Happy Holidays, duckgirlie! [Part 2]
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Part Two
Their first date-or apparently second because Cook considers the snow ball fight and bar Christmas party the first date, because apparently that had been a date-goes really, really well. They go out to a really cool restaurant where you have to make your own pizza? And David’s shirt is ruined by the end of the date because it’s covered in cheese and tomato sauce, but Cook puts pepperoni on his in a way that makes it look like it’s smiling, and then leans over to kiss David where there’s sauce on the corner of his mouth (or so he said, David’s not entire sure he believes him, but he’s not entirely sure he cares either).
The point is that it was fun, and it was ten thousand times better than any of the other dates David’s been on. They even spend some time afterwards talking about their families-Cook has two brothers and three step-sisters, and a bunch of nieces and nephews (which, big family! David loves big families!)-and jobs-Cook is in graphic design? When he’s not playing music anyway. David mentions how he works with kids, which is totally true if not explicitly true because Cook thinks he means he’s a child caretaker or something, when he’s actually more of a toy deliverer.
David distracts him by leaning up and kissing him, and Cook doesn’t seem to mind too much, so it’s a win/win situation. And he talks about Daniel and Jazzy and Amber and Claudia, and Cook says he’d totally like to meet them which, um, is totally okay with David too, so. Not that David could take Cook to the North Pole, that’d sort of blow the whole “I’m Santa Claus!” thing out of the closet.
“What size shoes?” Cook asks, looking back at him from the counter, and David snaps back to attention. Their third date, Cook insisted, should be bowling. David’s never actually gone bowling? The only version they have back at home is Elf Bowling, and you slide down a patch of ice and try to drag the elves down with you, which is fun, but, um, different, and this... this is totally not Elf Bowling.
David hesitates before saying “Elevens?”
Cook grabs the shoes and gives David a look that he can’t quite interpret, but he’s probably not supposed to get all, um, whatever, because of it anyway, so he just grabs his shoes and says, “Okay, how do we play?”
“Pick out a ball, first,” Cook says, before sitting down and pulling off his sneakers to pull on the bowling shoes instead.
David looks behind them at the rows and rows of colorful bowling balls, and tilts his head, before moving to pick up a red one. He promptly drops it. “That’s way too heavy!” he says, aghast, and looks back at Cook who is laughing.
“Why don’t you start with a pink one, man? The red ones are like fourteen pounds; I don’t even use them.”
David frowns and hesitantly picks up a pink bowling ball-it’s light, at least. “Alright,” Cook says, grabbing a green one. “This is payback for the ice skating. Watch me.” He holds the ball up, almost near his chin and cheek, and then looks at the dots on the floor. “You have to line yourself up, and then on your second step, or third, maybe, for you, start bringing the ball back-keep your eye on the pins though-then make sure you’re still lined up and let go of the ball. Sound good?”
David nods, and then watches Cook go-the ball hits the ground smoothly and slides all the way down the aisle, and curves right before hitting the pins. They all go crashing around, and a big cartoon shows up on the monitor saying, “Strike! Woohoo!”
David can totally do that, and he steps up, carefully lining himself along the dots on the floor. Cook nods at him, and so David starts forward, holding the ball up, and then swings. He lands hard on his butt, trying to copy the foot twist Cook had done, and the pink ball slams onto the ground with a loud thump before rolling backwards, away from the aisle altogether.
Cook is laughing ridiculously from where he’s standing, and David hauls himself up and grabs the ball before it reaches him. “Oh my gosh, stop laughing!”
“It’s just-the ball’s supposed to go in the other direction-“
“I know!” David says hotly, and he’d totally stomp his foot if he was a kid, but he’s not, so he doesn’t. He does turn around though, and thinks harder about what Cook had done-probably the foot thing was just for looks, or maybe Cook even tried to trip him up on purpose, David wouldn’t put it past him, because during the snowball fight he was totally all sneaky and stuff.
He manages to get the ball like, in the lane this time, and it even stays relatively close to the middle until it swerves and goes into the side without knocking any pins down at all. The monitor yells, “Gutter! Gutter!” and David flushes red. Stupid monitor.
Cook is smiling at him, and David huffs before grabbing his pink ball as it comes back out, and he goes back up to try it again, because you get two tries, at least. Or three in his case, but whatever. He gets another gutter ball, and throws his hands in the air and says, “This is impossible!”
“This is hilarious,” Cook says, still smiling-and David thinks it might be a cross between amusement and, like, fondness.
“It’s not funny,” David says, crossing his arms and sitting down.
“Nah, it’s pretty funny. I mean, I was starting to think you didn’t have any bad qualities. But you, David Archuleta, are a sore loser.”
David opens his mouth, surprised, and says, “I am not!”
“You really are. That is awesome. And completely unexpected.”
David plays the next two rounds in silence, until Cook threatens to go get, like, gutter stoppers, these things that the kids three aisles down are using, and no, David does not need gutter stoppers, okay, thanks, but no thanks, and he does figure it out like, eventually, and while he doesn’t get any strikes, he totally gets two spares by the end of the game. So, yeah, next time he’ll be able to give Cook a fair fight.
“That was like practice,” he insists as they walk down the street, towards David’s apartment. “Next time I’ll probably even beat you.”
“Uh-huh,” Cook nods, grinning like he doesn’t believe David at all, “yeah, no, I’m sure you will, Arch.”
“Oh my gosh!” David says, “You call me a sore loser but you’re like, a sore winner.”
Cook bursts out laughing. “I’m a sore winner? How can you be a sore winner? And I thought it was just practice anyway,” he adds, practically snickering as they come to a stop in front of David’s apartment building. It’s really not that late though, David thinks, the sky’s not even very dark yet. The sun is still setting somewhere behind too many tall buildings, and he bites his lip before asking, “So, um, Cook, I-my family has this old cocoa recipe.”
Cook smiles, and says, “Like hot chocolate?”
David flushes for some reason, but steadies himself and nods, “Yeah. Do you want to come up and try some?”
Cook looks at him for a second, before he slips his hands into his pockets and says, “Yeah, that’d be great.”
David gives him a relieved smile and then turns and digs out the key that lets you into the apartment building. He doesn’t really trust the elevator, and explains what happened last week with Miss Abdul and her pug while climbing the stairs instead, Cook trailing behind him with an amused look on his face. He’s only on the third floor anyway, so that’s alright. Cook stops short when David pushes open his door, and David nervously shuffles in the entryway before pushing off his shoes and saying, “Um, you can-sit down, or-“
“You have some serious decorating going on,” Cook finally says, and jumps on one foot to pull off his boots before dropping them on the floor next to David’s sneakers. He walks into the living room, and David really doesn’t think it’s that bad. The Christmas tree is pretty big, true, and everything is kind of, um, sparkly and red and green and there’s a bowl of mini-candy canes on the table, but that’s totally it. When you turn out the lights you can’t see any of it at all, except the tree, maybe.
Not that he’s-um, planning on turning out the lights.
“Cocoa!” he says, and rushes back into the kitchenette area.
Cook sits down on the sofa and looks at the pillow with the reindeer on it, and David can’t see his face; isn’t sure he wants to. He’s come to the conclusion that he really likes Cook, but Cook is still so... not anti-Christmas, but he just doesn’t get excited about it, and when David thinks about telling him the truth, it’s this horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach that maybe-maybe Cook won’t like that part of him.
Maybe he won’t want to be with him, if David tells him he’s Santa Claus.
“Is this hand-sewn?” Cook asks suddenly, holding it up as he turns around.
“Oh,” David says, blinking. “Um, no, it’s just-“ made with Christmas magic.
“It looks amazing,” Cook says, putting it back down carefully before pushing himself up off the couch, and comes over to stand next to David, leaning against the counter.
“Can you grab two mugs from the cupboard?” David asks. Cook nods and grabs the candy-cane colored one for himself, and the one with the blonde dancing elf for David (it was a Christmas present from Brooke). David grabs the little red spoon he uses to stir, and then the cinnamon, and bends down a little so he can get closer and make sure it’s stirred just right.
“Ridiculous,” he hears Cook murmur, and when he looks up curiously, Cook puts a hand on his cheek and tugs him up, and kisses him.
“Mm,” David whines into it because oh, kissing, but at the same time, he’s supposed to be stirring the cocoa, and adding the... marshmallows, and... and Cook is sliding a hand down his back, and licking his way into David’s mouth at the same time, and then his thumb presses against the flat of his back, underneath his shirt, and David’s entire body shivers with it, and okay, so, they can do cocoa later.
Cook presses up to him and David pushes back until their chests are touching, the buttons of David’s plaid button-up tangled in the cloth of Cook’s t-shirt. The edge of the counter digs into his back when Cook raises his hand, fingers pressing into skin and tugging David’s shirt up with them. Cook’s beard tickles against his chin, but David just hastens the kissing so that it’s harder, faster, and tickling really isn’t a problem anymore, doesn’t even bear thinking about. He lifts a hand and grips Cook’s shoulder tightly, like he’s trying to say please don’t move, don’t go anywhere.
David huffs when he pulls his mouth back, needing air to breathe, but Cook’s eyes are dark, and David feels hotter just looking at him. His fingers tighten into the cloth where he’s gripping and slowly, oh-so-slowly, Cook strays both of his hands downward, until David has to drop his forehead against Cook’s chest with his eyes closed. Cook’s palms spread flat over his butt, just this bare pressure muffled by David’s jeans before he says, “Gonna lift you up, ‘kay?”
His voice is rough, raspy almost, and David doesn’t comprehend what he said until Cook hitches David up, sliding him onto the kitchen counter so that he’s sitting next to the mugs of cocoa, with Cook’s waist between his thighs. “Oh,” David breathes, “okay.” His voice breaks on the word and Cook chuckles with a smile before moving back in and kissing him again.
It’s stupid, how quickly David’s started to feel like-like this, all hot and out of control. He can count on one hand the number of relationships he’s had in his life, and none of them have ever gone so fast, have made his heart beat so fast, so hard.
“Jesus, Archie,” Cook murmurs against the damp skin of his throat, and David leans his head back, not even caring when there’s a loud thump of its impact against the cupboard. Cook’s hands have somehow slipped under his shirt and the bottom three buttons have popped open. His fingers were cold at first but seem warm now, smoothly stretching out against David’s stomach muscles, pressing and molding.
“This isn’t what I meant when I invited you up,” David says, after a minute, Cook’s hand so high now that his thumb has just barely brushed David’s nipple.
Cook pauses, and lets his hands slide back down and out from under David’s shirt. He shakes his head and leans up again, planting a kiss on David’s mouth before he says, “I know.” It’s sort of-said in that way that says we can stop if that’s what you’re going for. David laughs quietly, almost shyly but not quite because he’s pulling a hand back from Cook’s shoulder and intentionally unsnapping his own jeans. He bites on his bottom lip as he drags the zipper down slowly. Cook is watching him, eyes dark, and David thinks that here, in this situation, you can’t be shy.
Cook keeps watching him even as he places a hand on top of David’s. David groans and he’s not even being touched, just the idea that’s it’s about to-he anchors his thighs by clenching them tightly around Cook’s waist, and lifts himself up just long enough that Cook can hook his fingers in the loops and drag them down. He’s straining against his boxer-briefs, and they’ve somehow gotten tighter than they were this morning when he put them on. Cook is the one who breathes harshly as he presses his forehead against David’s, and wraps his hand around David-and oh god, oh God, he cries out because it’s so good, it’s even better than when it’s just him, and he wants Cook to, oh God.
“Wait, Cook, it’s-“ he half laughs, half moans, “Oh my gosh, we’re in the kitchen.”
Cook snorts at him, and pulls back, “Sofa? Or-“ he says, and twists his wrist like-and oh, oh, David shudders and can’t avoid the fact that his hips are stuttering, and his thighs pulling Cook closer to him every time he can’t control the way he jumps, “-you gonna deal with the fact that you’re about to get jacked off next to your cocoa supply?”
“Oh-I-” David starts, voice almost muffled because Cook is jerking his hand too fast to concentrate on saying words, and David is so hard he’s not sure he wants to. His skin is hot, and his thigh muscles are starting to burn, but he can’t stop straining them with every tug of Cook’s hand. He drops a hand onto the counter next to him, trying to get some stability. He bites his bottom lip.
Cook is watching him when he looks up, and David cries out as Cook’s hand slows, and then speeds up again. The friction of his palm is going to kill him, it’s so good, so good, he can’t-“Cook, please-“
He chuckles-a deep, rough sound and says, “I get this might be awkward, but what do you think about ‘Dave’ while we’ve got our dicks out?” And it’s awful, awful because Cook leans in closer and his hand actually stops moving, just holding David still while he can’t stop vibrating, please, just, and Cook says, “David, come on,” and oh, oh, that’s-
Cook doesn’t even have to slide his hand back up to the top, jerking lazily, because David is already coming, his face screwed up and his mouth wide open in a cry.
He opens his eyes a few seconds later, still perched on the counter, his left hand twitching where he’s trying to hold himself up. Cook is smiling kind of-self-satisfiedly, at him, all like yeah, that’s my handiwork right there and David wants to roll his eyes but, um, he’d really just rather-
“Okay,” he says, his voice cracking a bit, “sofa.”
David laughs into his mug and has to put it down because he can't keep it steady enough while he's laughing. After what happened in the kitchen, and later on the sofa, he needs all the steadiness he can get. Except that Cook keeps telling funny stories and not giving David a chance to recover. Cook has his hands in the air, demonstrating quite effectively how big the very unhappy cat really was. “Andrew freaked out,” Cook says, laughing at his own story, “and I think I probably still have a scar somewhere from that thing’s damn claws. It’s why I have a dog. They don’t scratch.”
“Dublin, right?” He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, and Cook’s leaning against the couch, grinning.
“Yeah. He is a big Christmas fan. I always buy him one of those huge bones-takes him all year to demolish it. I bet he’d love you. You should come over and meet him.”
“Really?” David asks, looking at Cook hopefully.
“You have to ask that? Yes, really, c’mon, Arch.”
David smiles and takes a big drink from his cocoa to try and hide it.
The next time they go out, it’s almost damp outside because it feels like it’s getting ready to rain. Cook is laughing at something David did, his arm thrown over David’s shoulders warmly as they walk down the crowded sidewalk. They’re going to a movie-they fought over which one, because David is of the opinion that anything above PG probably isn’t very good, and Cook thinks anything below PG-13 is lame. David is smiling, only a little bit embarrassed because Cook’s laughing in that I love you, man way that gives him all these goosebumps up his arms, and he maybe sort of really likes it.
But David stops just before they turn the corner, as Cook says, “Hey, there’s the cinema-Arch?”
David is looking across the street, at a woman sitting next to a building, knees tucked up to her chest with a ratty old jacket over her shoulders. David can see her t-shirt underneath is purple because there’s a big tear in the front, and she’s hunching as a man yells at her-the shopkeeper, David thinks, of the little store she’s sitting in front of. She gets up slowly and starts walking away, and Cook bumps his shoulder. “Archie, we going in?”
“I-“ David says, and then gives Cook a look, and he doesn’t know exactly what he’s trying to say, but Cook looks at him weirdly, and David doesn’t know what it means. “I’ll be right there, okay? Save me a seat.”
He ducks through the crowd of people, and manages to jog across the street and grab the woman’s elbow just as the shopkeeper goes back inside. Her hair is dirty and knotted, and she looks up at him with a tired face, more wrinkles than there should be lining her face. “Hi,” he says, and she looks at him like he’s crazy.
“What do you want?” she says, shuffling her feet, and David glances at the shop in front of them.
“Can I-“ He shakes his head, and his chest hurts. “What’s your name?”
They sit down on the sidewalk, and talk while cars drive past and people walk behind them. Her name is Maria, and she’s forty-seven years old. She has two little girls, and they’re her reason for breathing, even though she lost her job this last summer and hasn’t been able to find a place to live since she ran out of rent money.
“Maria,” David says, smiling softly at her when she sighs, and says the plastic beaded bracelet she’s wearing was made by her youngest, Caitlyn, and she wishes she could buy them Christmas presents this year, “thank you.”
“For what?” she says, laughing at him, like he’s said something funny.
“For talking to me,” he says. “I mean, you could have told me to mind my own business.”
“It’s alright. I haven’t really talked to anyone who wanted to listen in a long while.”
After a minute, he stands up and says, “Come on.”
“What?” she says back, blinking, but staggers up behind him and he pulls her into a store a couple of buildings down. He grabs a jacket and holds it up to her, and then puts it back and grabs a red one instead.
“I think this one looks good on you,” he says, considering.
“I can’t-“ she starts, shaking her head.
“I’d listen to him. He’s pretty insistent when it comes to Christmas presents,” Cook says, coming up behind her, arms folded over his chest. He’s not smiling, and David winces-the movie’s probably started already, which means they’ve missed it.
“Thank you,” she says, and pulls on the jacket, bundling up. Cook rips off the tag before David has a chance and says, “No problem.”
David shakes his head while Cook goes to the register to pay, and says, “It’s just payment. You know, for your story.”
Cook doesn’t say anything when David says goodbye, and they walk for a while, bypassing the cinema, before David hesitantly asks, “Cook?”
“What was that?” Cook says, turning around with this look on his face. It’s not angry, but it’s-
“She looked sad,” David says, because it’s the simple truth.
Cook looks at him for a long time, before he gives a long sigh and says, “You can’t go buying jackets for every homeless woman you see in L.A., man.”
And David gets that, he does, but-
“I know. That’s what I have you for,” and then, “You didn’t have to pay for it.”
Cook rolls his eyes and then laughs-laughs at himself, David thinks-and says, “Yeah, well, you looked sad.”
Two days later and Cook is pushing open the door to his apartment with a somewhat nervous smile. He holds it open for David to step through before coming in himself. It’s nice, David thinks, with somewhat bare walls and a big, brown leather couch in the middle of the living room, with a big television in front of it. The best part though, he decides immediately, is the little black ball of fur that pounces on Cook’s ankles. “Hey Dubs,” Cook says, leaning down to grab the small dog that tries licking his hands even as they cradle him carefully.
He looks at David and holds Dublin out, who keeps squirming excitedly, paws sliding through the air dangerously. David holds his hands out immediately as Cook says, “Dubs, meet Archie. Archie, this is Dublin.”
“You’re a Scottish terrier,” David says, and holds Dublin to his chest, scratching him between the ears before he puts him back on the ground. Dublin hurriedly attacks Cook’s feet again, and David smiles stupidly at them.
“Yeah,” Cook says, grinning. “It’s ironic, ‘cause Dublin is in Ireland. You get it? Carly loved it. Anyway, so, uh, this is the place.”
“It’s nice,” David says sincerely. “You don’t have any Christmas decorations though,” he can’t help but add.
“That is not true,” Cook says, shaking his head and points to the TV. There’s a stocking hanging from the edge of it, David realizes, and it reads Dublin. David feels a smile break out across his face.
“You got a stocking for Dublin?”
“It was a gag gift,” someone who is definitely not Cook says, and David jumps before turning around.
“Shut up, Andrew,” Cook says to the new-comer. David recognizes that name-Cook’s little brother? “And what the fuck are you even doing here?”
“I’m just letting your boyfriend know he’s dating the fucking Grinch, jeez. And I needed your WiFi-you said you’d be out all night.” He gives David a sidelong glance, and David flushes at the words all night.
Cook hits Andrew in the arm and then turns and says, “Archie, this is my annoying little brother who breaks into my apartment on a regular basis.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Andrew says, looking at him. David kind of feels like he’s being judged, somehow, and Cook hits Andrew in the arm again. Andrew ignores him and says, “I don’t break in. I have a key.”
“That you made without permission.”
“It’s still a key.”
“Hello,” David says, eventually, but he’s not sure Andrew hears it. Dublin has given up on getting attention from either brother as well, and pads over to look up sadly at David. David, more than willing to let Cook and Andrew bicker, leans down and holds a hand out for Dublin to playfully chew on. He’s really soft, and yips loudly when David takes his hand away after a few minutes.
“Alright,” Andrew says eventually, “Archie, don’t be too hard on him. His back acts up sometimes, it’s-“
“Would you get the fuck out of my apartment?” Cook yells, and promptly kicks Andrew out, but he’s laughing while he does.
David smiles awkwardly, and then says, “He seemed friendly?”
“You’re too nice for your own good,” Cook shakes his head, and then nods to the sofa. “So, popcorn and the Discovery Channel?” Which David figures out twenty minutes later is code for popcorn-flavored mouths and not watching anything at all, but he’s totally okay with that because Cook’s hand is warm on his waist, and-
And, um, well, he’s out all night, at least.
Carly slides in next to David, and places a big red bag filled with frilly red paper on the table separating him and Cook. Cook carefully pushes his beer to the left so that she doesn’t knock it over and then says, “Early birthday present?”
“I know, I wasn’t invited to the party this Tuesday-“
Cook shrugs, “Sorry, family thing. I’m lucky they’re letting me bring Archie.”
“Anyway,” she says, “it was too good to pass up, although it looks like you’ve met your Cindy Lou Who already.”
“Why does everybody think I’m the Grinch?” Cook exclaims, leaning forward. “I don’t yell at kids or hate Christmas trees, Jesus.”
David winces and smiles apologetically as Carly starts laughing. Cook digs into the red paper and pulls out a green hat-really, um, warm looking, with ear-covers and string to tie under your neck, and, um, with the Grinch’s face on it. There’s also the Grinch movie-the cartoon, not the Jim Carrey version. Cook rolls his eyes. “Thanks.”
“You missed something,” Carly says, and Cook raises an eyebrow before he dumps the bag over and a pair of matching socks fall out.
“And, Archie-“ Carly says, smiling, “here you go!” She gives him a small box, wrapped in candy-cane colored paper.
“Oh my gosh,” David says, “you didn’t have to-“
“Shut up and open it,” she says.
He does, and then promptly shuts it again and pushes it away, “Um-“
“What is it?” Cook asks, reaching to grab for it, and Carly is laughing really hard, and David says, “No! Don’t look!” except Cook totally is already, and is holding them out, and oh no.
“I like it,” Cook says, but David can tell he’s about to start laughing, and he reaches up to try and grab the silly red underwear-they have the words Santa Baby written across the butt, okay, that’s just-no.
“David?”
He looks up, blinking, at the curly-haired blonde hesitantly standing at the edge of their table. He doesn’t gape, exactly, except-“You didn’t just see that,” he says, as seriously as he possibly can, and Brooke’s eyes widen and she nods.
Cook lets the underwear fall on the table and David shoves them back in the box before he says, “Um, Cook, this Brooke. She’s, um, a friend of mine?”
Carly coughs and gets up from the table, still smiling, and says, “I better go help Mike with the bar, guys. Happy birthday to both of you though. Use your gifts wisely.” She seems to be looking at David when she says that last bit, and he can feel himself turning red behind the ears.
“Who are you?” Brooke finally asks, and fills Carly’s newly vacated spot, looking right at Cook.
Oh, no, that’s not happening.
“David Cook,” Cook says, holding out a hand to shake in Brooke’s as he glances at David who interrupts as quickly as possible.
“Brooke, this is Cook, he’s my boyfriend, and no interrogations!” he adds, giving her a sharp look, and he sees the questions die on her tongue before she can get them out. But really, she does not need to be interrogating Cook about his favorite, whatever, type of tinsel material.
“I’m not going to interrogate him,” Brooke says, and she smiles politely, her Christmas hat drooping over her ears to hide the way they’re pointed at the tips. “But I have to say hello! You realize you’re an extremely lucky guy to have David here, right?”
“Brooke,” David whines, but Cook laughs and says, “Yeah, he’s pretty terrific, I’ll admit it. I haven’t met any of his friends yet though.” He looks at David, and raises an eyebrow. David just shakes his head.
“You will soon,” Brooke says, and David panics for a second when she continues, “-as soon as he brings you home to the Nor-“
“To Utah!” David yells, and Cook gives him a funny look.
“Yeah, uh,” Cook starts, and David, flustered, says, “Cook! Would you mind getting me a new eggnog? And Brooke? I’ll give you the money-“
“Nah, it’s cool. I’ll, uh, be right back,” Cook says, and he looks like he’s half-laughing as he climbs out of his seat and heads for the bar.
“What are you doing here?” he asks in a hushed tone. Because he didn’t tell anybody to come, and he’s pretty sure he’s old enough by now that he doesn’t need to be checked up on or anything, and she almost blew his secret.
“David,” she says, slowly, like she’s trying to tell him two plus two equals four or something, “it’s the seventeenth. There’s only a week before Christmas.”
And then it hits him, and he freezes, because oh.
There’s only a week until he has to become the actual Santa Claus.
And get married.
“Whatcha’ thinking about, Santa Claus?” Cook says, suddenly waving a hand in front of David’s head. The fry he was half-heartedly bringing up to his mouth drops from his hand and lands in the middle of a puddle of ketchup.
“What?” David asks, heart pounding. “Oh, nothing, I just-nothing.”
“Mmhmm,” Cook mutters, and they sit in an awkward silence for a few minutes.
David wants to tell him. He does, it’s just-how do you tell someone that you’re a presumed-mythical fairy tale character who has magic and needs to get married in order to keep being that presumed-mythical fairy tale character with magic. Christmas magic. The easy answer is that you just say it, and get it over with, but the problem with that is that he’s pretty sure Cook is going to hate him.
“Alright, come on. I know something that’ll cheer you up,” Cook says, finally, and grabs David’s tray before tossing everything in the trash.
“What?” David says, blinking but getting up to follow him out of the McDonalds anyway. Cook holds out his hand before they start walking, so David takes it, hesitantly-almost shyly, except it’s not that he thinks Cook might not really want to hold his hand, it’s because Cook might not want to any more after-after David tells him the truth. That he’s dating a Claus, a Santa Claus.
He’s woefully staring at the concrete as his sneakers and Cook’s boots come in and out of his direct vision, when they come to an abrupt stop and Cook has to tug on his arm to keep him from stumbling. “What, where-“ except he looks up, and freezes, his mouth dropping open.
It’s a huge building, with walls made out of paneled glass so that you can see every single train, every baseball bat, every teddy bear and telescope and Barbie doll and trampoline and-“Oh my Gosh,” David says, “you brought me to a giant toy store.”
“And,” Cook says, “thanks to Gracie and Gage, I am a veteran at this particular toy store, which is why I know that they have a fucking awesome Christmas section. It’s where me and my brothers bought our mom’s Christmas tree.”
David scrunches his nose up at the thought of a plastic tree, but Cook laughs and pushes him inside the store.
David ends up loading his arms up with Christmas stuff, and why is he even doing this, really, he has all the Christmas stuff he could ever possibly need. All he has to do is sing. But he finds himself wanting to put decorations up around Cook’s apartment, with him, and he can’t do it magically because he hasn’t told Cook yet. He decides, somewhere between the teddy bears and the wreaths, that he’ll tell Cook tonight, after they put the little Christmas tree he forced Cook into buying up in his living room.
It’ll be good, and easy, and perfect.
David wakes up warm, half lying on top of Cook, curled into the couch where they’d-um, gotten distracted from Christmas decorating last night, because Cook wouldn’t stop trying to slip his hands up David’s sweater, and oh my Gosh, his fingers were cold but his mouth was warm on the back of David’s neck, so that was okay. And really, the Christmas decorating could wait. Or, well, it should have been able to. He winces as he notices for the first time that the room finished decorating itself sometime in the night. David really needs to learn how to stop humming in his sleep.
The second thing he thinks about, and he curls in closer to Cook as he does, trying to soak in Cook’s warmth, is that he didn’t tell Cook a darn thing. He chickened out, or let himself pretend he was distracted, and kept saying after this, after this. He can’t afford to do that anymore though.
Dublin whines at the door, and yelps with big brown eyes, clearly wanting to go out.
“Okay, boy,” he whispers, and climbs off of Cook carefully before slipping into a pair of sandals by the door and grabbing Dublin’s leash, hanging off the door handle.
He leads the puppy outside, and sits down on the steps. It’s warm enough, somehow, that he doesn’t even need to be wearing a jacket. Dublin wags his tail when he’s done, and hops up on the steps next to him before running around in a circle crazily. David smiles slightly, and asks, “What would you do if your boyfriend told you he lives at the North Pole and delivers presents to children on Christmas Eve in a magic sleigh?”
“Probably ask him why he’s awake. Clearly he’s still dreaming.”
David jumps up and turns around with wide eyes. “Cook?”
“Heard you leaving, figured I’d come keep you company.”
“O-oh, I-“
“Come on, let’s go back inside. It’s chilly out here.”
David shakes his head, “You’re not wearing shoes.”
Cook grins. “Would you imagine that? Looks like somebody stole my sandals.”
When they get back, David closes his eyes and lets out a slow, even breath as Cook lets Dublin off his leash. He turns around. “Cook?”
“Yeah? You hungry? I have, uh, Captain Crunch I think-“
“Cook, I’m Santa Claus,” David says, quickly and without hesitating. His heart is pounding in his chest.
Cook looks back at him, eyebrow raised. “What do you mean? Like-oh, you’re gonna go do the kids’ hospital thing again? Do I get to see you dressed up this time?”
David shakes his head, “No, Cook, I’m really Santa Claus. I mean, this’ll be my first official year doing it alone, but I deliver gifts to children around the world every Christmas-“
“David-“ Cook starts, taking a step towards him.
“No, just-listen. Brooke? You met Brooke. She’s not an old friend, she’s an elf. I mean she’s a friend too, but she’s an elf, Cook. My entire family-I’m not from Utah, Cook. I live at North Pole, and my family has always lived at the North Pole. We’re Claus’s, and I’ve been wanting to tell you, I-Cook?”
Cook is shaking his head, and he almost looks like he’s going to start-to start laughing. Almost hopeful, David says, “Cook, I-“ before Cook puts a hand up, and David gets it.
He looks at David, and the only laugh in his face is a self-deprecating one. It’s the type of laugh that makes David’s throat dry up, and he can’t say anything. “Archie,” Cook says, after a minute, “I have to get to work.”
“Cook, please,” David starts, and he thinks he’s about to start crying, because his voice is-is shaking, and his heart is beating so fast and he just wants to shake his head and refuse; he wants-he wants-
“David. I have to get to work,” Cook says, harder this time, and looking right at him. “I don’t have time for this right now.” It’s the way he looks disappointed that makes David put on his shoes and leave, closing the door quietly behind him.
At least he makes it home before he starts crying.
On to part 3!
Part Two
Their first date-or apparently second because Cook considers the snow ball fight and bar Christmas party the first date, because apparently that had been a date-goes really, really well. They go out to a really cool restaurant where you have to make your own pizza? And David’s shirt is ruined by the end of the date because it’s covered in cheese and tomato sauce, but Cook puts pepperoni on his in a way that makes it look like it’s smiling, and then leans over to kiss David where there’s sauce on the corner of his mouth (or so he said, David’s not entire sure he believes him, but he’s not entirely sure he cares either).
The point is that it was fun, and it was ten thousand times better than any of the other dates David’s been on. They even spend some time afterwards talking about their families-Cook has two brothers and three step-sisters, and a bunch of nieces and nephews (which, big family! David loves big families!)-and jobs-Cook is in graphic design? When he’s not playing music anyway. David mentions how he works with kids, which is totally true if not explicitly true because Cook thinks he means he’s a child caretaker or something, when he’s actually more of a toy deliverer.
David distracts him by leaning up and kissing him, and Cook doesn’t seem to mind too much, so it’s a win/win situation. And he talks about Daniel and Jazzy and Amber and Claudia, and Cook says he’d totally like to meet them which, um, is totally okay with David too, so. Not that David could take Cook to the North Pole, that’d sort of blow the whole “I’m Santa Claus!” thing out of the closet.
“What size shoes?” Cook asks, looking back at him from the counter, and David snaps back to attention. Their third date, Cook insisted, should be bowling. David’s never actually gone bowling? The only version they have back at home is Elf Bowling, and you slide down a patch of ice and try to drag the elves down with you, which is fun, but, um, different, and this... this is totally not Elf Bowling.
David hesitates before saying “Elevens?”
Cook grabs the shoes and gives David a look that he can’t quite interpret, but he’s probably not supposed to get all, um, whatever, because of it anyway, so he just grabs his shoes and says, “Okay, how do we play?”
“Pick out a ball, first,” Cook says, before sitting down and pulling off his sneakers to pull on the bowling shoes instead.
David looks behind them at the rows and rows of colorful bowling balls, and tilts his head, before moving to pick up a red one. He promptly drops it. “That’s way too heavy!” he says, aghast, and looks back at Cook who is laughing.
“Why don’t you start with a pink one, man? The red ones are like fourteen pounds; I don’t even use them.”
David frowns and hesitantly picks up a pink bowling ball-it’s light, at least. “Alright,” Cook says, grabbing a green one. “This is payback for the ice skating. Watch me.” He holds the ball up, almost near his chin and cheek, and then looks at the dots on the floor. “You have to line yourself up, and then on your second step, or third, maybe, for you, start bringing the ball back-keep your eye on the pins though-then make sure you’re still lined up and let go of the ball. Sound good?”
David nods, and then watches Cook go-the ball hits the ground smoothly and slides all the way down the aisle, and curves right before hitting the pins. They all go crashing around, and a big cartoon shows up on the monitor saying, “Strike! Woohoo!”
David can totally do that, and he steps up, carefully lining himself along the dots on the floor. Cook nods at him, and so David starts forward, holding the ball up, and then swings. He lands hard on his butt, trying to copy the foot twist Cook had done, and the pink ball slams onto the ground with a loud thump before rolling backwards, away from the aisle altogether.
Cook is laughing ridiculously from where he’s standing, and David hauls himself up and grabs the ball before it reaches him. “Oh my gosh, stop laughing!”
“It’s just-the ball’s supposed to go in the other direction-“
“I know!” David says hotly, and he’d totally stomp his foot if he was a kid, but he’s not, so he doesn’t. He does turn around though, and thinks harder about what Cook had done-probably the foot thing was just for looks, or maybe Cook even tried to trip him up on purpose, David wouldn’t put it past him, because during the snowball fight he was totally all sneaky and stuff.
He manages to get the ball like, in the lane this time, and it even stays relatively close to the middle until it swerves and goes into the side without knocking any pins down at all. The monitor yells, “Gutter! Gutter!” and David flushes red. Stupid monitor.
Cook is smiling at him, and David huffs before grabbing his pink ball as it comes back out, and he goes back up to try it again, because you get two tries, at least. Or three in his case, but whatever. He gets another gutter ball, and throws his hands in the air and says, “This is impossible!”
“This is hilarious,” Cook says, still smiling-and David thinks it might be a cross between amusement and, like, fondness.
“It’s not funny,” David says, crossing his arms and sitting down.
“Nah, it’s pretty funny. I mean, I was starting to think you didn’t have any bad qualities. But you, David Archuleta, are a sore loser.”
David opens his mouth, surprised, and says, “I am not!”
“You really are. That is awesome. And completely unexpected.”
David plays the next two rounds in silence, until Cook threatens to go get, like, gutter stoppers, these things that the kids three aisles down are using, and no, David does not need gutter stoppers, okay, thanks, but no thanks, and he does figure it out like, eventually, and while he doesn’t get any strikes, he totally gets two spares by the end of the game. So, yeah, next time he’ll be able to give Cook a fair fight.
“That was like practice,” he insists as they walk down the street, towards David’s apartment. “Next time I’ll probably even beat you.”
“Uh-huh,” Cook nods, grinning like he doesn’t believe David at all, “yeah, no, I’m sure you will, Arch.”
“Oh my gosh!” David says, “You call me a sore loser but you’re like, a sore winner.”
Cook bursts out laughing. “I’m a sore winner? How can you be a sore winner? And I thought it was just practice anyway,” he adds, practically snickering as they come to a stop in front of David’s apartment building. It’s really not that late though, David thinks, the sky’s not even very dark yet. The sun is still setting somewhere behind too many tall buildings, and he bites his lip before asking, “So, um, Cook, I-my family has this old cocoa recipe.”
Cook smiles, and says, “Like hot chocolate?”
David flushes for some reason, but steadies himself and nods, “Yeah. Do you want to come up and try some?”
Cook looks at him for a second, before he slips his hands into his pockets and says, “Yeah, that’d be great.”
David gives him a relieved smile and then turns and digs out the key that lets you into the apartment building. He doesn’t really trust the elevator, and explains what happened last week with Miss Abdul and her pug while climbing the stairs instead, Cook trailing behind him with an amused look on his face. He’s only on the third floor anyway, so that’s alright. Cook stops short when David pushes open his door, and David nervously shuffles in the entryway before pushing off his shoes and saying, “Um, you can-sit down, or-“
“You have some serious decorating going on,” Cook finally says, and jumps on one foot to pull off his boots before dropping them on the floor next to David’s sneakers. He walks into the living room, and David really doesn’t think it’s that bad. The Christmas tree is pretty big, true, and everything is kind of, um, sparkly and red and green and there’s a bowl of mini-candy canes on the table, but that’s totally it. When you turn out the lights you can’t see any of it at all, except the tree, maybe.
Not that he’s-um, planning on turning out the lights.
“Cocoa!” he says, and rushes back into the kitchenette area.
Cook sits down on the sofa and looks at the pillow with the reindeer on it, and David can’t see his face; isn’t sure he wants to. He’s come to the conclusion that he really likes Cook, but Cook is still so... not anti-Christmas, but he just doesn’t get excited about it, and when David thinks about telling him the truth, it’s this horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach that maybe-maybe Cook won’t like that part of him.
Maybe he won’t want to be with him, if David tells him he’s Santa Claus.
“Is this hand-sewn?” Cook asks suddenly, holding it up as he turns around.
“Oh,” David says, blinking. “Um, no, it’s just-“ made with Christmas magic.
“It looks amazing,” Cook says, putting it back down carefully before pushing himself up off the couch, and comes over to stand next to David, leaning against the counter.
“Can you grab two mugs from the cupboard?” David asks. Cook nods and grabs the candy-cane colored one for himself, and the one with the blonde dancing elf for David (it was a Christmas present from Brooke). David grabs the little red spoon he uses to stir, and then the cinnamon, and bends down a little so he can get closer and make sure it’s stirred just right.
“Ridiculous,” he hears Cook murmur, and when he looks up curiously, Cook puts a hand on his cheek and tugs him up, and kisses him.
“Mm,” David whines into it because oh, kissing, but at the same time, he’s supposed to be stirring the cocoa, and adding the... marshmallows, and... and Cook is sliding a hand down his back, and licking his way into David’s mouth at the same time, and then his thumb presses against the flat of his back, underneath his shirt, and David’s entire body shivers with it, and okay, so, they can do cocoa later.
Cook presses up to him and David pushes back until their chests are touching, the buttons of David’s plaid button-up tangled in the cloth of Cook’s t-shirt. The edge of the counter digs into his back when Cook raises his hand, fingers pressing into skin and tugging David’s shirt up with them. Cook’s beard tickles against his chin, but David just hastens the kissing so that it’s harder, faster, and tickling really isn’t a problem anymore, doesn’t even bear thinking about. He lifts a hand and grips Cook’s shoulder tightly, like he’s trying to say please don’t move, don’t go anywhere.
David huffs when he pulls his mouth back, needing air to breathe, but Cook’s eyes are dark, and David feels hotter just looking at him. His fingers tighten into the cloth where he’s gripping and slowly, oh-so-slowly, Cook strays both of his hands downward, until David has to drop his forehead against Cook’s chest with his eyes closed. Cook’s palms spread flat over his butt, just this bare pressure muffled by David’s jeans before he says, “Gonna lift you up, ‘kay?”
His voice is rough, raspy almost, and David doesn’t comprehend what he said until Cook hitches David up, sliding him onto the kitchen counter so that he’s sitting next to the mugs of cocoa, with Cook’s waist between his thighs. “Oh,” David breathes, “okay.” His voice breaks on the word and Cook chuckles with a smile before moving back in and kissing him again.
It’s stupid, how quickly David’s started to feel like-like this, all hot and out of control. He can count on one hand the number of relationships he’s had in his life, and none of them have ever gone so fast, have made his heart beat so fast, so hard.
“Jesus, Archie,” Cook murmurs against the damp skin of his throat, and David leans his head back, not even caring when there’s a loud thump of its impact against the cupboard. Cook’s hands have somehow slipped under his shirt and the bottom three buttons have popped open. His fingers were cold at first but seem warm now, smoothly stretching out against David’s stomach muscles, pressing and molding.
“This isn’t what I meant when I invited you up,” David says, after a minute, Cook’s hand so high now that his thumb has just barely brushed David’s nipple.
Cook pauses, and lets his hands slide back down and out from under David’s shirt. He shakes his head and leans up again, planting a kiss on David’s mouth before he says, “I know.” It’s sort of-said in that way that says we can stop if that’s what you’re going for. David laughs quietly, almost shyly but not quite because he’s pulling a hand back from Cook’s shoulder and intentionally unsnapping his own jeans. He bites on his bottom lip as he drags the zipper down slowly. Cook is watching him, eyes dark, and David thinks that here, in this situation, you can’t be shy.
Cook keeps watching him even as he places a hand on top of David’s. David groans and he’s not even being touched, just the idea that’s it’s about to-he anchors his thighs by clenching them tightly around Cook’s waist, and lifts himself up just long enough that Cook can hook his fingers in the loops and drag them down. He’s straining against his boxer-briefs, and they’ve somehow gotten tighter than they were this morning when he put them on. Cook is the one who breathes harshly as he presses his forehead against David’s, and wraps his hand around David-and oh god, oh God, he cries out because it’s so good, it’s even better than when it’s just him, and he wants Cook to, oh God.
“Wait, Cook, it’s-“ he half laughs, half moans, “Oh my gosh, we’re in the kitchen.”
Cook snorts at him, and pulls back, “Sofa? Or-“ he says, and twists his wrist like-and oh, oh, David shudders and can’t avoid the fact that his hips are stuttering, and his thighs pulling Cook closer to him every time he can’t control the way he jumps, “-you gonna deal with the fact that you’re about to get jacked off next to your cocoa supply?”
“Oh-I-” David starts, voice almost muffled because Cook is jerking his hand too fast to concentrate on saying words, and David is so hard he’s not sure he wants to. His skin is hot, and his thigh muscles are starting to burn, but he can’t stop straining them with every tug of Cook’s hand. He drops a hand onto the counter next to him, trying to get some stability. He bites his bottom lip.
Cook is watching him when he looks up, and David cries out as Cook’s hand slows, and then speeds up again. The friction of his palm is going to kill him, it’s so good, so good, he can’t-“Cook, please-“
He chuckles-a deep, rough sound and says, “I get this might be awkward, but what do you think about ‘Dave’ while we’ve got our dicks out?” And it’s awful, awful because Cook leans in closer and his hand actually stops moving, just holding David still while he can’t stop vibrating, please, just, and Cook says, “David, come on,” and oh, oh, that’s-
Cook doesn’t even have to slide his hand back up to the top, jerking lazily, because David is already coming, his face screwed up and his mouth wide open in a cry.
He opens his eyes a few seconds later, still perched on the counter, his left hand twitching where he’s trying to hold himself up. Cook is smiling kind of-self-satisfiedly, at him, all like yeah, that’s my handiwork right there and David wants to roll his eyes but, um, he’d really just rather-
“Okay,” he says, his voice cracking a bit, “sofa.”
David laughs into his mug and has to put it down because he can't keep it steady enough while he's laughing. After what happened in the kitchen, and later on the sofa, he needs all the steadiness he can get. Except that Cook keeps telling funny stories and not giving David a chance to recover. Cook has his hands in the air, demonstrating quite effectively how big the very unhappy cat really was. “Andrew freaked out,” Cook says, laughing at his own story, “and I think I probably still have a scar somewhere from that thing’s damn claws. It’s why I have a dog. They don’t scratch.”
“Dublin, right?” He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, and Cook’s leaning against the couch, grinning.
“Yeah. He is a big Christmas fan. I always buy him one of those huge bones-takes him all year to demolish it. I bet he’d love you. You should come over and meet him.”
“Really?” David asks, looking at Cook hopefully.
“You have to ask that? Yes, really, c’mon, Arch.”
David smiles and takes a big drink from his cocoa to try and hide it.
The next time they go out, it’s almost damp outside because it feels like it’s getting ready to rain. Cook is laughing at something David did, his arm thrown over David’s shoulders warmly as they walk down the crowded sidewalk. They’re going to a movie-they fought over which one, because David is of the opinion that anything above PG probably isn’t very good, and Cook thinks anything below PG-13 is lame. David is smiling, only a little bit embarrassed because Cook’s laughing in that I love you, man way that gives him all these goosebumps up his arms, and he maybe sort of really likes it.
But David stops just before they turn the corner, as Cook says, “Hey, there’s the cinema-Arch?”
David is looking across the street, at a woman sitting next to a building, knees tucked up to her chest with a ratty old jacket over her shoulders. David can see her t-shirt underneath is purple because there’s a big tear in the front, and she’s hunching as a man yells at her-the shopkeeper, David thinks, of the little store she’s sitting in front of. She gets up slowly and starts walking away, and Cook bumps his shoulder. “Archie, we going in?”
“I-“ David says, and then gives Cook a look, and he doesn’t know exactly what he’s trying to say, but Cook looks at him weirdly, and David doesn’t know what it means. “I’ll be right there, okay? Save me a seat.”
He ducks through the crowd of people, and manages to jog across the street and grab the woman’s elbow just as the shopkeeper goes back inside. Her hair is dirty and knotted, and she looks up at him with a tired face, more wrinkles than there should be lining her face. “Hi,” he says, and she looks at him like he’s crazy.
“What do you want?” she says, shuffling her feet, and David glances at the shop in front of them.
“Can I-“ He shakes his head, and his chest hurts. “What’s your name?”
They sit down on the sidewalk, and talk while cars drive past and people walk behind them. Her name is Maria, and she’s forty-seven years old. She has two little girls, and they’re her reason for breathing, even though she lost her job this last summer and hasn’t been able to find a place to live since she ran out of rent money.
“Maria,” David says, smiling softly at her when she sighs, and says the plastic beaded bracelet she’s wearing was made by her youngest, Caitlyn, and she wishes she could buy them Christmas presents this year, “thank you.”
“For what?” she says, laughing at him, like he’s said something funny.
“For talking to me,” he says. “I mean, you could have told me to mind my own business.”
“It’s alright. I haven’t really talked to anyone who wanted to listen in a long while.”
After a minute, he stands up and says, “Come on.”
“What?” she says back, blinking, but staggers up behind him and he pulls her into a store a couple of buildings down. He grabs a jacket and holds it up to her, and then puts it back and grabs a red one instead.
“I think this one looks good on you,” he says, considering.
“I can’t-“ she starts, shaking her head.
“I’d listen to him. He’s pretty insistent when it comes to Christmas presents,” Cook says, coming up behind her, arms folded over his chest. He’s not smiling, and David winces-the movie’s probably started already, which means they’ve missed it.
“Thank you,” she says, and pulls on the jacket, bundling up. Cook rips off the tag before David has a chance and says, “No problem.”
David shakes his head while Cook goes to the register to pay, and says, “It’s just payment. You know, for your story.”
Cook doesn’t say anything when David says goodbye, and they walk for a while, bypassing the cinema, before David hesitantly asks, “Cook?”
“What was that?” Cook says, turning around with this look on his face. It’s not angry, but it’s-
“She looked sad,” David says, because it’s the simple truth.
Cook looks at him for a long time, before he gives a long sigh and says, “You can’t go buying jackets for every homeless woman you see in L.A., man.”
And David gets that, he does, but-
“I know. That’s what I have you for,” and then, “You didn’t have to pay for it.”
Cook rolls his eyes and then laughs-laughs at himself, David thinks-and says, “Yeah, well, you looked sad.”
Two days later and Cook is pushing open the door to his apartment with a somewhat nervous smile. He holds it open for David to step through before coming in himself. It’s nice, David thinks, with somewhat bare walls and a big, brown leather couch in the middle of the living room, with a big television in front of it. The best part though, he decides immediately, is the little black ball of fur that pounces on Cook’s ankles. “Hey Dubs,” Cook says, leaning down to grab the small dog that tries licking his hands even as they cradle him carefully.
He looks at David and holds Dublin out, who keeps squirming excitedly, paws sliding through the air dangerously. David holds his hands out immediately as Cook says, “Dubs, meet Archie. Archie, this is Dublin.”
“You’re a Scottish terrier,” David says, and holds Dublin to his chest, scratching him between the ears before he puts him back on the ground. Dublin hurriedly attacks Cook’s feet again, and David smiles stupidly at them.
“Yeah,” Cook says, grinning. “It’s ironic, ‘cause Dublin is in Ireland. You get it? Carly loved it. Anyway, so, uh, this is the place.”
“It’s nice,” David says sincerely. “You don’t have any Christmas decorations though,” he can’t help but add.
“That is not true,” Cook says, shaking his head and points to the TV. There’s a stocking hanging from the edge of it, David realizes, and it reads Dublin. David feels a smile break out across his face.
“You got a stocking for Dublin?”
“It was a gag gift,” someone who is definitely not Cook says, and David jumps before turning around.
“Shut up, Andrew,” Cook says to the new-comer. David recognizes that name-Cook’s little brother? “And what the fuck are you even doing here?”
“I’m just letting your boyfriend know he’s dating the fucking Grinch, jeez. And I needed your WiFi-you said you’d be out all night.” He gives David a sidelong glance, and David flushes at the words all night.
Cook hits Andrew in the arm and then turns and says, “Archie, this is my annoying little brother who breaks into my apartment on a regular basis.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Andrew says, looking at him. David kind of feels like he’s being judged, somehow, and Cook hits Andrew in the arm again. Andrew ignores him and says, “I don’t break in. I have a key.”
“That you made without permission.”
“It’s still a key.”
“Hello,” David says, eventually, but he’s not sure Andrew hears it. Dublin has given up on getting attention from either brother as well, and pads over to look up sadly at David. David, more than willing to let Cook and Andrew bicker, leans down and holds a hand out for Dublin to playfully chew on. He’s really soft, and yips loudly when David takes his hand away after a few minutes.
“Alright,” Andrew says eventually, “Archie, don’t be too hard on him. His back acts up sometimes, it’s-“
“Would you get the fuck out of my apartment?” Cook yells, and promptly kicks Andrew out, but he’s laughing while he does.
David smiles awkwardly, and then says, “He seemed friendly?”
“You’re too nice for your own good,” Cook shakes his head, and then nods to the sofa. “So, popcorn and the Discovery Channel?” Which David figures out twenty minutes later is code for popcorn-flavored mouths and not watching anything at all, but he’s totally okay with that because Cook’s hand is warm on his waist, and-
And, um, well, he’s out all night, at least.
Carly slides in next to David, and places a big red bag filled with frilly red paper on the table separating him and Cook. Cook carefully pushes his beer to the left so that she doesn’t knock it over and then says, “Early birthday present?”
“I know, I wasn’t invited to the party this Tuesday-“
Cook shrugs, “Sorry, family thing. I’m lucky they’re letting me bring Archie.”
“Anyway,” she says, “it was too good to pass up, although it looks like you’ve met your Cindy Lou Who already.”
“Why does everybody think I’m the Grinch?” Cook exclaims, leaning forward. “I don’t yell at kids or hate Christmas trees, Jesus.”
David winces and smiles apologetically as Carly starts laughing. Cook digs into the red paper and pulls out a green hat-really, um, warm looking, with ear-covers and string to tie under your neck, and, um, with the Grinch’s face on it. There’s also the Grinch movie-the cartoon, not the Jim Carrey version. Cook rolls his eyes. “Thanks.”
“You missed something,” Carly says, and Cook raises an eyebrow before he dumps the bag over and a pair of matching socks fall out.
“And, Archie-“ Carly says, smiling, “here you go!” She gives him a small box, wrapped in candy-cane colored paper.
“Oh my gosh,” David says, “you didn’t have to-“
“Shut up and open it,” she says.
He does, and then promptly shuts it again and pushes it away, “Um-“
“What is it?” Cook asks, reaching to grab for it, and Carly is laughing really hard, and David says, “No! Don’t look!” except Cook totally is already, and is holding them out, and oh no.
“I like it,” Cook says, but David can tell he’s about to start laughing, and he reaches up to try and grab the silly red underwear-they have the words Santa Baby written across the butt, okay, that’s just-no.
“David?”
He looks up, blinking, at the curly-haired blonde hesitantly standing at the edge of their table. He doesn’t gape, exactly, except-“You didn’t just see that,” he says, as seriously as he possibly can, and Brooke’s eyes widen and she nods.
Cook lets the underwear fall on the table and David shoves them back in the box before he says, “Um, Cook, this Brooke. She’s, um, a friend of mine?”
Carly coughs and gets up from the table, still smiling, and says, “I better go help Mike with the bar, guys. Happy birthday to both of you though. Use your gifts wisely.” She seems to be looking at David when she says that last bit, and he can feel himself turning red behind the ears.
“Who are you?” Brooke finally asks, and fills Carly’s newly vacated spot, looking right at Cook.
Oh, no, that’s not happening.
“David Cook,” Cook says, holding out a hand to shake in Brooke’s as he glances at David who interrupts as quickly as possible.
“Brooke, this is Cook, he’s my boyfriend, and no interrogations!” he adds, giving her a sharp look, and he sees the questions die on her tongue before she can get them out. But really, she does not need to be interrogating Cook about his favorite, whatever, type of tinsel material.
“I’m not going to interrogate him,” Brooke says, and she smiles politely, her Christmas hat drooping over her ears to hide the way they’re pointed at the tips. “But I have to say hello! You realize you’re an extremely lucky guy to have David here, right?”
“Brooke,” David whines, but Cook laughs and says, “Yeah, he’s pretty terrific, I’ll admit it. I haven’t met any of his friends yet though.” He looks at David, and raises an eyebrow. David just shakes his head.
“You will soon,” Brooke says, and David panics for a second when she continues, “-as soon as he brings you home to the Nor-“
“To Utah!” David yells, and Cook gives him a funny look.
“Yeah, uh,” Cook starts, and David, flustered, says, “Cook! Would you mind getting me a new eggnog? And Brooke? I’ll give you the money-“
“Nah, it’s cool. I’ll, uh, be right back,” Cook says, and he looks like he’s half-laughing as he climbs out of his seat and heads for the bar.
“What are you doing here?” he asks in a hushed tone. Because he didn’t tell anybody to come, and he’s pretty sure he’s old enough by now that he doesn’t need to be checked up on or anything, and she almost blew his secret.
“David,” she says, slowly, like she’s trying to tell him two plus two equals four or something, “it’s the seventeenth. There’s only a week before Christmas.”
And then it hits him, and he freezes, because oh.
There’s only a week until he has to become the actual Santa Claus.
And get married.
“Whatcha’ thinking about, Santa Claus?” Cook says, suddenly waving a hand in front of David’s head. The fry he was half-heartedly bringing up to his mouth drops from his hand and lands in the middle of a puddle of ketchup.
“What?” David asks, heart pounding. “Oh, nothing, I just-nothing.”
“Mmhmm,” Cook mutters, and they sit in an awkward silence for a few minutes.
David wants to tell him. He does, it’s just-how do you tell someone that you’re a presumed-mythical fairy tale character who has magic and needs to get married in order to keep being that presumed-mythical fairy tale character with magic. Christmas magic. The easy answer is that you just say it, and get it over with, but the problem with that is that he’s pretty sure Cook is going to hate him.
“Alright, come on. I know something that’ll cheer you up,” Cook says, finally, and grabs David’s tray before tossing everything in the trash.
“What?” David says, blinking but getting up to follow him out of the McDonalds anyway. Cook holds out his hand before they start walking, so David takes it, hesitantly-almost shyly, except it’s not that he thinks Cook might not really want to hold his hand, it’s because Cook might not want to any more after-after David tells him the truth. That he’s dating a Claus, a Santa Claus.
He’s woefully staring at the concrete as his sneakers and Cook’s boots come in and out of his direct vision, when they come to an abrupt stop and Cook has to tug on his arm to keep him from stumbling. “What, where-“ except he looks up, and freezes, his mouth dropping open.
It’s a huge building, with walls made out of paneled glass so that you can see every single train, every baseball bat, every teddy bear and telescope and Barbie doll and trampoline and-“Oh my Gosh,” David says, “you brought me to a giant toy store.”
“And,” Cook says, “thanks to Gracie and Gage, I am a veteran at this particular toy store, which is why I know that they have a fucking awesome Christmas section. It’s where me and my brothers bought our mom’s Christmas tree.”
David scrunches his nose up at the thought of a plastic tree, but Cook laughs and pushes him inside the store.
David ends up loading his arms up with Christmas stuff, and why is he even doing this, really, he has all the Christmas stuff he could ever possibly need. All he has to do is sing. But he finds himself wanting to put decorations up around Cook’s apartment, with him, and he can’t do it magically because he hasn’t told Cook yet. He decides, somewhere between the teddy bears and the wreaths, that he’ll tell Cook tonight, after they put the little Christmas tree he forced Cook into buying up in his living room.
It’ll be good, and easy, and perfect.
David wakes up warm, half lying on top of Cook, curled into the couch where they’d-um, gotten distracted from Christmas decorating last night, because Cook wouldn’t stop trying to slip his hands up David’s sweater, and oh my Gosh, his fingers were cold but his mouth was warm on the back of David’s neck, so that was okay. And really, the Christmas decorating could wait. Or, well, it should have been able to. He winces as he notices for the first time that the room finished decorating itself sometime in the night. David really needs to learn how to stop humming in his sleep.
The second thing he thinks about, and he curls in closer to Cook as he does, trying to soak in Cook’s warmth, is that he didn’t tell Cook a darn thing. He chickened out, or let himself pretend he was distracted, and kept saying after this, after this. He can’t afford to do that anymore though.
Dublin whines at the door, and yelps with big brown eyes, clearly wanting to go out.
“Okay, boy,” he whispers, and climbs off of Cook carefully before slipping into a pair of sandals by the door and grabbing Dublin’s leash, hanging off the door handle.
He leads the puppy outside, and sits down on the steps. It’s warm enough, somehow, that he doesn’t even need to be wearing a jacket. Dublin wags his tail when he’s done, and hops up on the steps next to him before running around in a circle crazily. David smiles slightly, and asks, “What would you do if your boyfriend told you he lives at the North Pole and delivers presents to children on Christmas Eve in a magic sleigh?”
“Probably ask him why he’s awake. Clearly he’s still dreaming.”
David jumps up and turns around with wide eyes. “Cook?”
“Heard you leaving, figured I’d come keep you company.”
“O-oh, I-“
“Come on, let’s go back inside. It’s chilly out here.”
David shakes his head, “You’re not wearing shoes.”
Cook grins. “Would you imagine that? Looks like somebody stole my sandals.”
When they get back, David closes his eyes and lets out a slow, even breath as Cook lets Dublin off his leash. He turns around. “Cook?”
“Yeah? You hungry? I have, uh, Captain Crunch I think-“
“Cook, I’m Santa Claus,” David says, quickly and without hesitating. His heart is pounding in his chest.
Cook looks back at him, eyebrow raised. “What do you mean? Like-oh, you’re gonna go do the kids’ hospital thing again? Do I get to see you dressed up this time?”
David shakes his head, “No, Cook, I’m really Santa Claus. I mean, this’ll be my first official year doing it alone, but I deliver gifts to children around the world every Christmas-“
“David-“ Cook starts, taking a step towards him.
“No, just-listen. Brooke? You met Brooke. She’s not an old friend, she’s an elf. I mean she’s a friend too, but she’s an elf, Cook. My entire family-I’m not from Utah, Cook. I live at North Pole, and my family has always lived at the North Pole. We’re Claus’s, and I’ve been wanting to tell you, I-Cook?”
Cook is shaking his head, and he almost looks like he’s going to start-to start laughing. Almost hopeful, David says, “Cook, I-“ before Cook puts a hand up, and David gets it.
He looks at David, and the only laugh in his face is a self-deprecating one. It’s the type of laugh that makes David’s throat dry up, and he can’t say anything. “Archie,” Cook says, after a minute, “I have to get to work.”
“Cook, please,” David starts, and he thinks he’s about to start crying, because his voice is-is shaking, and his heart is beating so fast and he just wants to shake his head and refuse; he wants-he wants-
“David. I have to get to work,” Cook says, harder this time, and looking right at him. “I don’t have time for this right now.” It’s the way he looks disappointed that makes David put on his shoes and leave, closing the door quietly behind him.
At least he makes it home before he starts crying.
On to part 3!