Secret Santa 002
Title: Enough For the Moment
Rating: G/PG
Warnings: Kissing, implied sexual encounters. ^_^
Word Count: 1133
Disclaimer: All totally untrue and unaffiliated on my part. Do not Google yourself or your famous friends, for that way madness lies.
Summary: Tyson gets into the Christmas spirit, but he and Nick have a couple of brief false starts before they get it right.
AN: HAPPY CHRISTMAS, whocares19_05! Have a great one!
In retrospect, Nick should have been nervous the moment Tyson slammed the recipe book on the table, but he was too busy being absolutely shattered to manage it. Not everyone had Tyson’s ridiculous energy, and even the short tour they’d just come off had knocked Nick for six. So he was distracted enough to let Tyson have himself an orgy of culinary failures rather than doing the sensible thing and nipping it firmly in the bud.
Thing was, tired as Nick most definitely was, it was also nice to see Tyson enjoying Christmas again. Last year had been all about Missmas, the most ridiculous of ‘holidays’, and Nick was just relieved to see Tyson happy enough to want to get involved in Christmas again. Not to mention, last year had been tense for all kinds of reasons. So if Tyson wanted to bake himself into a coma, if he was happy doing that, then the sensible thing could screw itself to hell, Nick was going to let him. Nick was going to be there handing him the-
“-no, dude, the greaseproof paper. Yeah, next to the foil. That’s the baby.” Tyson had flour in his hair and was examining a recipe book with terrifying fervour. “It says here you need cold hands. Do I have cold hands, Nick?" Tyson pranced over to Nick, tinsel round around his neck and wearing a Santa apron, and unceremoniously stuck his hands down Nick’s neck.
Nick managed not to squeak as ice cold fingers wriggled against his neck, carefully detaching himself from Tyson and moving away a little. "I’d say your hands are perfectly cold, yeah.” He managed with some degree of calm. “And I'm getting cold feet, do you think that counts?"
"No, Nicky, no backing out on the wedding day!"
"It's mince pies, not a white wedding!” He paused. “And you can stop batting your eyelashes at me, Tyson, it's disturbing. Y'already sound like a woman when you sing falsetto, no need to go the whole hog."
“I am beautiful, in every single way!”
“My god, could you be more gay?”
"Nicky," Tyson planted a smacking kiss on Nick's cheek, "if you haven't twigged on that one yet, you're just the tiniest bit slow, hate to say it, sweetheart."
"My brain was addled by all the sex we’ve been having." Nick deadpanned.
“Yeah, clearly, you’re the bastion of heterosexuality in the dangerously homosexual atmosphere of my house.” Tyson agreed absently, grabbing the flour and pouring some more of it onto the scales. “Says I need a cupful of sugar. Nick, how much is a cupful?”
“Er, however much it takes to fill a cup? Do you even have cups?”
Tyson glanced doubtfully at the shut cupboard door as though it might somehow give him the answer. “I don’t... think so? How about we say fifteen grams is a cupful?”
Nick shrugged. Privately, he thought the mince pies were going to work as well as the cupcakes and the ‘homemade bread’ and the cookies, but he was going to be the last person to tell Tyson that and the last person to refuse any of his dubious home-baked items. This Christmas was a good Christmas, and Nick was going to make damn sure it stayed that way.
“...gonna love my mince pies.” He tuned back in to hear Tyson say, and managed a smile.
“Yeah, I bet!” he agreed, cheerfully. Tyson gave him a long, long look, the silence stretching out uncomfortable. “Wait, what did I just agree with?”
“You were bein’ -supportive? I’m guessing? And shit like that?” Tyson offered. “But after how well the cookies turned out, and, y’know, the homemade bread,” Nick suppressed a shudder, “I was kinda waiting for you to tell me to give it a fuckin’ rest, y’know? And then the cupcakes come along, and I was sure you’d say it. So.” He wiped floury hands on his apron. “What’s the deal, Nickster?”
“I’ll tell you if you promise never to call me that again?” Nick bargained.
“You’ll tell me, or I’ll actually make you eat one of these mince pies, swear to God.”
“I give in.” Nick said meekly. “S’just. Y’know, Christmas spirit and all.”
“Last I checked, Christmas spirit didn’t involve voluntary food poisoning.” Tyson offered with a grin.
“Yeah, but you were all. Y’know, Christmassy and shit.” Nick waved his hand ineffectually. “Better’n last year, anyway,” this time they both shuddered; last year had not gone well for too many reasons, “so I figured - it wasn’t hurting anyone, you were happy, why not?”
“Y’really are a sweetheart sometimes.” Tyson nodded briskly, moving on before Nick could get his head around the remark and give him the teasing he so clearly deserved for it. “I’ve gotta clean this shit up.”
“I’ll help?”
“Put tinsel on first.” Tyson leaned in for a quick kiss, and Nick grinned, yanking him forward by one tinsel-twined wrist for a proper kiss. “Oooh, yeah, Christmas spirit right there, baby.” He grinned at him when Nick let him up.
“Go on, ruin a nice moment.” Nick said without heat, examining the recipe for pastry briefly before shutting the recipe book. “Y’know what they say about cold hands?”
“Watch out for the embarrassing reaction you get when you first start giving someone a hand job?” Tyson asked, shovelling dirty pots into his sink with very little thought for realistic capacity.
“Warm heart, Ty.” Nick sighed, but he was grinning.
“Give me a minute, and I’ll show you what else is ‘warm’.” Tyson half-grinned, half-leered back at him.
“You always ruin the nice moments, don’t you?” Nick grinned at him, then shook his head. “Idiot.”
“But an idiot with Christmas spirit!” Tyson chirruped, then squawked as Nick headed towards him with more dirty plates. “Stop!” Nick ground to a halt. “Y’see, Nicky Nicky Wheeler,” Tyson grinned, taking the plates off him and shoving them onto the draining board, “it’s not Christmas without mistletoe, is it? And I am very much in the Christmas spirit.”
Nick glanced up; Tyson had somehow managed to pin mistletoe to the ceiling (probably using his freakishly long limbs, or, if Nick was feeling charitable, a step ladder). “Oh no. You got me.” He said and smiled as Tyson bounced over, crowding him against the wall for a kiss. “Wasn’t under the mistletoe for that.” He said, and pushed until Tyson was. “Better.” He allowed before leaning up for a kiss.
“Hey, Nick, fancy making a little Christmas spirit all of our very own?”
“Please never tell me how you manage to cram so much innuendo into everything you say.” Nick sighed, but he was still smiling as Tyson towed him somewhere more comfortable.
Even without the horrible baking, they found there was still more than enough Christmas spirit to go round.
**