Work Text:
Ted holds a plastic cup of some drink he’s already forgotten the taste of and leans against the meeting table that’s been pushed to the side of the room. Everyone’s here: Paul, his barista girlfriend (that Ted’s still amazed he scored), Sylvia, Bill, a handful of faces and plus ones he doesn’t care to know, and… Charlotte, alone.
So everyone’s here. Even for New Year’s, her douchebag husband bailed on her.
He tries not to pay particular attention to her — he’s not supposed to, and he knows deep down that if he does, he might be moved to do something the rest of the office shouldn’t know he’s ever even considered. But it’s hard. It’s… her. She looks less frazzled than usual, which is certainly due in part to the matching plastic cup he’s watched her fill three times (she drinks very quickly, he’s learned). And she looks beautiful. She wears a tighter top and skirt than usual that shows off the curve of her hips wonderfully, and her hair falls down her back, half pinned up. She talks to someone; he can’t tell who, and he doesn’t care much. He watches her, only her. She fills her cup a fourth time.
Fuck it. He downs the rest of his own drink, some terrible whiskey soda concoction, and sidles up next to her, gently bumping her hip. She turns her head, her curls breezing past his face. A smile almost immediately graces her lips. “You all good?” she asks. He nods.
“Just wanted to say hello.”
She laughs. “Well, hello.”
“And tell you that you look gorgeous.”
Her attention became undivided when he made contact with her side (and didn’t separate), but this grasps it more firmly. Raises her eyebrows, parts her lips, almost pushes her tongue to say the first thing that she thinks. But there’s a charade to hold up, the idea that they’re coworkers, merely friends, not the sinful pair they know they are. “Ted, I-“
“Shh. I know, not here or whatever. I just think you deserve to hear it.” His words aren’t slurred, not yet, but they’re far softer than they usually are. He’s said crude or complimentary things to her before, after all. Whispered in her ear with fervour or, more rarely, more like this, spoken in everyday tones as she stands at the door of his apartment.
Those times, she silences him out of habit, though he always tells her she doesn’t need to. “What if the neighbours hear?” she always asks. His neighbours don’t care. They never have, they never should. She’s still convinced they will.
His words aren’t slurred, but hers are, if only slightly. “I dunno if I…”
“Shut up, Charlotte, you do. I don’t say shit like this to everyone. And I know you don’t hear it.” He’s moments away from placing a finger to her lips to keep her silent. She knows this. She sees it in his eyes, in his own parted lips waiting to continue. So she simply nods. “It’s almost midnight. And no one’s watching us. They won’t.”
She glances around to make sure that’s true — the first part, at least. As far as she can tell, it is; their other coworkers are pointing at the clocks. And as for the second and third, she’s inclined to take his word for it.
“Okay, I- yes.”
“Yes?” He repeats. Just like that? How strong’s that liquor leaving fruit and bitterness on her breath? She nods once, clearly set in her answer. He nods back. Okay.
The clock reads 11:57. Not enough time to be able to forget, to blame it on a too-drunk night. Neither of them are mindless yet. Neither of them wants to be, in truth. Charlotte knows she shouldn’t want it but she does anyway. She does because he actually will pay attention to her, he’ll say those kind and sometimes crude things that make her blush and turn away and hold a smile for an hour. And Ted knows that she thinks that.
11:58. Her plastic cup is in danger of being cracked. She lifts it to her lips and takes a long sip. Why’s she nervous? Why does she care? No one else will, no one else will notice or see or care — Ted’s right. And if they do ask, the duo will lie and say it was liquid boldness.
Ted’s eyes flicker around the space to make sure his promise doesn’t turn into a lie. Paul’s making eyes at his girlfriend, Sylvia at Bill, Davidson at his wife, other folks at others and maneuvering around the assorted tables and chairs. A short cheer is heard. 11:59.
His eyes finally land on Charlotte once more. An auburn curl falls in front of her face as she tips it forward, and she brushes it out of her eye. It falls again. Ted’s hand finds hers resting on her cup and gently helps her put it down. The countdown happens around them, but they feel like they’re underwater.
A shout, a pop, a shower of glitter, and his hands are on her waist, hers on his chest. The room feels like it’s spinning. The temperamental curl separates the skin of their cheeks, a surprising softness for Ted and nearly a relief for Charlotte. And the kiss feels like it lasted less than a second after they break apart.
“Ted, I-“
“Yeah?”
She looks up, down, then up again. She pulls him in by his tie.
“Yeah.”