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immolate_the_silenceAnyway, this is my one and only Christmas ficlet; unless post-Christmas fics count also and in that case, I may write another.
I'd like to point out that I don't specify what kind of Christmas cookies Wax's sweet tooth demands he constantly consume. This is because I recently baked Gingerbread cookies and they came out terrible and I am steering clear of baking Christmas cookies from now on. Also, I have never had spiked eggnog but I can imagine that it's probably pretty damn good.
Don't know why I'm posting this here but I am; you can also read it on my preferred platform AO3.
Happy Holidays!
Title: Under the Mistletoe
Author: Taste_of_Suburbia
Pairing: Reece/Wax
Genres: Romance/Family
Rating: Teen
Summary: Less than two days before Christmas, Reece has one specific thing he needs from Wax.
A/N: Just a little Christmas ficlet. After all I put Reece through for Halloween, I figured he needed some fluff for Christmas, well, kinda anyway.
Series: an unquiet mind - though this doesn't even mention monsters or hunting, just a brief nod towards Reece's hatred of Halloween, which is covered in my Halloween ficlets in this series.
…
They’re standing outside the lab waiting for autopsy results when Reece remembers, out of the blue, that Christmas Eve is tomorrow night, despite that wreaths have been hung on nearly every doorway for weeks, the same festive pop music he’s been listening to this time of year for his whole life blaring from every speaker, frosting-laden cookies shoved into the glove compartment and spilling out of Wax’s pockets in the occasional moments when they weren’t crammed in his mouth.
It’s not necessarily that more has been on Reece’s plate lately, he’s just… forgotten. Preoccupied, uncaring, so utterly wrapped up in his own life and his own problems and not fucking up what he and Wax have only just dipped their toes into rather than wrapping Christmas gifts.
Although, it’s not like Wax has talked about any of it much either.
So as they stand and suffer outside when they should realistically be inside, not necessarily in the room but at least in the building, if only Wax hadn’t gotten them kicked out of said building for being his usual rude, stubborn, jackass self, Reece actually thinks about Christmas and whether he can still salvage it. It’s too exhausting trying to ascertain why he wants to in the first place, so he just settles on the how rather than the why.
“What do you think about getting a tree?”
Wax stops mid-chew, gum this time, and stares at his partner with eyebrows raised and surprise softening the lines around his mouth. Reece delights a little bit every time he manages to say something that catches Wax off guard. It’s abundantly clear in the next few seconds, however, how he really doesn’t know what the hell Reece is talking about. “Trees are… great, I guess. ‘Course, we don’t have a backyard or anything…”
Reece stops him before he can make an even bigger fool of himself. “I mean a Christmas tree, Wax.”
Wax recovers quickly. “I thought you hated the holidays.”
“I hate Halloween, Wax, it’s a mockery of everything we do.” He quickly moves on because he knows Wax doesn’t agree. “But I don’t hate Christmas.”
Wax shrugs, going back to obsessively peeking in through the nearly frosted over window even though Reece is absolutely positive that there’s nothing to see. “And here I was all these months thinking you were a Christmas grinch.”
This is the moment where Reece wonders whether maybe he spoke too soon, because everything he says Wax seems to use against him, because if Reece shows just the teeniest degree of interest in anything, Wax uses it as blatant permission to exaggerate and overdo and push Reece nearly to the boiling point. Because now he’s in danger of Wax using his words as an excuse: to frost dozens of cookies and decorate every square inch of their sparse apartment and attach reindeer antlers to their new leased SUV and wrap enough presents until their fingers ache and blister and bleed.
Why couldn’t he just keep his mouth shut?
…
Reece has probably inspected every plastic tree in the city by the time he realizes that something so manufactured could never suffice.
It’s always been a real tree, at the back of his mind.
Of course, Wax is the only one not shopped out by this point. “I’m gonna see if I can track down more peppermint bark. Greedy employees probably stashed a few tins somewhere.”
That’s when Reece takes the moment to blurt, “I think I want a real Christmas tree, Wax.” Not: I want a real Christmas tree, Wax. Not: You’re going to buy me a real tree or chop one down, Wax. Because, of course, Wax knows exactly what he means.
Wax stops mid-stride, determined thoughts having strayed temporarily from his latest sugary treat. Hell, if Wax wants things then Reece can damn well want things too. Even if he does feel like a begging child by this point, considering it’s the end of the day and they’ve spent hours scouring every shop and criticizing every tree and even Wax joined in when he’d probably be satisfied with Charlie Brown’s bloody tree. Wax gives in; then again, every time Reece asks for something he tends to get it for him. Call Reece spoiled, sure, call Reece anything as long as he gets some form of a Christmas, as last minute as it’ll be. “So you want a real Christmas tree. Let’s go out and get one then.”
And then practicality sets in. “It’s two days before Christmas, Wax. I doubt there’s anything left out there.”
“Well, we won’t know if we don’t look, will we, Reece cup?”
Damn it, why does Wax have to be the reasonable one?
The truth is Reece is tired and cold, cold in the way where he can’t get warm even inside with the heat on for the bustling masses of last minute shoppers, and he has a headache and he’s sick of Wax’s mouth reeking of sugar and cocoa enough to make Reece’s teeth ache from imminent cavities. The truth is Reece is physically exhausted from shopping all day and from repeatedly checking his phone only to find time and time again that there are still no lab results, and he still somehow wants a tree, a tree that smells real and feels real even though every tree from his childhood has been plastic and hastily assembled and entirely non-magical.
Maybe he’s put Wax through enough for one day.
And yet…
The thought is interrupted when his partner steals another candy cane from a tree taller than their combined heights, another one he clearly hasn’t paid for.
Reece rolls his eyes, takes the sticky, plastic wrapper from Wax and shoves it hastily in his coat pocket before crossing his arms, stuffing his hands under his armpits in an attempt to create some semblance of warmth. “Let’s just finish up here and go home, please.” He can’t remember when he started to think of their shitty little apartment as home, maybe it was the exact moment this morning when he realized he wanted a Christmas tree and wanted to decorate it with cheesy tinsel and ornaments and strings of popcorn and wanted to drink hard eggnog and wanted even more to kiss Wax under mistletoe.
He’s genuinely surprised Wax’s easily distracted, overly sexualized mind hasn’t gone there yet.
…
He hits the liquor hard that night, the eggnog that Wax so helpfully spiked. It’s not that Reece isn’t exhausted, he’s just too emotionally invested in a Christmas that would have came and went if he hadn’t remembered its existence just this morning to actually sleep. He counts the Christmas sheep wearing a colorful array of ugly Christmas sweaters; and he counts the dancing elves that are drunk off their little asses; and he counts the number of victims that they know about, including the one in that cold room, cold with despair and loneliness and death, but none of it does any good.
At some point he must pass out because when he wakes up, three things happen in the space of mere minutes that make Reece’s head spin and whirl and dip and swirl like the world has suddenly become this topsy turvy place since Reece decided to check out of it.
One, there is a gigantic freaking Christmas tree not four feet from the bed he’s currently sprawled out on and drooling all over. The lights are more than enough to exacerbate his hangover headache. It’s pretty impressive up until the moment where Reece has the good sense to hang his pounding head over the side of the bed, to better puke up all the night’s liquor into the carpet.
Two, Wax somehow found a sprig of mistletoe and after forcing Reece to brush his teeth with super minty toothpaste that almost has Reece gagging into his vomit stained pillow, proceeds to hold it above their heads until Reece willingly seals their mouths together. It’s a sloppy, ‘kinda disgusting but kinda sweet at the same time’ kiss, though it’s better than Wax talking and contributing even more to his headache from hell.
Three, there is still plenty of hard eggnog to go around. It is Wax’s cure all, probably.
“Merry Christmas, James Reece.”
Reece takes a sip from the new glass Wax offers him because at this rate, the clock’s screen reading 3:09 am, if it’s even to be believed, he really isn’t going to last the night without it.
Be careful what you wish for, Reece curses, finally laying his head back down and praying his dreams will be completely un-Christmasy, no overplayed holiday jingles and no frosting having exploded in the kitchen and no Kahlua-laced coffee and absolutely no twinkling lights that are more blinding than cute or magical.
Except maybe the sloppy mistletoe kisses...
FIN
