Work Text:
Oh no. No no no, this cannot be happening right now.
You shudder as you hear that oh-so-familiar rasping voice cutting through the soft chatter of your company’s holiday party. “The punch is just delightful! Judith, did you make this?”
You knew they were inviting clients this year. The past three quarters had shown record profits and so your company had rented out the most expensive venue around for a little thank-you soiree. You just...it had slipped your mind that a certain construction firm owned by a certain Mr. Del Rey was one of those clients.
You try to duck out of the main party room while his fur-coated back is turned, but you end up right in his line of sight as his head swivels at the exact worst moment, almost preternaturally fast, into your direction. “Y/N!” he exclaims, loud and thick with razor-sharp cheer, “I was hoping I’d see you here!”
And to make matters so much worse, your direct supervisor just happens to be standing right next to you as Bobo Del Rey approaches with a brimming cup of punch in each hand. “Mr. Del Rey,” Justin greets him warmly. “I didn’t think you had been working with Y/N at all. How did she get involved on your contract?”
“She didn’t,” Bobo says, thrusting one cup at you as your boss looks expectantly between the two of you. No chance you can get away with being rude, now. You accept the cup but remind yourself not to drink from it. “Ms. Y/L/N and I have . . . other entanglements.” His fingers flutter against the edge of his cup.
If there had been punch in your mouth, you probably would have spit it. What was he trying to make it sound like? “We’re in the same darts league,” you say, thinking fast.
The truth is, you’re kind of a consultant for Wynonna Earp and the cops. Your NDA prevents you from giving them anything dirty on Bobo’s business entanglements, but you also happen to have a knowledge base of a more occult variety that has helped them out on a number of their other cases already. And also run you afoul of the head honcho of the local hell squad. More than once. You’re probably the only person in this room that knows the real threat that “Mr. Del Rey” poses.
“Darts, huh?” Justin says, continuing the conversation while you and Bobo stare each other down through the twinkling lights and safe, festive music. “You do that in bars, right?” He shakes his head. “You’ve got to watch out in those kinds of places, Y/N. All kinds of unsavory types.”
“Oh, she knows.” Bobo inches his hip in a little closer to yours. “I think that’s why she keeps coming around. Likes that little taste of danger.”
Ugh. He’s going to run his mouth until he gets you in trouble, isn’t he. Your boss is backing away slowly, a rictus smile plastered across his uncomfortable face. Although, it is just a little satisfying to watch someone make that patronizing bastard be the one to feel self-conscious for a change. “We all gotta do something that’ll make us feel alive, right?” you say, not exactly looking at either one of them. “Blow off some steam at the end of the rat race.”
Justin gives you an incredulous look. “Think I’ll stick to my bridge club, thanks.” He pretends to see someone waving at him across the room. A quick check shows you no one is looking even remotely in his direction. “Excuse me.”
Bobo sidles in even closer. “Bet that felt good,” he intones.
You release your sudden deep breath in a burst. “Kind of.”
“You know, if you’ve been needing to blow off a little steam—"
You dodge as it feels like he’s trying to put his arm around you. “Seriously?”
Bobo peers at you from under heavy brows, undeterred in the slightest by your rejection. “I’m always serious.”
The moment is broken by another coworker, shouting your name across the room. “It’s time,” the office manager, Judith, calls. “Get over here!”
Oh no. When you’d agreed to rehearse the cute little line dance set to “Jingle Bell Rock” with the crew from your half of the office building, it was only because you figured no one embarrassing would be here to witness it.
Bobo’s head cocks. “Time for what?” He can’t have any idea what’s coming, but he’s grinning anyway. Maybe he can sense your instant discomfort.
“Nothing,” you bark. “Maybe you want to go outside for a smoke or something?”
He looms in a little closer, with a shit-eating grin. “My dear Y/N, are you trying to take me someplace more private right now?”
“What? No. I’ve got to go do this thing over here, now. Bye, Bobo.”
The ambient fairy lights draped around the room glitter off his rings as he wiggles his finger in farewell.
No luck on getting Bobo distracted enough to prowl away while you go line up next to your office friends and wait for the hired DJ to cue up the track. As that distinctive guitar riff signals the start of the song, and all the little colored spotlights point at your group, you see the revenant standing right at the edge of the dancefloor, front and center in the crowd of spectators. He ducks his head and says something to Martha, the adorable old lady who works as your main receptionist, something that makes her smile and nod and pat his arm.
Creepy.
And then the beat kicks in and there’s nothing to do but step and wiggle and wave your arms in the choreographed little movements that had seemed so cute in after-hours rehearsal, now turned completely mortifying under the gaze of the enemy.
Your stubborn streak flares up, though, and you resolve to dance the hell out of the whole number. The only thing more embarrassing than doing a cheesy dance in front of everyone is doing that cheesy dance half-heartedly in front of everyone. So you skip and you swivel and give it the best jazz hands of your life.
You can’t help the grin that stretches across your face by the finale. Everyone in the office cheers and applauds at the end of it, so you all must have done alright with it. You high five a few of your fellow dancers before heading toward the edge of the dancefloor as a swing rendition of “Santa Claus is Coming To Town” begins. It’s got a pretty great retro vibe, and you find your limbs loosening a little to the beat.
“We have to start planning for next year!” your friend calls behind you, and you turn back to nod at her with an enthusiastic smile.
When you look back in the direction you’re walking, you just about crash into Bobo.
Although, “crash” isn’t really the right word. He’s timed it just right, scooping you up with one hand catching yours while the other snakes around your back and turns your momentum into a little spin.
Is Bobo…dancing with you right now? Your feet follow along before your mind can quite catch up. One hand at the small of your back, holding you in close, but not too close to interrupt the footwork, the other holding your arm up and out, Bobo is definitely pulling you along in the classic steps of a swing dance.
Maybe you’re crazy, but you don’t pull away. It’s probably just because of the rush of that little performance, or maybe because your stubbornness has yet to fade away. Your feet find the steps and you realize, maybe, just maybe, it’s because Bobo Del Rey is actually a really good dancer.
He leads effortlessly, precisely on the quick beat, guiding you into turns and twirls almost before you realize you’re starting them. And if every time his hand returns to your waist, he might be tucking you in a little closer, what of it? Guys that know how to do any of the ballroom dances are so few and far between. Might as well forget who he really is and just enjoy yourself for a while.
All you have to do is look anywhere but his face. Because if you look at his face, this will get too weird, too real, and so you focus on his shoulder and pretend you’re being swept around the dancefloor by some other tall man with a penchant for furs.
“You’re really quite good,” he murmurs, at the step that brings his mouth closest to your ear.
He spins you away, and you tell yourself that’s the only reason your heart starts to race. “So are you,” you say politely when he catches you back up.
“I think we work well together.”
You shake your head at the very idea.
Bobo laughs under his breath. “Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it.”
You set your teeth and fix him with a frown. “I know what kind of creature you really are. I’d never do anything on your side of the line.”
Bobo just clucks his tongue. “Don’t sell yourself short. Life has a way of…complicating things.”
He spins you out, fast and aggressive, so there’s not chance to give him another icy retort. When he pulls you back in, you’re up against his chest and you’re both breathing heavy.
Your eyes lock. You hope the look you’re giving him is a glare, and not anything that betrays the way his command of your body in this dance is…affecting you. Because, it kind of really is.
Thankfully, the song is almost over. Bobo breaks your staring contest first, eyes flitting around the dance floor. He starts guiding you backwards; maybe he’s found the right hole in the crowd for some final, flashy move. Your feet fly in front of him, and you realize you’re looking forward to it.
He doesn’t spin you, doesn’t attempt any kind of lift or twist. Instead, the two of you twirl toward the corner. And in the final trumpeting flourish of the track, your bodies rotate and he dips you. Deeply. His strong arm supports your back until you’re almost horizontal.
And he keeps you there, his wicked face looming over your own as the track shifts into the next song. He almost looks like he’s waiting for something. “What?” You try to make it sound like an aggravated snarl.
Bobo’s eyebrows jump, and he nods his head toward the ceiling.
You let your eyes focus past his face.
Fucking. Mistletoe.
You’re going to have to tell H.R. about this in the morning.