch, loud enough that the nearest helper elf squeaked and jumped back in surprise.
He sprang up from his seat, his hand clamped over his mouth. In his haste to escape Winter Wonderland, he nearly tripped on a string of Christmas lights, nearly impaling himself on the antler of a plastic reindeer.
He tore through the mall, finding the closest bathroom, for employees or not. He stumbled upon one of the family ones, and as he slammed the door shut and fumbled with the lock, he was grateful for the small bit of privacy he'd have.
Even as he felt his stomach begin to lurch, he started ripping off his costume, desperate to feel less strangled. The hat went first, then the beard, the sash around his waist. He just managed to pull his second arm out of the jacket sleeve when his cheeks puffed with an impending retch, and he angled himself over the toilet as a rush of vomit cascaded from his mouth.
The force of his heave was so great, that his vomit splattered all around the rim of the toilet. He barely had time to wonder if any landed on his shoes before another geyser shot from him, splashing loudly into the water.
He tasted soda and egg roll, fried rice and broccoli. His mouth was sticky with the sauce from his orange chicken.
He burped, chunks from his undigested lunch joining the thick slurry in the bowl. Every heave brought up a mouthful of sick, and he was dizzy from the effort of trying to catch his breath.
His stomach was making all kinds of noises, piercing his ears and echoing off the tiled bathroom walls. A sick, guttural belch erupted from him, followed by another torrent of vomit.
Even as the heaves began to space out enough for him to catch his breath, and the amount of sick he brought up became less and less, Toby still didn't feel any better.
He was shaky and warm all over, tears running down his face from exertion. He was almost certain he had a fever, and there was still a mess churning in his stomach.
He burped into the bowl, spitting the tendrils of saliva dangling from his lips.
He needed to go home. He needed Quinn.
He knew his boyfriend had gone home for the holidays—Toby had planned to return to his family as well after his Santa gig—but the thought of waiting in the cold, getting on a bus overcrowded with holiday shoppers, and then trying to make it home alone in this condition was far more than he could bear.
Not caring the least about germs in that moment, Toby set his phone on speaker and laid it down on the floor. He felt like he was going to be sick again and he didn't want to risk dropping his phone and then having to fish it out of the toilet. That thought alone made him gag again.
"Quinn..." he whimpered when his boyfriend picked up on the third ring. He hated how teary and nauseous his voice sounded. "Can you come pick me up?"
