FIC: Under the Mistletoe (KKBB, gen, R)
Under the Mistletoe, Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, Perry/various celebrities, R
Yes, I realize this holiday ficlet is coming after the holidays. I've been sick; get off my back. For derangedfangirl, to her prompt, “Perry gets shitfaced on eggnog and regales a disturbed Harry with tales of his exploits with various famous actors.”
So, our first Christmas together was pretty memorable. Like, all others pale in comparison kind of memorable. I mean, as long as we make it through the holidays alive, nothing’s gonna top it, you know? Anyway, I’ve been working for Perry for a year now; the anniversary’s pretty easy to keep track of, since it’s Christmas and all. Christmas in LA is all superficial, glittery and a little sleazy and way too warm, not a fuck’s chance in hell of snowfall, which after growing up in Indiana just seems kind of wrong. I bought some of that artificial snow for the office, but I’d only got a couple flakes sprayed on the window when Perry caught wind, and he absolutely flipped his shit. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, since everything in there is stylish and spotless, but I thought maybe he’d bend a little, warmed by the holiday spirit or whatever. Apparently, I was wrong.
To be fair, Perry isn’t totally devoid of Christmas cheer. He did give me a Christmas bonus, and he bought gorgeous, expensive presents for everyone in his life, even people like the mailman and the woman who comes in to clean the office. Never one to leave an advantage untried, I attempted to manipulate his generosity into getting him to throw an office party, but he just cuffed me on the back of the head and said he wasn’t pissing away money throwing a Christmas party for his one employee, which I guess is kind of a valid point, and one I should have thought of before he smacked me, probably. But Perry’s really popular, and people in LA love any excuse for an open bar, so he had tons of invitations to Christmas parties, and because he likes me, or maybe pities me, he let me go along with him to a few of them. The best one was actually on Christmas Eve, because apparently beautiful LA people don’t have anything to do on the night before Christmas besides looking beautiful and getting really drunk. Although, shit, I was there, so I guess I’m not really one to talk.
Perry’s a tight wound motherfucker, but it was the holidays and he was taking Christmas Day off, so he let down his hair a little. Not literally; every strand was perfectly in place, like his coiffure was molded out of plastic or something. He got loose, is what I’m trying to say, as much as Perry ever allows himself to get loose.
Alcohol was involved.
Normally, when Perry drinks, which is only when he’s not working and is in time specifically scheduled for frivolity, he drinks vodka and tonic. I was a little baffled by this, at first, because Perry is an old school, noir motherfucker, and I would have pegged him for some seriously expensive Scotch or something. But then I found out-on the fucking View of all things, which I was not watching for fun, but was forced to watch, upside down, no less, while I was in the dentist’s chair-that vodka and tonic is, like, the least calories and carbs of any mixed drink, so it’s the smart choice for anyone who wants to keep a trim figure. And if Perry’s about anything, it’s smart choices and firm asses. Anyway, that’s his usual poison, but again, it was the holidays, so Perry was drinking eggnog. (Which is like the opposite of a smart choice for weight watchers; it’s basically a glass full of butter and booze. But it’s the fucking holidays, okay?) And, since Perry was already high on Christmas cheer, and the eggnog was heavily laced with holiday spirits, he drank a lot of it.
When I get drunk, I am a fucking mess. I slur and giggle and make seriously bad life decisions. When Perry gets drunk, he’s almost like a normal person. He laughs and flirts and gets a little handsy, but in a sweet, friendly way, not a Dateline NBC kind of way. I would love Drunk Perry all the time, except for one side effect. Drunk Perry is a talker. Not, like, the way I talk, the sheer volume, even when I’m not on anything. But you know that filter that people have between their mouths and their brains, so they don’t say things that are super embarrassing or inappropriate? Drunk Perry does not have one of those.
Perry and I are sitting on a couch a little removed from the noisy nucleus of the party. He has had a lot of eggnog, and as such is sitting companionably close to me, one hand resting on my shoulder. There’s a little smudge of berry-colored lipstick at the corner of his mouth from where he kissed Mary-Kate Olsen under the mistletoe. They just both happened to be passing under it at the same time, and they kind of laughed and then Mary-Kate stood up on her tiptoes and planted one on him, full on the mouth, even though his suit and haircut clearly distinguish him as gay. Or maybe that’s why she did it; I tried for an hour to trap Keira Knightley under a sprig, and was snubbed at every turn.
Disappointed by my failure to mack on Keira Knightley, I made the mistake of trying to get Perry to regale me of his kiss with Mary-Kate. Unfortunately, Perry is drunk, and his attention is wandering off the subject of cute girls and to something more his speed.
“I gave Tom Cruise a hummer at an Oscar party in 2001,” he says.
“That’s, um, something,” I say, and try to steer the conversation back on track. “Did Mary-Kate’s boobs press up against you when you kissed? How’d they feel?”
“For a little guy, he was packing more than you’d think,” Perry continues, like he didn’t hear me. “I mean, he’s seriously short. He can’t be more than-” He eyes me for a moment. “-your size.”
I sigh. Another thing Drunk Perry does a lot is talk about how little I am, which isn’t fair, considering he’s a giant.
“I hear he wears lifts,” I say, trying to move the topic off sex and my physical shortcomings. Er, not that those things go together.
“You know who’s got a closet full of heels?” Perry says. “Sean Bean.”
“Man! You just ruined one of the best Bond movies for me, you know that?”
Perry waves his hand like he’s batting off a fly. “I don’t recognize any Bond movie made after 1989. Not that I’d kick Pierce Brosnan out of bed.”
I sigh and clink the ice around my glass a bit, and practice ignoring Perry. Maybe if I don’t encourage him, he’ll stop talking.
“I’m off British guys, though,” Perry continues, ignoring me ignoring him, “since the last one tried to slip me a spotted dick. European guys are the worst about using protection. It’s all that laissez-faire shit they’re exposed to.”
My interest is piqued. “Is that French for ‘free love?’”
Perry gives me a withering glance. “Jesus,” he mutters into his eggnog. “You are impossible to talk to.”
“And yet you continue to do so.”
Perry giggles a little, and rests his head on my shoulder.
“I did a private security detail for Channing Tatum once,” he murmurs.
I could shrug him off, and not have to hear about the disgusting things Perry did with the star of GI Joe: The Rise of Cobra. Instead, I put my arm around his shoulder. He settles in, gets comfortable.
“Oh yeah?” I say. “How’d you two get along?”
“When we fucked,” Perry says, snuggling against my shoulder and still giggling a little, “he called me ‘Daddy.’”
I see Keira through the crush of the party. God, she’s got about seven feet of legs, and she’s hanging out under the mistletoe, unattended.
I press a kiss to Perry’s forehead. “Merry Christmas, Per. Merry Christmas.”