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Dundy (January)
Dundy has had a long day. He takes the tube home, dreaming of a hot bath to ease his aching shoulders and back. Maybe a glass of wine, a couple of the Fancy Biscuits left over from the Christmas tins. James had hidden some, knowing Dundy’s particular weakness, but it is well into January now and he deserves them. He lets himself into the flat he shares with James and drops his backpack to the ground; removes his coat and tie and suit jacket. He makes a beeline for the bathroom door, which is locked. Hum. Locked and occupied by Carly Simon by the sounds of things. Which can only mean one thing.
“James!” Dundy pounds on the door.
From behind the door comes the sound of a deep voice singing about how a broken heart has more room.
“James! If you’ve used all the hot water I swear to God I’ll machine wash your delicates. I’ll do it!”
The singing abruptly stops. The door unlatches. A very wet, sorry-looking, prune-like James opens the door.
“Not very sporting of you, Dundy.” James is dripping bathwater onto the carpet and his silky robe is getting very dark where patches of water have soaked through. Dundy pushes him back into the bathroom and finds James’ phone so he can cut Carly Simon off in the middle of her lament. Then he turns to face James again.
“Go on,” he says, folding his arms across his chest and mentally calculating how long a takeaway will take to reach him if he orders it now. “What’s up? You have five minutes and then I’m ordering Thai.”
James tries to flick his hair back, which only really works when it’s dry, and looks like he nearly gives himself whiplash. “Must something be “up” for a man to listen to Carly Simon in the safety and comfort of his bathroom?”
Dundy might believe James if his bottom lip hadn’t trembled at the end of that sentence. And if he hadn’t lived with him for seven years. He narrows his eyes.
“Four and a half minutes now.”
James looks back at his - admittedly, excellent looking - bubble bath. Dundy is tempted to sink into it himself. It looks like James has used the fancy bath bomb he got from his work secret santa…
From his work secret santa.
“Oh God,” says Dundy, as everything begins to fall into place. “This is about Crozier, isn’t it?”
James (December)
The work Christmas party is the same as all office Christmas parties James has ever attended so far. Mistletoe had been put up and then taken down swiftly by John Irving, blushing furiously and protesting something about HR and sexual harassment; the drinks were much weaker than they ought to be until Blanky had produced his own supply of gin and vodka (the man was like a walking off-licence, honestly); the food was a various buffet of bits and bobs from M&S which would not be enough to line anyone’s stomach; and James had walked in on two people he only vaguely knew madly kissing in the toilets.
He stood by the food trestle table, morosely twirling a cocktail sausage on its little toothpick. George Hodgeson was telling him about the origin of putting up the mistletoe, which would be more interesting, James thought, if there was even the remotest possibility that he would get kissed under some tonight. But no. And what was worse - although he would not have admitted this to anybody under pain of death - was that there was no sign of Francis.
Dundy would say that James’ crush on Francis was out of hand - truthfully, it had only been simmering away gently for a few years, like a nice comforting pot of soup; something to think about in boring meetings and during dull after work drinks. It had never been a serious thing, because Francis was with Franklin’s niece and was probably heterosexual. He certainly dressed like a heterosexual. That hadn’t stopped James from daydreaming about removing those truly terrible, badly-fitting corduroy trousers and getting to his knees. In the summer, Francis would sometimes roll up his shirt-sleeves in meetings and that would give James a pleasant ten minutes of gentle thirsting.
But then Sophia and Francis had broken up. In quite a spectacular fashion, if the rumours were true. James had ignored the ugly stabbing in his chest when he heard that Francis had proposed, and focused instead on the news that he was single.
And if James had started buying and bringing two coffees to work in the morning for them to share, if he had found where Francis’ favourite place to go for lunch was and resolved for it to become his favourite too so they could accidentally-on-purpose bump into each other and eat together (made no sense to take up two tables after all), IF he had begun to suspect that Francis was looking at him with what John Franklin would call a “glad-eye”, well, there was no harm in that, was there?
But now Francis, who had mumbled something about certainly being expected to be at the Christmas party, was nowhere to be seen.
James had dressed up special, too. He’s wearing his dark green velvet jacket with silk lining; the trousers that Dundy claimed were too tight (but that was because he was jealous); a shirt that he has unbuttoned just a little more than he would during a work day. He has also applied the perfect amount of eyeliner; a touch of blush; and a soupçon of tinted lip balm (and his lips are thanking him).
And AND! He is wearing his lucky underwear: a perfect lacy number that he is going to have to rename “what a let down” underwear; his “don’t get your hopes up” underwear. Because Francis, despite reliable intel to the contrary, is nowhere to be seen.
As he thinks this, there is a commotion from the other side of the office. Someone - God only knows who - set up a rudimentary “Santa’s Grotto” earlier and now - joy of joys - Santa himself has arrived. James puts down his cocktail sausage and tries one of the vegan sausage rolls. It’s ok.
Three strong drinks and two back-to-back Fairytales of New York later, James is being ushered into Santa’s grotto by Dundy and a surprisingly relaxed looking Edward Little. Dundy has been flirting with Little all night and James has watched with amusement as Edward grew more and more dazed. James can hardly blame him. The force of Dundy’s flirtation is such that James is convinced that if Dundy flirted with a car he could power it from Land’s End to John O’Groats. He tries to tell Dundy this, but Dundy is not listening. Dundy has pushed him into the grotto, which is, James observes mildly, really more of a tent someone has put fairy lights in.
James stumbles into Father Christmas, who is sitting on the only office chair without wheels.
““A little too much Christmas spirit?” he says lightly and puts out his hands to steady James. The hands that are suddenly on James’ waist are very sure and steady. Father Christmas does not let go right away.
James recognises that voice - but it can’t be. He squints in the dull light at the big white beard.
“Sit on his lap!!” hisses Dundy from the tent flap - sorry, opening to the grotto.
“Erm,” says James, but there is a twinkle in Father Christmas’ eyes and he finds himself getting hauled onto said lap. There is the sound of laughter from beyond the grotto and then Dundy and Edward disappear.
“Come on, then,” says Francis Christmas - Father Christmas - Francis???? “You’re not so big you can’t sit on my knee.”
It is him. James feels warm all over all of a sudden. “Well,” he says, trying to think of something to say and failing miserably, “it’s a very nice knee.” He puts his hand on one of the knees and squeezes it fondly. He does not think he is imagining the blush happening under the fake beard.
I’m drunk, James thinks with resounding clarity. It’s probable Francis is too, judging by the relaxed way he is holding onto James’ waist still. There’s no way he could get through an evening seeing all his co-workers while dressed as Santa sober.
“Have you been a good boy this year?” ask Francis-Santa.
James’ brain short-circuits. He can feel the warmth of Francis from where he is sitting on him and the reassuring weight of his hands clasping James’ waist, keeping him in place. One thumb, he thinks, is rubbing a slow and careful circle. He gently places his hands on Francis’ shoulders. He is acutely aware that they are alone.
“Only when the occasion called for it,” he practically purrs. Francis looks amused but his hold of James’ waist tightens briefly. “What do you give boys who are bad?”
“Pieces of coal, usually.” Francis is definitely looking at James’ lips. This is the greatest office party in the world. James is never doubting his lucky pants ever again. “But maybe I’ll make an exception in your case.”
“Is that so?”
Suddenly, from where James has no idea, a present is being pressed into his chest. He takes his hands off Francis’ shoulders and holds it.
“Ah. Thank you.” James turns the present round in his hands. It’s a square, medium sized box. Impossible to tell what’s inside. There’s a little silver bow on top.
Father Christmas isn’t looking him in the eye. “That’s direct from, er, me.”
Earlier that month, Jopson went round and neatly and efficiently organised the secret santa. All the presents were then put in the sack. Sure enough, this one reads: James in a neat script.
“From you?”
“From me.”
James puts it carefully in his lap and pulls down on the white beard so that Francis’ flushed face is revealed.
“Thank you,” he says simply, then brushes his lips against Francis’ warm ones. Francis’ lips open in surprise and James pulls back. Francis is looking at him with wide, shocked eyes.
The upper hand. James has it again and all’s right with the world. His heart, though, is pounding wildly in his chest. He lets the beard ping back onto Francis’ face and slides from his lap.
Then, in a manner slightly less elegant than he would like, he leaves the grotto.
Francis (December)
At long, long last Francis has given out all the secret Santa presents and he can remove the hot and itchy beard. The horrible curly wig too. The red suit might have to wait, though: first - another drink, and by God he’s earned it.
A tiny marching band feels like it’s set up shop in his stomach and is tooting its horns and banging its drums. James Fitzjames. Jesus. Francis thinks the man might actually kill him.
He’s always looked at James: he’s always thought he was attractive, Francis isn’t blind after all, but he never thought that James would ever -
Well. But, they have both been drinking. Tamper down that hope, Crozier. Don’t let your feelings run away with you, like you usually do.
He throws the beard and wig across one of the desks and gets another drink from Blanky who is looking awfully pleased with himself. Although, of course, he would be, since he won the bet that’s allowed him to attend the office party in his normal clothes, and Francis has had to put on a suit that has no doubt had countless other sweating, slightly portly middle-aged gentlemen inside it.
I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day is blasting out and most of the mince pies have been demolished. Francis looks around hopefully for a sight of James - he spots him dancing with Dundy - and Blanky gives him a pat on the back so forcefully he spills half his drink.
“How’re you holding up, Frank?”
“Fine, fine.” The velour of the Santa suit is hot and now soaked through with whiskey.
“Keeping your list of the naughty and nice close to your chest, eh?” Blanky laughs and takes another drink. Francis is going to have to get a lot more drunk to catch up.
“Know which one you’re on.”
“Aye,” Blanky casts his eye over the room, “and what about our Jimmy over there?”
“Thomas.”
“No, no, just wondering whether you put on your big boy pants today and if you might fancy telling him that you’re arse over tit for him.”
“I am not -”
“Frank.”
Francis thinks of the light, sweet brush of James’ lips against his own. “I’m just a foolish old man, Thomas. What would he want with me?”
Blanky takes another deep drink. Is that a boot he’s drinking out of? Never mind, too late to ask now. “Reckon we’re all foolish old men when it comes down to it. Anyway, he’s coming over.”
“He’s what?”
Francis turns around and sees James cutting with determination through the crowd. He turns back and Blanky has gone, vanished into thin air. The wet patch of whiskey on his trousers is extremely uncomfortable all of a sudden. He wishes he was wearing literally anything else.
Before James can reach him, Francis finishes his drink and pours himself another. Then, a large hand lands on his shoulder. He turns to face James. Lovely, lovely James, whose eye makeup is smudged slightly (it makes Francis want to take him home and tuck him up in bed) and who is listing ever so slightly to one side.
“You look good in that suit,” says James.
Francis feels himself going red. “Bet you say that to all the Father Christmases.”
“No,” James shakes his head very seriously, “just you.”
Francis swallows his drink in three gulps. Puts the glass down. Wets his bottom lip. “It’s loud in here,” he says, “let’s go somewhere quieter.”
🎅🏻
The cupboard they find is small, with really only room for the printer/photocopier and the shelves of ink cartridges and paper. But it has a door that locks from the inside and no windows. Francis finds himself being pushed against said door and James’ lips press against his. For a sweet, glorious moment he allows himself to be kissed, then he pulls back.
“Wait, James,” he says, catching his breath, “do you want this? We’ve both been drinking -“
James groans and touches Francis’ forehead with his own. “God, Francis, you have no idea,” he kisses him again, “I’ve wanted you for so long.”
“Jesus,” Francis grips James by his lapels and manoeuvres them so that James is the one being pushed against the door. Their kissing becomes sloppy and desperate. James is quite a vocal kisser; he hums and moans into them and the sounds shoot their way down into Francis’ belly.
Francis loves kissing; he loves the slow slide of lips, the urgency that can be unspooled outwards for as long as both parties please; the hurriedness that ebbs and flows. His hands move from cupping James’ face to squeeze his arms; he slips his hands up under the shirt James is wearing - soft, he notes, distantly - and touches his hot bare skin. James groans again.
The distant noise of the Nolan sisters (they’re in the mood for dancing) plays inside the small room. A cheer and laughter comes through, slightly muffled. Francis could not care less about what is going on outside of these four walls. James is arching into his touch; Francis moves to situate one thigh in between James’ legs and James grinds against him.
How long they stay in the photocopier room, Francis has no idea. All he knows is by the time Blanky knocks obnoxiously on the door, James had peeled off the top of Francis’ Father Christmas suit so he’s just in the ridiculous red trousers and his white undershirt; Francis has felt the lacy band of James’ underwear under his thumbs and had to take a couple of deep breaths to steady himself; and they are both flushed, flustered, and aching.
“Piss off!” he shouts to Blanky through the door. James leans his head back against the wood with a thunk.
“It’s home time!” Blanky knocks again. “Put your pants on and clear out!”
“Fucking hell,” Francis is holding James’ waist under his clothes. His hands burn. James tilts his hips up slightly and their cocks press against each other. Francis lets out a shaky breath. “We should - I suppose we should go.”
“I want to make you come,” James says simply. He leans forward and takes one of Francis’ earlobes gently between his teeth and pulls on it. Releases it and tips back to survey Francis in the dull light of the cupboard.
Francis swears under his breath. On the one hand, he’s very glad he hasn’t come in these rented Father Christmas trousers. On the other…
“I -” Francis wants to say something like: I want to lay you out on a bed and take my time with you. I don’t want just a quick dirty handjob in our photocopier room. But what comes out is: “I think we should go.”
James straightens from where he has been leaning, pleased, against the door.
“Ok,” he says, and he sounds uncertain. He tosses his hair back. “Dundy is probably looking for me anyway.”
Dundy (January)
“Hold up,” says Dundy from where he is sitting in a fresh bath, eating pad Thai, and drinking a large glass of red wine. “You kissed Francis Crozier in the photocopier room? I use that room you mucky pup.”
“Dundy…” James groans. He is sitting on the bathroom floor, back against the tub, also with a glass of red. “Focus. I am so sad.”
“There there,” Dundy pats James’ head absently. “Sounds like you’ve got everything you asked Father Christmas for.”
“He’s getting married.”
Dundy chokes on a sip of wine. “Pardon?”
“Francis,” James’ long face crumples up like a discarded piece of paper. “He asked Sophia to marry him at New Year.”
“And she said yes???!!!”
James frowns at him. His eyes are a little red; Dundy knows he should stop taking the piss, but he’s so sure that James has - as is his nature - made a mountain out of a molehill, and made an error to boot.
“Just because you can‘t see Francis’ attractive qualities, doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”
“Have you even spoken to him, since -“
“Since he got cold feet in the middle of our clinch.”
“I think you should talk to him, James.”
“The way you’re talking to Ned?”
Dundy sinks lower in the tub. Low blow from James there. “That’s different.”
James finishes his wine and rubs his eyes. “I really thought… I guess he was just drunk.”
“Babe,” Dundy presses his wet cheek against James’ dry one, “you won’t know until you ask.”
Francis (January)
James is avoiding him. It must be because he remembers and regrets the office party. Francis crunches another peppermint between his teeth and moodily looks through his desk drawer for a Buscopan. Tummy pain. Maybe it was the curry he had at lunch.
Although, to be honest, he’s had tummy pain ever since they got back from the Christmas break and James walked past him like he didn’t even exist.
No Buscopan. Francis calls Jopson into his office and asks him whether he knows where they got to.
“You haven’t had a flare up since late August, when you asked Ms Cracroft to marry you and then spent the next day lying under your desk asking me to kill you with the letter opener.”
Francis pinches the bridge of his nose. “Thank you, Thomas.”
“I believe you used the last tablet then, sir. I can fetch you some more?”
“Please. And -” Francis drums his fingers on the desk. “Thomas, how soon would you say is too soon to ask someone on a date? After getting out of a long term relationship, that is.”
Thomas Jopson is like a walking etiquette book. “These days, sir,” he says, “anything goes.” He pauses on his way out of the office. “Especially if you’ve already made out with them in the photocopier room.”
🎅🏻
Because God hates Francis, he finds himself alone with James in the lift at home time. James, as usual, looks incredible in his smart navy coat and red scarf. He smells good too, of something that is familiar to Francis, but he can’t quite put his finger on what it is. James does not look at him.
“Happy New Year,” Francis says, lamely.
“For some.” James is holding himself very stiff.
Francis is struck by the wild and uncontrollable urge to put his tongue in one of James’ dimples. He instead looks at his shoes.
Francis starts to say, “Look, James -” at the same time James says, “I suppose congratulations are in order.”
Francis blinks. “Are they?”
“Listen, Francis,” finally James looks at him, “just because you had a gay panic in the copier room doesn’t mean you get to just play dumb with me and pretend nothing happened, ok?”
“Gay panic?” Francis feels like a fish out of water. He probably looks like one too: he closes his mouth.
“I didn’t force you to do anything! We had both been drinking!”
“I know that.” It feels like James is reading from a different script to him. “I - what are you talking about? Congratulations?”
The lift is taking an ungodly time. James stabs the ground floor button with his finger. It pings and the door opens on floor 5 and George Hodgeson, who ambles in and then seems to regret it. The tension, as they say, could be cut with a knife.
The doors close.
Nobody says anything.
Then, “I say, Crozier, I heard congratulations are in order.”
Francis throws up his hands. “What is everyone talking about!”
George looks nervously from Francis to a stony-faced James. “Um. Your engagement?”
Francis feels like he’s been slapped in the face; James scoffs, but it sounds a little pained. “My what?”
“Aren’t you engaged?” George is blinking rapidly. Francis very carefully does not look at James.
“No, George,” he says slowly, “I am not engaged. Who would I even be engaged to?”
George’s voice is little more than a squeak. “Sophia?”
“You’re not engaged?” James’ voice breaks through Francis’ confusion and annoyance. It sounds, for want of a better word, hopeful.
Francis looks at him at last. He is looking at Francis with wide eyes. The lift doors open and George runs out.
“No, James, I -” Francis is cut off by James taking his face in his hands and kissing him. It is just as good as Francis remembers, if not better.
“Sorry,” James pulls back but still keeps hold of Francis’ face. “I just - I heard -”
“Who even told you -”
“And then I thought you regretted -”
“I thought you regretted -”
“But I’ve liked you for so long -”
“I’ve driven Jopson mad all day trying to figure out a way to ask you on a date -”
“There’s too much talking going on,” James says decisively. “When we could just be kissing.”
Francis grins and pulls James so that their bodies are completely flush against each other. He rubs the wool of James’ coat lapel between his finger and thumb. “Actually, I’ve heard that only good boys get kisses.”
And for a long while after that, nothing else is said.