Lloyd never mentioned his past, the cause of his current living conditions, and Jean thought it best not to ask, should it be interpreted by him as too humiliating to share. The old man was cordial, accomodating, friendly as heck; she didn't want their pleasant interaction to turn into Lloyd's bad reminder.

Their sandwiches were long gone and their bottles drained dry by the time Jean thought of how much time had passed. There was a proud twinkle in Lloyd's eye as he told stories of his two young granddaughters from across the country whom he hadn't seen in years. He frequently used loose change to use payphones to talk to them. Their mother, Lloyd's daughter, didn't even know of her father's current living conditions. Lloyd didn't want her to see him in this state, and he was doing his best to get back on his feet.

Jean had leaned forward to listen, not out of politeness, but of genuine interest. With one crossed leg, she supported her chin in her hand and smiled demurely, lost in Lloyd's stories.

"Listen to me, babbling for who knows how long. You probably got a million things to do right now," said Lloyd.

"Oh no, no," Jean said quickly, straightening her back. "Honestly, I stayed here because I wanted to." But she did need to get going before dark. This neighborhood wasn't a good place to be caught in after sunset.

Lloyd stood up alongside to see her off, even though his knees had a little trouble as he rose. "Thanks for making my Christmas just a little better. I really appreciate it." His droopy eyes looked just a little brighter.

"No, thank you, Lloyd. You were the best company I've had since moving here."

"Ah, girl, a right charmer you are," he answered modestly.

Jean severely doubted that. All the charm of an eel, maybe. "I meant every word. You take care of yourself, Lloyd, you got that?" she said with an undertone of seriousness.

Lloyd tipped his ballcap. "And to you the same."

Jean waved goodbye and was about to exit the alleyway when she heard the jingle of the leftover money in her pocket.

"Here," she said, fishing the coins and bills out.

Lloyd held up his hands, away from her. "Ah, you're a nice kid, girly, but no. Keep it. Use it for school. You're gonna make something of yourself, remember?"

"I don't need it."

"Sure you do, sweetheart."

"Really, I don't."

"Sweetheart-"

"Take it, Lloyd," Jean said a little more firmly than she meant. She softened her voice. "Please? You need it more than I do."

"A couple bucks won't go very far," said Lloyd stubbornly.

"It will go further than nothing, though, won't it?" With that, she shoved the bills and coins into his hand.

Lloyd's watched the money in the same way that Jean was sure she looked at the one hundred dollar bill. He stared long, but then offered his palm out, the money resting upon it. "You sure you don't want it?"

For a second, Jean blinked rapidly. She almost didn't hear him. For a flash of a moment in her mind's eye, she saw Batman's hand from the previous night in place of Lloyd's. The blood, the breached skin, the warm flesh; in Lloyd's grubby hand she could see his own humanity, just as she had with Batman. Lloyd was as human as he was. As she herself was.

Tentatively, Jean curled and pressed Lloyd's rough, dirty fingers over the bills and coins, clasping his fist closed with her own fingers. She then hugged Lloyd gently, with the hope that it made him feel just as worthy to be alive as she did right now.

Lloyd's body froze, at a loss of what to do. Slowly, though, he relaxed and, in careful motions, patted Jean's back soothingly, like a father to a daughter.

"You know, you're really something special, girly. You're gonna do something great." He let go of her, tapped his forehead, and winked. "Trust me, Old Lloyd knows these things. You remember that, Jean."

"You got it," Jean grinned.

Waving goodbye to Lloyd, Jean started for her bank a few blocks down, recalling that she needed to take care of a cash withdrawal she'd been putting off. Her branch was one of the very few open on Christmas Day.

A gust of heated air enveloped her as she walked inside the quaint building and passed on the banktellers in favor of the ATM. Shoving her card in the slot, she punched in her PIN and drummed her fingers as the account information loaded.

$10,072.68 displayed onscreen.

Jean did a double-take, nearly choking on air. She blinked several times, worried that a sudden bout of double vision was stretching extra zeros on the screen. The numbers stayed put. Her heart lurched against her ribcage, then began pulsating rapidly.

Impossible. There was no way ten thousand dollars was added to her account, her Christmas bonus only amounted to four hundred, and she had already spent it all on a bill payment. This had to be the bank's mistake.

Jean was about to cancel and pull her card out of the machine to start all over again, but she stopped just before she raised her hand. She sure could use that money...

She felt like a criminal just by standing there and allowing seconds to tick by without alerting a bank teller about the error. The longer the money sat in her bank account, the more she began to perspire. Was the room shrinking? It was feeling awfully small. Her family was sweet but there was no possible way they had the means to send her half that amount, even if they had pooled their savings together. Not even Christmas would have compelled so much generosity from them.

No, she told herself with heavy acceptance. This time she wouldn't be as lucky as she was with Bruce Wayne. Come clean, you could get in trouble if they find out you knew about this. Get it over with.

Jabbing her thumb on the cancel button, the debit card popped back out of the slot. All Jean heard was her shoes going click, click, click on the tiles as she slowly approached the counter. Her sight morphed into dizzying tunnel vision; all she could see ahead was the cheerful bank teller waiting for her.

"And what can I do for you today?" the bank teller chirped, pushing her plastic black-rim glasses up her nose and then clasping her thick hands in front of her. Magenta acrylic nails stood out against her mocha skin tone.

Jean held her fingers on the edge of the counter just for something to hold on to. "I think there's been a mistake."

With her eyebrows mildly furrowed, the woman - Bernadette, according to her shiny gold name-tag - answered, "I'm sorry?"

Jean placed her debit card on the counter. "I had only seventy-two dollars or so in my account. I came in just a minute ago and saw an extra ten thousand in there. I don't have that kind of money, I think your computers made a mistake or something, or there's something wrong with the system. Just thought you should know."

Bernadette stared at Jean a split second longer than necessary, as if trying to figure out what she was talking about, but then seemed to work out what she was saying. Her bright demeanor returned. "Alright, let's just take a look and see what the deal is."

She guided Jean through the process of accessing the account. Once it was found, Bernadette studied the computer screen. Jean couldn't see anything, the monitor was turned away, but she doubted that she'd understand any of it anyway. She drummed her fingertips on the counter lightly, watching the white spot of screen reflection in Bernadette's lenses. The bank teller's eyes flicked here and there, then her eyes widened.

"Oh, it's you," she said finally. She faced Jean with a kind smile. "We appreciate your honesty in bringing this to our attention, ma'am."

"No problem." Well, not really.

"Yeah, same on our end."

"...Excuse me?"

"Consider it a reward."

Jean's heart skipped a beat. "Y-You mean I can keep it?"

"Of course!"

The next second, Jean was gone - she dropped entirely out of sight.

"MA'AM!". The bank teller nearly pitched herself over the counter, leaning over to find Jean huddled in the corner underneath the ledge, with her knees pulled up to her chin. Her hands held her face as tightly as suction cups, and a gasping, muffled, hysterical sob escaped through her fingers.

Bernadette left her chair spinning and her short heels clacked in staccato as she hurried around the long counter. Upon reaching Jean, she immediately kneeled in front of her. "Ma'am, are you okay?!"

Jean's shoulders heaved as she cried and hiccupped into her hands. She tilted her head back against the wall and opened her red eyes, staring at the flourescent squares in the ceiling.

"I'm just so happy," she squeaked, barely even a sound, and then her face tightened as she dissolved into more tears.

Bernadette looked relieved then. She smiled sympathetically.

An office door nearby burst open. A tall, blond man in a grey suit appeared in the doorway. "What's wrong, what happened?" he said sharply.

"Nothing, nothing," Bernadette said breathlessly with a smile while fanning Jean with a manilla folder, "Just little overwhelmed by the present she got today, that's all."

The man in the grey suit took one look at Jean and hastily crossed the room to the water dispenser in the sitting area to fill a paper cup. He returned and handed it to Jean.

"Tha-Tha-Thank you," she said inbetween sobs, taking the cup gratefully and trying to hold it still as she tipped it to her lips.

Bank employees and customers were watching with frozen fascination, but Jean couldn't see them, couldn't even feel their stares. Ten thousand dollars. Ten thousand dollars.

"Do you need an ambulance, ma'am?" asked Grey Suit, standing over her.

"No, no, no," said Jean quickly, sniffling and wiping her nose on her sleeve. "I'll be fine, I swear. You just...have no idea how much I needed this."

There. She said it. She needed money. She needed it bad. There was such freedom in finally admitting it. Strange how it was always easier to share financial worries with strangers than to friends or family. Even Mrs. Witter said that Jean's pride would be the end of her.

Once Jean was finally got a grip on herself, she wobbled onto her feet. Her nose was stuffed up and she didn't have to look into a mirror to know that her face was red and splotchy. She wiped her nose on her sleeve again, aware of the gesture's crassness, but she really didn't have anything else to use. Didn't public establishments usually have a tissue box somewhere?

On cue, Bernadette reached behind her station and pulled out a tissue box. "Here," she said, placing it into Jean's arms.

"Thank you," Jean said, taking the box but forgetting about it almost immediately. "For everything."

"Oh no, don't thank us, we have no part in this."

"Pardon?"

"The money actually is yours, not the bank's," said Bernadette. She began to bounce on the balls of her feet, seemingly excited about something. Her dazzling grin wanted to stretch wider than it's limit, Jean just knew. Bernadette looked side to side, then leaned in close.

"I shouldn't be telling you this," she said under her breath, "He said to keep it a secret, but I think you'd really like to know. But you didn't hear it from me, okay?"

"...Alright."

Bernadette led Jean to a secluded area near the office spaces, away from customers within earshot. "Bruce Wayne was in here earlier and made a deposit. Into your account."

"Bruce Wayne?" Jean repeated sharply. The air in her lungs was sucked out like a vaccuum. He made a mistake, then. It wasn't her money afterall.

Bernadette seemed to read her mind and sought to put her at ease. "Hold on, hold on. I know, talk about a surprise, he doesn't even bank with us. You could imagine our faces when he just strolls in all of a sudden! We thought he was lost or something. But no, he just wanted to make a deposit, and was very specific that it was going to you, totally secret."

Jean's mouth bobbled open and shut wordlessly. She must've looked like a fish.

"You must have really done something to make him do a thing that special." Bernadette's eyes sparkled with curiosity, but she was too polite to ask the question, and watched Jean like the answer would be evident in her expression.

Jean focused on the ground, humbled, and just a little taken aback. "It was only a tiny good deed that I did, that's all it was." Really, it wasn't like she performed an emergency appendectomy on him while in the middle of traffic.

Bernadette dismissively waved away Jean's bashfulness. "Even the smallest favours can have a big impact, you know."

"Apparently."

Surely not ten thousand dollars worth, though. Even so, Jean wished so badly that Bruce Wayne was standing in front of her right now, right at this moment, so that she could throw her arms around him and not let go. She wanted to cry into his expensive suit lapel and tell him that his generosity went above and beyond. But Christmas miracles didn't work like wishes and genies; it was possible that Bruce Wayne and Jean Witter would never cross paths again in their lifetimes. Still, Jean wanted to close her eyes and wish anyway that Bruce Wayne could materialize before her.

"You sure you're okay?" asked Bernadette one more time.

"Positive," answered Jean. And it was the truth.

They said their goodbyes and seperated. Jean shoved her bare hands into her pockets for warmth and started on the path home. Heavy clouds had rolled in sometime in the late afternoon, turning earlier clear skies into complete overcast.

Jean was a floating mess of thoughts; Batman, the gang attack, crippling fear, the bruises, those were all still fresh, but seemed so distant in her memory, like the half-remembered dream she had last week about putting up Halloween decorations on Christmas Day.

Bruce's generosity wouldn't pay off everything in the long run, but Jean didn't need it to, didn't want it to; only enough to get by. The financial cushion he had given her was more beneficial than he could ever understand. Her bills could finally be paid on time, and she'd finally get a decent night's sleep.

She was going to be okay.

Jean turned the key to her apartment and stepped inside. Closing the door behind her, she took a moment to lean her back on it, feeling soothed by it's support. Never for one second could she have imagined her day would turn out like this, that offering help to someone hurt - Batman - would set off a chain of events. A tiny part of her brain kept telling her that she was going to wake up half-buried in the snow on Christmas morning, left for dead by Smoky.

A hint of red sparkle on the balcony hooked her eye. Jean squinted curiously. It was easy to spot on top of clean snow. A dark brown, rectangular box, decorated with a shiny Christmas bow, was placed on top of an overturned bucket buried under white. In the last light of sun, the bow's several loops reflected different points of brilliant apple-red shine. Suspicious, Jean dropped her keys on the side-table, crossed the room, and with some effort managed to slide the frosted door.

Without touching it or stepping out of the apartment, she craned her head at several angles to inspect the mysterious box. She watched it hesitantly, as if expecting it to do something. It didn't look dangerous, but that might've been the intention, and she certainly didn't leave it there. Was it meant for her?

A terrifying thought occured: was this a sarcastic gift from Smoky or any of his crew? Jean thought of calling the police. Just to be safe, she told herself.

She didn't really want to touch it. Crouching down and dipping her fingers into the snow, she dug out the windshield brush she always left underneath the door's frame (well, she didn't have a vehicle to go with it, did she?). After clacking it against the wall a few times to shake off snow dust, she retreated a few steps backward into the warm apartment, balanced her legs and stretched the windshield brush towards the box, using it as an extension. Her fingers pinched the scraper tightly to keep the heavy brush aloft and steady enough to touch the box while at the same time trying to keep herself as far away as possible. Once or twice the brush wobbled in her weak grip, but Jean managed to poke the box with the brush end.

It shifted, leaving a drag mark in the snow, but didn't do anything else. Unsatisfied, Jean tried again; if this were truly a trap, maybe the trigger required more force. With a forward lurch of her torso, Jean bumped it harder, causing a cardboardy thump. Evidently she had bumped it a little harder than necessary because the box slid a quarter spin and then toppled off the bucket, falling upside down. Jean skittishly jumped back, brandishing the windshield brush like a weapon.

The strange "gift" did nothing.

The box lid was not taped down. Some of it's contents spilled from one lifted corner. Jean lowered the brush to mid-level and edged closer. Foil packets laid haphazardly in a trail, like Jean had nicked the box's artery. Who would leave this for her? Crouching down, she picked up a packet and read the printed words.

...Hot cocoa?

Tossing the brush aside into the snow, Jean kneeled on the cold door frame and quickly overturned the box. Sweeping away flakes on it's lid, she plucked off the Christmas bow to find the box's advertisment of thirty packets of rich, smooth, powdered hot cocoa. She wasn't doubtful, but she had to see them for herself, just to prove it to her eyes, and flipped open the lid. In three rows, seperated by paper-thin cardboard walls, sat similar foil packets of ten per row, though several had now broken rank due to the fall.

Jean peered past the balcony rail and into the sky, as if the answer as to who left the strange package would be there. The surrounding snow was perfectly undisturbed, not a single shoeprint or handprint. The Christmas bow made the whole thing seem deliberate, but she didn't have friends in Gotham. She thought of Xelia, but Xelia wouldn't know about Jean's particular liking of hot cocoa, unless it was just a lucky guess.

The sky was dimming at an accelerated rate now that the sun had sunk below the horizon, and in it's place left a dying, periwinkle glow. Jean clawed her fingers over the spilled packets, leaving lines in the snow, placed them back into the box, slid the glass door shut, and brought it inside. Switching on the light in the kitchen, she set the box on the counter. She turned it this and way and that but couldn't really find anything wrong with it.

Ripping open one packet, Jean sniffed delicately. The delicious, husky smell of powdered chocolate wafted invitingly from it. There was no undercurrent of anything, none that she could detect.

...twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine...twenty-nine?

The hot cocoa box said thirty. It was no big deal, but Jean counted again for OCD's sake, making sure to factor in the packet she opened.

...twenty-eight, twenty-nine.

One was missing. She supposed it didn't really matter, there were still twenty-nine more packs of hot cocoa than she did that morning. It probably got lost in the snow somewhere on the balcony.

Something scrawled on the roof of the box caught her eye. She lifted the flap. A simple message in blocky, black writing stared back at her:

Cheers.

A bat symbol was stamped underneath.

Jean couldn't help herself; she started laughing. The situation wasn't comical, not something to make fun of, she was laughing in pure disbelief; a nervous joy where her happiness could rouse the neighbors. She covered her mouth as if it would keep her giggles inside somehow, as if it would keep her eyes from leaking for the second time that day, but that did nothing and soon a tear tickled her skin as it slid down her cheek.

Jean raked her fingers through her scalp and clutched her hair to get a hold of herself, tiny spurts of laughter escaping every few seconds. As if saving her life wasn't enough, Batman went and did something else for her.

The sky was now dark, and the clouds that had rolled in earlier now let loose gentle snowfall. Jean knew of the perfect way to enjoy the happy, joyful mood she found herself in. Dishes clinked and slid as she plucked a pot and the orange mug from the sink.

Ten minutes later, clad in her longest, warmest sweater, and her fingers curled around a bitingly warm mug of freshly made hot cocoa, Jean slid open her balcony door and leaned against the frame. Steam from her mug doubled into fog once it clashed with the pleasantly cold air outside. The breeze felt good on her skin.

Police sirens wailed from a distance, piercing through what could have been a wonderful "Silent Night" moment for Jean. She frowned in slight displeasure. Instantly in response, the bat signal appeared in the clouds, like a nightlight to ward off the city's inner darkness.

Jean's heart swelled just a little. She lifted her mug towards the sky, her arm rising like her hope in Gotham City. "Cheers, Batman."

She placed the mug to her lips and took a long, satisfying sip.

THE END

Whew, about time, huh? Thanks for everyone's patience, time isn't something I have an abundance of, but I hope this was a satisfying conclusion for all. Originally the homeless man was supposed to be Alfred in disguise, a tester for Bruce to see who would deserve a monetary gift for a good deed (he does it yearly). Then I thought it wasn't really in good taste for them to take a dinner or donation away from the people who actually needed them, so I changed the character to an original one.

For those curious, Lloyd is homeless due to a gambling addiction. He had put another mortgage on his house, one he couldn't possibly pay, believing that this was finally going to be his lucky chance. He didn't win, lost all his money, lost his house, and scraped a living on the streets for five years. He had kicked his habit two years ago and is slowly trying to put his life back together.

Trivia: If you know the song that corresponds to my chapter titles, congratulations, you know my favorite Christmas song.

Thanks a lot everyone! Hope you all felt warm Christmas fuzzies while reading, and I'd just love to know what you thought about the story.