Happy Holidays, duckgirlie! [Part 1]

[lire_casander]

Author: Rudolph The Reindeer
Recipient: duckgirlie
Title: Santa Baby
Pairing(s): David Cook/David Archuleta, Michael Johns/Carly Smithson
Word Count: 20k
Summary: David, simply put, has to find a Mrs. Claus before Christmas.
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: We are in no way officially affiliated with David Cook, David Archuleta or their representation. Everything about them is completely fiction, and any similarity with reality is a mere coincidence. No copyright infringement is ever intended.
Warning(s): Nope.
Author's Notes: Beta'd by rajkumari905 and doctor_jehane. Thank you so much, guys! You're truly life savers. duckgirlie, I hope you like it! :) Although upon re-reading the e-mail telling me what you want, I realized you said up to PG-15. *headdesk*


Santa Baby

(aka, the Lifetime Christmas movie)

Part One

He has four siblings-three sisters and a little brother, but that doesn’t really matter, as much as he’d asked his father to reconsider. Claudia is even already married, and Daniel has had a girlfriend for three years-he’s probably going to tell her everything soon. David is one-hundred-and-twenty-four, and he’s only been on a few dates in his entire life. And yet he’s the one Father is insisting take up the, um, the family job. The one that requires you have a wife.

It was Thanksgiving last weekend, and that gives him a month to find a wife, be promoted, and take over everything in the factory, and check the list twice, and-and take over everything, and-there’s no way that David can become Santa Claus in just a month. It’s crazy, crazy, crazy-

“Yeah, but you’ve got four helpers here. Plus Brooke and all the elves, David, come on. Dad’s not going to make it this year and you know it,” Daniel says, dropping himself into a pile of wrapped boxes, sending a pile of green and red sparkles into the air. He gives the sparkles a glare as they keep floating down on top of him, but doesn’t move.

David knows that, anyway, and he knows he has no choice in the matter. He just has no idea how he’s going to do it all. It’s kind of ridiculous to expect that he could be in love with someone after four weeks of knowing them, and to get them to marry you, even. And that's even supposing he can find someone who's interested in the same things as he is, and who might, well. Be good in bed with him, because that's important if you're going to be married to someone for hundreds of years. And mostly he has no idea how to go about finding a wife, because, um, how do you just find a wife? It’s not like they come wrapped in red and green paper with a purple bow on top.

“Brooke,” David says, stepping in the sleigh, the cheerful blond sliding in behind him. The reindeer start to move, standing up and stretching their necks, eager to start running, to take off and push into the sky. David would much rather stay on the ground, his snow boots actually in the snow, rather than huddled underneath the six blankets his mom is already covering him and Brooke with as they sit down in the sleigh. (“Don’t need you to start your search by finding a cold, sweetie,“ she says, smiling, but it’s more to herself than to David.) He’s used to setting his dad up for the trip on Christmas, so he thinks he’ll be fine.

“I’m just going to help you settle in,” Brooke assures him when he asks her why she’s coming along, and before David can figure out what exactly she means-his apartment is fully furnished (and decorated!), right? He doesn’t have time to go shopping too-his mom pulls his head down to give him a kiss on the cheek and then he’s gripping the reigns and calling loudly out to the reindeer. They push at the snow-covered ground and the sleigh starts moving underneath David, slowly at first until Brooke is pulling the blanket up to cover her face and they’re barreling down the long icy slope. When they reach the end, a sharp drop makes Brooke scream through the blanket and David has to yell and pull the blanket down off her face before she realizes they’re flying.

“Are you okay?” David asks when she finally looks at him, her eyes wide.

“I’ve never actually been in the sleigh while it’s flying,” she says, and looks over the edge in awe. The reindeer are kicking their legs smoothly; their necks elongated and pushed forward in the direction they’re flying in.

David smiles and then laughs when a loud sound comes out of the old speaker hooked up to the back of the sleigh-Christmas music, of course. When Brooke settles down a few minutes later, they sing carols over the sound of the wind as the reindeer carry them towards their destination: Los Angeles, California.

He probably should have been listening better when the elves were suggesting places to start the search, but he’d been a little preoccupied helping his dad with the list, because the naughty kids with last names starting with C got shuffled in with the nice list, somehow. Anyway-it shouldn’t be that hard to find, um, a wife or whatever in Los Angeles, should it?

The apartment is a one-room studio with peeling paint and questionable stains on the carpet, but there’s a refrigerator and a table and a couch that sort of pops out of the wall and becomes a bed, so it’s livable, and everything. Brooke sits hesitantly on the couch, and says, “David, this is-it’s only for a month.”

David nods, and puts his sack down next to a somewhat broken dresser. “It's fine, Brooke. I just have to fix it up a little.” He closes his eyes and breathes carefully, before softly murmuring the words to Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas. He hears Brooke join in after the words get louder, and he can hear scraping around the room, and feel movement all around him until he sings the last words, and finishes humming the tune. When he opens his eyes, the apartment is brightly lit with Christmas decorations-holly is hanging around the doors and windows, and the bed has a warm, thick comforter with white pillows to match. The small kitchen area is clean again, without any rust in sight, and the table pushed into the corner is covered with a cotton slip of fabric, and has a centerpiece of red poinsettias. And of course-there’s a Christmas tree in the middle of the room, emitting the smell of pine and shining from the many multi-colored lights and tinsel.

“It’s amazing!” Brooke says, falling back on the bed with a smile. She sits up abruptly, looking at her watch, and she says, “Oh no, we’re going to be late!”

“Late for what?” David asks, looking at her.

"There's some sort of party going on down the street, Jason told me about it before we left. I thought it'd be the best place to start!" David sort of feels like they're going hunting for Christmas dinner, which really just can't be a good start at all.

The ‘party’ is actually, like, um, not a party. He has to show his I.D. to get in, which actually isn’t that surprisingly even though he’s one-hundred-and-twenty-four, because, well, he stopped aging kind of early and still looks, er, young enough to be carded at bars. Dang it. Not that he goes to bars! He actually avoids them because he doesn’t drink and that kind crowd tends to be really rowdy and, um, alarming, and he just avoids bars as a general rule.

He and Brooke push themselves into a booth by a window and David stares out of it, wishing it was snowing. Snow always puts him in a better mood. There’s just something hopeful about everything when there’s snow outside.

“Right, what can I get you?” a woman says, smiling at them even though she doesn’t look like she works there at all, leather pants and red vest and tattoos running all up her arm.

“Do you like Christmas?” Brooke blurts out before David can so much as duck and hide under the table.

The woman snorts out a laugh and cocks her hip, and looks pointedly around the bar. There are a few lights twinkling along the walls and a couple of plastic looking pieces of holly hanging from the ceiling, and a small, plastic Christmas tree set up on the small stage near the front where David imagines a band will be playing later on. “I like it well enough, I guess. What do you want to drink? We’ve got a big crowd tonight so I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

“Just eggnog, please,” David mutters, looking down, and Brooke agrees. The woman gives them a look but says, “Alright, two eggnogs. I can do that.”

Brooke hovers and they have three more embarrassing moments with pretty girls who all have Christmas (or at least red) sweaters on (and he suggests Brooke let him do it but she argues that he won’t and that’s... true, so she wins the argument and he has to sit back down because dang it) before the lights in the bar dim, and dark outlines of people walk onto the stage.

The people around them-some sitting in booths like his and Brooke’s, or tables, but most of them standing up-give out loud cheers and yells, and David gets the distinct impression that this band must be known at this bar. They must perform here pretty often then, which means they must be good. David’s weakness is good music, so he turns in his seat and looks at the stage, almost wanting to stand up to get a better view.

When the lights do come on, there’s smoke filling the stage and a man with a guitar slung around his waist at the microphone, holding it close to his mouth, and then he starts to sing, and David couldn’t care less about any of the women who walk by their booth, Brooke tugging on his arm. It’s not good-it’s amazing.

It’s this soulful rock sound, and he finds himself trying to mouth the lyrics even though he doesn’t know what they are. The rest of the bar is singing with them though, throwing their beers in the air like they know the song by heart, happily. The song ends on a loud note from the pierced guitarist, and the guy at the microphone laughs and says, “What the fuck is Carly serving us now, eggnog-“ before the woman from before, behind the bar now, yells, “Shut your mouth and keep singing, Dave, or I’ll kick you off that stage!”

He snickers into the microphone and then he starts up another song. Brooke huffs and says, “They should be playing Christmas music so close to December!” but it’s too quiet underneath the other noises of the bar for David to really hear.

And besides, David finds that he doesn’t really care whether it’s Christmas music or not.

Brooke sends him to a place called Twenty Minutes the next day. It’s not horrible, really-you sit at a table for three minutes, talking to a girl, and then you move to the next table and do it again. It’s just, awkward, basically.

“Do you like Christmas?” is the first thing he asks, because it’s the main requirement. And then, “Do you like music?” because that’s a, um, personal requirement. And this is going to be his wife for the next six-hundred-ish years, so he should probably be allowed to set his own requirements, right?

He shuffles on to the next table with a sigh.

“That’s encouraging,” the girl says, sitting down with a big grin. David stumbles into his chair and says, “Oh my Gosh, no, it’s just, I feel like I’m shopping for a wife or something, and-“

She starts laughing, and nods, “Yeah, no, I totally get what you mean. I’m Demi, by the way. Nice to meet you.”

David says, blinking. “Do you like Christmas?”

By the end of the session, he's got Demi's number (as well as numbers of three other girls), and he stuffs them into his pocket on the walk back to the apartment. David falls down on the couch, face planting into the picture of the Christmas tree sewn into the otherwise red throw pillow. He just needs a nap, is all.

Which is obviously the reason he decides to go back to the bar. It’s just, they had really good eggnog, and maybe the same band will be playing? And they were so good, it’s, he can’t just not go see a band when he knows how good they are! Brooke went back to the North Pole last night, wishing him good luck and saying she’d be back to pick him in a month-the week before Christmas Eve, and he should definitely have a wife by then-so when he walks in, the night air surprisingly chilly, he’s alone.

It’s not quite as crowded as it was the night before, but he decides not to take up an entire booth to himself for the sake of the other customers and climbs up onto a stool at the actual bar. The lady from the night before looks up and grins at him. She finishes talking another man and then slides over and says, “Hey, you were here yesterday. Dare I say I have a new regular?”

David smiles and says, “Um, for as long as you have that eggnog, definitely.”

She laughs and turns around and grabs him a glass of said eggnog, and is about to leave when David says, “Oh, um-“

“Yeah?”

“The band that played last night, are they, I mean, playing again?”

Her smile gets even bigger and she shakes her head, “Not tonight, but they play here pretty often. Dave-the vocalist? He’s my fiancé’s best friend. Means I can’t get rid of him. He’s probably around here somewhere, if you wanted to tell him you liked the music though. They were fooling around with stereo earlier.”

The bar’s stereo is playing I’ll Be Home for Christmas, so David smiles happily into his eggnog.

He sits at the bar and watches the crowd for a little while. There’s a man holding on tight to a woman in the corner, and David instinctively knows that he bought her a ring for Christmas. It’s settled in his back pocket right now just in case a good moment comes up-because all he wants for Christmas is her.

That’s the kind of thing David loves the most about Christmas, because as great as toys and presents and things are, the real magic of Christmas is the feelings you get from it; the warm ones, love and happiness and comfort. You can’t buy those things and so they’re the best presents you can give.

He sighs again and sinks down a little, until his head is settled on his arms, folded on the bar. How is he supposed to force those sorts of feelings? In a month?

It’s kind of horrible timing when somebody sits next to him and says, “Carly, beer-yeah, yeah, I’ll pay for it,” and then elbows David. “Hey, man, what’re you so down about?”

It’s horrible timing because David doesn’t think before he answers, “I need a wife.”

The guy snorts so loudly that David sits up straighter, raising a hand in case he needs to clap him on the back or something. But he settles down after a second and laughs clearer, and David recognizes him at the exact same time that he says, “Maybe you should start with a date, huh?”

“Oh, I-yeah, oh my gosh, are you Dave?”

He looks at David a bit more curiously now and asks, “Yes?”

“I saw you play yesterday! You were really good!” David says, excitedly, and he almost knocks over his eggnog while jerking his arms up to demonstrate how good, except Dave reaches over and catches it.

“Oh, sorry,” David says.

Dave shakes his head, “Nah, its cool. Always nice to hear somebody likes our music enough to spill their drinks.”

“I actually came back tonight because I thought maybe you’d be singing again,” David blurts, and his neck is probably going to start heating up soon, and turn all red, but right now he’s too excited to care that he’s being totally lame and ridiculous.

Someone else jumps in-between them right then, yelling at the bar lady-um, Carly?-“Oi, I need a drink!”

“Get behind the counter and grab your own, asshole,” she says, swinging by them with some sort of alcohol container in her hands. She looks at David and Dave and says, “I see you've met!”

“What?” Dave says, and then the guy between them adds, “But it tastes better if it’s been poured by the love of my life.”

“What’s your name anyway?” Dave asks suddenly. David jumps, and says, “David Cl-um, David Archuleta.” He winces at the slip and grabs his eggnog, taking a too-big gulp of it.

“It tastes even better than that if you put in all the hard work yourself,” Carly says, and then looks at David.

“Your name is David? Why the hell are there so many Davids in this bar? Cook, Hernandez, Hodges, that ex of mine-shut it, Michael.”

“We need a nickname then,” whoever the new guy is, Michael, apparently, says. “Dave here can be Cook, since that’s what most of us call him anyway, ‘cause the bastard’s always in trouble.”

“Um,” David says, but Dave-Cook?-shakes his head.
“Archuleta’s too long.”

“Archie,” Cook says, rolling his eyes. He looks at David and says, “It’s the best you’re going to get.”

“Okay,” David says, slowly.

Cook laughs again and says, “So much for having a fan. Run for hills, kid.” Before David can say I’m totally still a fan! or Um, actually, I’m older than you, Cook is grabbing Michael and pulling him off through the bar, saying something about fixing the stereo again.

Overall, David doesn’t like living alone. Daniel took off from the North Pole in his thirties-he lives in Florida, and only comes home during the busy seasons. But David never moved away, at least, not for very long. He prefers being at home, with his family, and the elves, and everything Christmas all the time. But there’s definitely one thing that’s really good about having your own apartment.

There’s some sort of a soft rock station playing quietly in the corner, and the Christmas tree’s ornaments glimmer and shine off different surfaces throughout the room, while a tiny sliver of light is pushing its way through the bottom of the window where the blinds don’t completely cover. He’s pushed the sheets down to the end of the bed, and his boxers are piled on the floor, even though the rest of his clothes are in the hamper.

A barely audible whine makes its way out of his mouth, lips parted because it’s becoming hard to breathe. His fingers slide slowly over the top of his dick, before he brings his whole hand back down, gripping hard. His leg is propped up, bent at the knee, and he leans his head back as a drop of sweat slides down the bottom half of his thigh, making it obvious how hot he is, and how long he’s been wrapping his hand around himself. It’s just-it feels good, and the slide of his fingernail against the tip makes him breathe harder, faster, even though it’s him, his hands, and he knows what’s coming.

“Oh,” he says, to himself, and then bites his lip because even though he’s alone, it’s still almost embarrassing to say anything out loud. His heart is pushing harshly in his chest, and he speeds up his fist, almost unable to hold back a cry when his hips raise up off the bed of their own accord, and oh gosh, oh gosh, that’s, and he can’t stop, it feels so good.

He falls back on the bed, with heavy, painful breaths as he finishes out the last of it, thighs trembling against the sheet covering the mattress, hot and sweaty. His hairline is even damp, he realizes afterward, but he stays still for a long time, too exhausted to move.

Yeah, there are some advantages to living alone.

His date with Lauren backfires when it turns out she’s allergic to dairy, and his date with Selena is nice except he spends most of the night convincing her to give her ex-boyfriend another chance because she’s obviously still in love with him. His date with Demi is in an hour, and he’s really hoping it goes better than the other ones, because-

Well, because he’s not sure what to do if it doesn’t.

They’re supposed to meet at a nice Italian restaurant, and David walks down the street slowly, with his hands in his pockets. It’s chilly, but there’s no snow. He sighs again, because it’s officially December now, and there should definitely be snow on the ground. It’s just-it’s Christmas time, there should be gingerbread and presents and tinsel floating everywhere and snow and-he misses the North Pole.

“Hi,” someone says suddenly from behind him, her voice small and matching the soft tug on his pants. He stops and turns around, where a little girl with bright, red hair is looking up at him with green eyes.

“Hi,” David says back, and bends at the knees to be closer to her height.

“I’ve been a really good girl this year,” she says, smiling, and it’s as a woman with the same hair runs up that she adds, “I want a Barbie doll house and a turtle-shaped swimming pool for Christmas.”

“I’m so sorry,” the woman says, and David shakes his head, grinning despite the fact that she’s asking for a swimming pool for Christmas.

David looks back at the little girl and asks her, “A swimming pool, Jenna?”

“Mmhmm!” she nods enthusiastically.

“I promise so long as you’re good, you’ll have a great Christmas, okay?” he says, grinning with a promise. He’s happy: even without the red suit, children know the Claus family when they see them. He kind of wants to shout Christmas lives! in front of everyone walking down the street, except, no, that would be really embarrassing.

“Thank you!” Jenna yells, and then turns around and lets her mom grab her hand.

David stands back up and smiles at the bewildered mother, who just shakes her head and thanks him.

“That was really weird, man.”

David swings around so fast he almost trips, and Cook steps forward like he’s going to try and catch him or something, but the little girl at Cook's side runs forward first and pushes him back away from the street. David manages to get his balance back and not fall on her or on the concrete, thankfully.

“Oh my Gosh,” he starts, putting a hand to his heart. He looks at the little girl-short and blonde with pearly white teeth and what looks like ice-skates hanging off her shoulder, the blades covered with pink rubber so that they can’t cut anything accidentally. Her name is Gracie, David thinks-and she asked for-oh.

David can do lots of things with his Christmas magic, but that’s not one of them.

He smiles sadly down at her and says, “Thanks.”

She blushes shyly and scoots back so that she’s next to Cook’s leg, gripping his arm tightly.

“What?” Cook says, looking at her. “You’re the one who asked if we could say hi, so say hi.”

When she just buries her face into Cook’s t-shirt, Cook rolls his eyes. “Archie, meet Gracie. Gracie, meet Archie.” He looks at David and adds, “Gracie’s my niece. I’ve got her all afternoon and unfortunately I lost a bet involving a rainbow-colored pony, thus, ice skating.”

Gracie says something into Cook’s shirt, and he tugs on her arm until she comes away and has to repeat, “Can he come with us?”

David is about to interrupt and say he has a date, actually, that he should probably be going to, and they don’t actually want him to join them anyway-he met Cook for like five minutes last week and made a total dork out of himself, so. Except Cook looks back up at him and says, “What do you say, Archie? Can you skate?”

He’ll probably feel guilty later on when he realizes he forgot all about Demi in the space of two seconds.

The ice skating arena isn’t an outside rink, which David understands because it’d probably melt or something. It’s a big building that they walk to, because it’s surprisingly close to where they were. Gracie manages to sneak in a request for the My Little Pony DVD Collection on the walk there, and Cook gives David a look that means it’s already under the tree. Cook keeps holding Gracie’s hand until they’re at the double door entrance of the building, when she escapes to run up to the counter and say, “I want the licorice.”

“Gracie,” Cook calls, and then shakes his head. “She thinks I own a money tree.”

David laughs because Cook lets her get it anyway, and then tries paying for David’s skates too-or well, he does, because he refuses to let David pay, okay, and it’s around this time that it suddenly occurs to David to wonder if this is a date. Except then Gracie grabs Cook’s hand and drags him over to a bench to struggle with putting on her skates, and no-Cook didn’t even ask him, that was Gracie, because she could tell he was a Claus, and Cook is obviously just, um, wrapped around her finger.

Not that that’s a bad thing. Liking kids is totally a requirement. And, um, well, David likes it.

“Come on, Archie,” Cook says, and then David sits down and starts putting on his skates. They’re bulky and bright orange, but he’s used to skating because they do it all the time at home, and he wobbles his way over to the ice before sliding in and skating a small circle, coming back to wait at the entrance for Cook and Gracie.

Gracie is watching him with big eyes and comes out onto the ice slowly, one of the metal skate-helpers in her hands so that she can actually skate on her own.

“You like ice skating?” David asks her, and she nods, pushing forward slowly.

“Watch, I can do a figure eight,” she says.

Cook comes up behind them, not quite on the ice just yet-looking like he might lose his balance even without being on it-and says, “I’ll watch from here.”

Gracie moves to start skating, and David looks at Cook while slowly skating back and forth across the entrance. The other skaters weave around him, and he smiles at them when they pass by. Gracie slowly makes her way through a figure eight in the center of the ice and comes back to them, her cheeks red from the cold already but she’s smiling happily. “See, Uncle David, I did a figure eight!”

“Yeah, I saw. You were amazing; you should totally go do that again.”

She seems to realize the deflection though and grabs at her uncle’s arm. “Come on, you have to come with me. We can stay close to the wall.”

Cook grimaces but gives in to his niece and takes a slippery step out onto the ice, hanging onto the wall for dear life. David almost wants to laugh, except that would be really mean, so he doesn’t. He does skate up close though, and around so that he’s in front of Cook, skating very slowly backwards. Cook glares at him and says, “Show-off.”

David waves his arms, and says, “No! I don’t-we skate, like, all the time, back at home? So I know how to, um. But that’s not the point! I can help you learn?” He looks at Gracie, who’s hanging onto Cook’s hand-a hand Cook kind of looks like he’d much prefer to also be clinging to the wall, and adds, ”If Gracie doesn’t mind?”

Cook gives Gracie a look and she nods, letting go of his hand. He immediately wobbles and grabs onto the wall with both hands, but at least he’s laughing at himself so he’s a good sport about it.

“Here,” David says, halting in front of Cook since he isn’t moving anymore. He holds his hands out and wiggles his fingers, clearly gesturing for Cook to take them. Cook looks at him like he’s crazy, and David flushes red but says again, “Here! Take my hands. You can’t learn to skate if you’re holding onto the wall. No, um, offense.”

Cook grins wryly and says, “You know, I have heard this before. Didn’t really go for it then either,” but he’s lifting one hand and David smiles brightly when he takes it in his own hand. Very awkwardly-and they actually stumble and accidentally slide out onto the ice about three feet when Cook tries to take his other hand off the wall-David somehow manages to get both of Cook’s hands in his own, and pushes back determinedly so that Cook has no choice but to move with him, his skates sliding along the ice.

They laugh-half in amusement, and half in terror, David thinks, in Cook’s case-during the whole predicament, and Gracie watches with concerned eyes. “You’re doing great, Uncle Dave!” she yells, and someone else skating past gives them a thumbs up like he remembers learning to skate on the ice himself and is wishing Cook good luck.

Cook says something under his breath that is really not polite at all.

David makes a face and says, “Okay, stop trying to walk-“ and proceeds to try and teach Cook how to ice skate while ignoring the fact that they’re sort of ice skating while holding hands, and that’s probably one of the number one things you do while trying to find a wife.

Or, um, husband. Wife or husband, because either works, really.

“Cook,” David asks, slowly, still pushing with his legs and pulling Cook along for the ride, just so he can get used to actually moving.

“Yeah?” Cook says, staring down at his feet like they’re going to disappear any minute.

“Do you, um, like Christmas?”

Cook looks up at him, and then shrugs and nods his head towards Gracie, who’s falling a bit behind them to skate with what looks like a pair of siblings near her age. “We celebrate for the kids, I guess.”

He doesn’t seem too terribly excited about it though, and David’s heart plummets in his chest as he says, “Oh.”

“My birthday’s on the twentieth,” Cook adds, “so it’s always kind of sucked. It’s too close to Christmas to really do anything birthday-themed, you know? And you always get stiffed on presents-not that I care anymore, but it sucked when I was a kid.”

“You were-“ David’s still stuck on the fact that Cook was born on the twentieth of December. It’s, okay, it’s not like a requirement, or anything, to be born in December as a Claus, but it’s like, a sign when you are? David thinks that’s why it was such a big deal that it be him who takes over the Santa job, and not Daniel, because David was born in December and Daniel was born in February. “I was born December twenty-eighth!” he finally gets out, because Cook is looking at him like he’s placed his life in the hands of a crazy person.

“Really?” Cook asks, grinning suddenly. “So we have the same name, practically the same birthday, we hang out at the same bar...”

“Well, I’ve only been there twice,” David points out.

“You should come by Friday night. We’re, uh, doing a thing. Or Johns and Carly are. It’s supposed to be a surprise party but the dumbasses do the same thing every year, so it’s not much of a surprise.”

David smiles and nods, “I, yes, definitely, I’ll be there!”

Cook lets go of one hand eventually, so that he can start trying to skate without using David as his momentum, and he does really well for a few minutes, until David has to say, “Bend a little-you’re good at gliding, but you’re going to-Cook!”

They’ve been practicing in the middle for about ten minutes now-Cook’s a little less scared of falling down, David thinks, which is a huge improvement, and he’s okay with sliding along the ice so long as he doesn’t have to do anything fancy-and the talking distracted him pretty well too. Unfortunately though, Cook thinks turning and stopping are both fancy, and David cringes as they slam into the wall.

They crumble onto the ice, their skates pointing out and away from them, thankfully, and Cook starts laughing before David can chastise him. Gracie skates up behind them slowly, her eyes huge, and she asks, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Cook says, and starts trying to stand up and help David up at the same time.

It mostly doesn’t work, um, at all.

It’s somehow getting even colder, and when David walks into the bar on Friday night, Carly is bundled up in a jacket where she’s standing on the stage, fiddling with what looks like some old wires. The bar has been added to since the last he was there-there are more Christmas decorations everywhere, and the walls are lined with blinking lights. David’s even pretty sure he sees mistletoe up close to the stage, and makes a mental note to not go anywhere near it.

“Archie!” Carly says, grinning. “Gimme a minute and I’ll get you something. These wires are-oh, hey,” she says, looking back at them as they seem to unravel by themselves.

David smiles and says, “Do you need any help?” as he approaches her carefully.

“Apparently not,” she says, shrugging, and then plugs something in. Jingle Bells starts coming through the speakers immediately and she grins. “I’ve been trying to get it to work all damn day!” She shakes her head and climbs down. “You’re here for the surprise party then?”

“Um, I guess-but, well, Cook invited me? So I think he knows...” David replies hesitantly.

Carly rolls her eyes, “Yeah, he always does. Bastard.”

David finds himself singing along to the Christmas music, watching Carly and Mike as they both finish up decorating the bar. He even helps a little before the bell on the door chimes and Cook walks in, voice loud and startled, and he’s wiping his hands off on his jeans as he says, “It’s fucking snowing outside!”

David immediately stops singing, clamping his mouth shut.

Oops.

“It’s what?” Carly says, sounding disbelieving and eager all at once as she runs to the front of the bar.

“It’s snowing, in L.A. Since when does it snow at the beginning of December in L.A.?” Cook asks nobody in particular, and then catches sight of David, who tries to keep the guilt from showing up on his face. He just grins at David though, and says, “Hey, Arch-ever build a snow fort?”

Which, um, yes.

David and Cook start building their snow fort across from Mike and Carly in front of the bar-which they’ve totally locked the door to, because apparently snow is a valid reason for closing? It’s coming down pretty heavy, and David actually turns around at one point, to hum a verse, just because-because he wants it to keep snowing, he really does. And maybe that’s going to freak out all the weather people in the morning, but whatever, one night of weird weather isn’t going to hurt anybody, right?

Cook starts the attack by narrowly missing Mike’s head with a snowball, and David ducks before grabbing one from his own pile-because there’s a certain knack to making snowballs-and throwing it so that it hits him square in the back. Cook says, “Yes!” and then throws another while ducking one from Carly-except it still hits him. David lets out a short peal of laughter at the surprised look on his face, and then grabs another snowball for throwing purposes.

“Where’d you say you’re from again?” Cook asks, glancing at him after Mike’s hair mysteriously turns white.

“Oh, um,” David starts, panicking. Where is he from again? Not the North Pole. Even though that’s the reason he’s so good at this-with Daniel for a little brother, David’s probably one of the best snow ball fighters in the world, and he’s not even very good at sports. To be fair though, he’s had a lot more practice than the others? But again, that’s because of the North Pole, and he can’t tell Cook that. “Utah?” he hazards, and then ducks out of the way of a flying snowball.

“That’s it!” Carly yells after ten minutes, “partner switch time, I’m taking Archie.”

David almost feels bad afterwards when they trudge back inside the bar and Cook shakes his legs, snow leaking out of his pants and drenching his socks. “I concede defeat,” Cook says, looking sadly down at his ankles as he peels off his wet boots, “and it’s freezing. Don’t you have a heater in here, Carls?”

“I’ve never used it,” she says, but then goes around the bar and starts pushing things-presumably the heater. Cook walks over to the stage and sits down on the edge, lifting his feet.

“Man,” he says, “I haven’t had a snowball fight like that since I was still in Oklahoma.”

“Oklahoma?” David asks, blinking.

“I moved up here a couple of years ago. Before that it was Tulsa, though.” He wiggles his toes and changes the subject by saying, “I think my feet are turning into prunes.” He looks up at David and grins. “Thanks, Archuleta. Did me a real favor there.”

“Oh my Gosh,” David says, and then looks down at his own tennis shoes, “my feet are just as wet as yours are-“

“So dry them out, c’mon,” Cook says, patting the spot on the stage next to him. Carly’s opened the door by now, and people are walking in-shivering from the cold, most of them bundled up in sweaters and jackets and laughing about the crazy weather.

“If it’s okay?” David asks, and climbs up next to Cook, slowly pulling his shoes and socks off. They’re soaked, no doubt about it. That’s why they usually wear snow-shoes at home, or snow-boots even.

“Yep,” Cook says, sounding pretty happy when Carly comes over and forces him to scoot down, which makes David scoot down too, but she gives Cook a beer and David a small glass of eggnog.

“Dave, you gonna sing for us tonight?” she asks, seeming to stare really hard at Cook’s face. David almost wants to back away. Cook seems to notice too and he furrows his eyebrows and says, “Uh, sure. What are you-“

“It’s a Christmas party, so you know what I mean.”

Cook rolls his eyes and says, “Yeah, alright.”

“Oh, and,” Carly says, hopping off the stage, “look up.”

She has a horribley mean no-good terrifying smile on her face, and David knows what’s going to be there when they look up, because he saw it earlier and didn’t think about it at all after coming back inside. He doesn’t look up, but he can practically feel Cook as he leans back and looks-and then lets out a bark of a laugh.

“That’s why you made me move over instead of just sitting-fuck you, Smithson.”

“Oh shut up, and-“ David doesn’t hear the rest of what she says because Cook turns and leans in and kisses him, cold fingers sliding up to hold his face. It happens so fast David can’t even flail and say something about totally don’t have to- or the cheek works just fine! and it’s, what, they-really-he can’t-because he’s cold, but Cook is warm, and his mouth is warm and soft and his beard is totally fuzzy and kind of ticklish and then it’s gone, and David’s lips are still wet and he finds himself leaning forward, wanting it to keep going, please, can that just-keep going, um-

He opens his eyes slowly, and realizes he closed them at the same time. Cook is back to arguing with Carly over something-songs? He’s-that was-“Um.”

Cook glances back at him, and then slides a hand up to scratch at the back of his neck, almost like he’s nervous. “Sorry, figured I’d do it quick so you didn’t have time to freak out on me.”

“What?” David just shakes his head and says, “No, I-it was-fine.”

Definitely fine, he thinks, even as Cook turns back around and says, “I am not singing Silent Night.”

David sort of sits still until somebody kicks him off the stage and Carly drags him over to the bar, rolling her eyes and saying, “It’s like pulling teeth with these guys, I swear.”

David’s really listening, he is, it’s just, Cook is on stage, and he’s starting to talk. There’s a crowd in the bar now, and Cook seems to be made for this, laughing like he’s just as comfortable with a microphone in his hand as he is with a beer. “Alright, Carly wants me to sing some Christmas music, and I got cajoled into this one by Monty-so here’s a number you’ll all recognize.”

David freezes as the music starts, a lone drum quickly joined by a guitar. No, that’s not-Cook is not singing what David thinks he is-

“Santa baby, just slip a guitar under the tree... for me,” he sings, the rock cover suiting his voice really well, and oh gosh, David can feel his neck turning red as he keeps singing, every lyric getting worse and worse. “Been an awful good boy, Santa baby, hurry down the chimney tonight.”

His mouth is obscenely close to the microphone.

“Santa baby, a fifty-four convertible too, light blue. Yeah, I'll wait up for you dear.” David puts his head down on the bar. “Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight.”

“Hey,” Carly says, pushing at his arm, laughing, and when David looks up, Cook is looking at him, this stupid grin on his face like he’s about to start laughing in the middle of the song: “Think of all the fun I've missed; think of all the guys that I haven't kissed-next year I could be just as good, if you'd check off my Christmas list.”

It’s the worst song that anyone could have ever written, and David’s pretty sure every inch of him is as red as his Santa suit back at home-the one he totally doesn’t wear unless he’s helping deliver presents because it’s so bright. It’s not like Cook even knows there’s technically a (Santa) Claus in the room. And that he’s basically propositioning him. And, and-his eyes are all, dark and hooded, and his voice is all growly, and-

“Santa baby, forgot to mention one little thing, a ring-yeah, I don't mean on the phone, Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight,” he keeps singing, looking at David the entire time, “yeah, hurry down the chimney tonight. Yeah, hurry, tonight,” he finishes, barely breathing the last word into the microphone, and yeah, David’s dead. He’d get up if he could, but he really can’t. He’s like, out of commission. That’s it, game over.

Carly is laughing at him, and Mike claps him on the back and says, “I knew you were crushing on him, but I didn’t realize it was that bad.”

David would totally glare and deny that, he would, except Carly hits Mike for him and says, “Try to be a little louder, why don’t you?”

Mike looks back at David and says, “Sorry, man. Hey, I heard you singing earlier, while we were hanging the tinsel-why don’t you jump on the stage when Dave’s done?

“What?” David says, eyes going wide. “No, I-“

“That’s actually a really good idea,” Carly says, and Mike smiles at her weirdly, and says, “Ah, the tone of surprise.”

Carly rolls her eyes but lets Mike take her hand into his over the counter, and David almost feels awkward, like maybe he should leave and give them space or something. Carly talks to him though, trying to reassure him, “It’s okay. Mike and I’ll get up later too.”

“But baby, it’s cold outside,” Mike croons, and Carly gives a particularly feminine laugh in response while playfully hitting him again. David pauses before she shakes her head and says, “Just anything you know all the words to. The guys can play pretty much all of the regular Christmas songs. And they will, or I’ll kick their asses.”

“Um-“ and he wants to say no, because what if it like, blizzards or something, but in the end he loves music and there’s a band that will play while he sings.

He still sort of panics when Carly gets on the stage after Cook finishes "Happy Christmas" and says, “And before Mike and I grace you with our voices,” (and a bunch of people yell approvingly), “Archie’s been coerced into singing something.”

He flinches when Cook gives him a look, backing up but staying on the stage, his guitar plugged in like he’s going to keep playing-and David realizes he is, and oh. Okay.

“Have you-I mean, um, "Last Christmas"? Is that okay?”

Cook nods, and then grins, and David turns around at all the people looking up at him, and wow, it’s not like he doesn’t sing all the time, it’s just usually for... elves. And elves are very non-judgmental, so long as you’re singing Christmas music. Bar crowds aren’t exactly elves though.

He breathes, and the music starts behind him, and he misses his first cue, but after that-after that it’s easy.

David tugs on his sweater tighter as he heads out of the bar, probably a bit earlier than most people, but he isn’t used to staying up so late, and it’s kind of been one of those nights where lots of stuff happens and you’re just exhausted. His shoes are still a little bit wet, but he deals with it as he goes outside. It’s still snowing-probably will for a while, he thinks, wincing.

He steps in the snow and then looks at the footprint, before someone runs up behind him and puts a hand on his shoulder. He looks up, surprised to see Cook there, blowing hot air into his other hand because he doesn’t have gloves. To be fair, he wouldn’t have known he’d be needing them. “You live close by?” Cook asks, and when David nods, he says, “Awesome, I’ll walk you.”

“Oh, but-I mean, it’s cold, and-don’t you want to be getting home too?”

Cook shrugs and starts walking in the direction David had been headed in, towards his apartment. “I think we’re in the same direction, man.”

“Oh,” David says, biting his bottom lip, and then he jogs a couple of steps to catch up. “Thank you, then.”

“No problem. This weather is crazy, huh? Snowing in L.A., Jesus,” Cook says, looking up and trying to catch some of it on his tongue.

“Yeah,” David says, slowly, “crazy. Magic almost.”

“I wouldn’t say magic, unless you saw Harry Potter somewhere...” Cook says, grinning.

“No, I just meant, like, it’s Christmas.”

Cook glances at him, and shakes his head. “I don’t know. Not the biggest fan of the holiday, you know?”

“Why?” David asks, frowning.

“It’s just-crowded. Everybody’s so excited, maxing out credit cards; the stores are always full, people are asking for money on every street corner-not even talking about bums, I mean those Salvation Army guys-and all the kids start acting like brats, and then they get everything they want. It’s just... I don’t see what the big fuss is.”

“When did you become such a cynic?” David grumbles, folding his arms over his chest.

Cook stops, wincing. “Sorry, I just-Christmas was fun when I was kid. I mean, even ignoring the birthday crap, it was-you know we’d do the whole tree, fudge and eggnog. My mom even,” he laughs, seeming to recall it, “put up a cot in the living room so Santa Claus would take a nap, and carrots next to the cookies for the reindeer-“

“Oh my gosh, like I-I mean, like Santa has time to take a nap-um, because of-it’s just, a lot of gifts to deliver, um.”

Cook smiles funnily, and says, “Yeah. Anyway, in the morning there’d be all sorts of presents, but the cot would look slept in too, and the cookies would be gone, and the carrots were always gnawed-“

“Gnawed?” David says, looking at Cook. “Reindeer eat carrots whole, I mean, if they’re good, fresh carrots-or, I mean, you hear, like in stories-I should be quiet.”

Cook laughs at him, but he’s grinning brightly and says, “I’m not that big of a fan, anymore. But you know, I like that you like it. It’s nice. It kind of suits you.”

David flushes red, and laughs a little bit ridiculously, but fumbles and says, “Why don’t you like it anymore?”

Cook’s grin drops slowly, and he sighs, shaking his head, “It’s supposed to be one of those things you do with your family, you know? And it was great; it was basically the only day of the year my parents didn’t fight.”

“Oh,” David says, quietly.

“It just started to feel fake after a while.”

“Um,” David finally says, after they’re quiet for a few minutes, and he stops in front of the gate that leads up into his apartment building. “This is my, uh, apartment.”

“Cool,” Cook says, after a minute. “I’ll see you later then,” he says after an awkward pause, and David can see their breath in the air.

“Mmhmm,” he nods, and turns to go inside the apartment, except Cook grabs his hand and he spins back around. “Cook?”

“So I know there’s no mistletoe here, but would you mind if I kissed you goodnight, and maybe took you out to dinner tomorrow?”

“No,” David says immediately, and before Cook can even think about misunderstanding that, he adds, “I mean, no, I don’t mind.”

Cook gives him a funny little smile, and then leans in at the same time that David pushes up on his toes in his wet shoes, and grasps the front of Cook’s jacket in his hands, and presses his lips to Cook’s for the second time that night. Somehow, it’s even better without the mistletoe.

On to part 2!