Work Text:
"You're certain he'll be away all afternoon?" Fenris asks, standing inside the doorway of Anders's office with a large box in his hands, looking out of place.
Cullen eyes him nervously and pockets his keys, turning momentarily to switch on the desk lamp. "I'm sure." He quirks an eyebrow. "Am I going to regret letting you in here?"
Fenris sets the box down in an empty chair just inside the door. "Probably." He smiles slyly, an expression that's at home and familiar on his face - one that Cullen remembers well from the short periods of time they've spent together. It looks good on him. "Hell hath no fury like my Andrew scorned."
Cullen chuckles, bringing hazel eyes to meet green. "Hell hath no fury like your Anders whining," he corrects, and Fenris rolls his eyes with a knowing smile. "He's been dreading this meeting all week. From what I understand the client's a bitch and a half and she never stops talking. He only got stuck going because no one else could keep up with her in conversation." Picking up a pen from Anders's desk, the blond examines it absently, sets it back down. "I figure we'll be lucky to see him before sundown."
Fenris nods and turns back to the cardboard box, unfolding the flaps and pulling out a handful of tangled electrical cords. Cullen fidgets awkwardly, giving the office a quick once-over as if he expects something to have changed since Anders left it just an hour ago. Through the blinds, he can see the snow falling steadily outside. He wants to say something, make idle conversation, perhaps ask more about whatever surprise the other man is planning, but he stays quiet instead.
It's not as though he knows Fenris well enough outside the bedroom to pull off anything more than impersonal small talk. He wonders about the proper etiquette in this situation. So, how are things? Why yes, my knees are still a little sore from last time. How's Anders's throat? Still bruised? Pity. Well, nice catching up with you... Cullen shakes his head. By the time he realizes that he's standing there having a friendly conversation with himself and comes back to reality, Fenris is staring at him with an eyebrow cocked, the corners of his lips turned up in a small smile.
"Something wrong?" he asks, looking amused. "You're not usually this quiet."
Cullen scratches at the back of his neck and attempts to ignore the suggestive glint in Fenris's eye. Now is not the time to reminisce about being bent over and thoroughly fucked. "I don't know that our usual decorum would be considered appropriate in most situations," he admits, trying on a shy grin.
Fenris laughs briefly, the sound unfamiliar and criminally charming. "Fair enough," he concedes, and looks back down to the mess of cords in his hands. He sighs. "I don't suppose you're any good with knots?"
Cullen snorts, taking the cords and going to work. Fenris turns back to the box and starts digging through it.
"Thanks again for helping me with this. These things have been in storage for ages and I don't even know if they work anymore."
***
Anders pulls his keys out of the ignition and hangs his head for a moment, letting out an exhausted huff that instantly fogs the driver's side window. He wants to go home, to curl up with Fenris and a glass of wine on the couch, maybe watch some bad television or read the paper before dragging his husband to bed early. Instead, he has to sit alone in his office on a Friday night and type up a confidential report he's not permitted to take home. He glares at the briefcase that sits in the passenger seat for a moment, hoping illogically that it might burst into flame, a wish he's made several times today of multiple targets that sadly hasn't come to fruition. It certainly isn't for lack of trying.
The meeting had been painful, to say the least. He'd gotten what he needed from the client, sure, but not without enduring hours of mind-numbing conversation, fueled by a demented narcissism the level of which he's never seen. If he never speaks to Petrice again, he thinks, he can die a happy man. He sighs one last time, grabbing his briefcase and getting out of the vehicle to make his way through the parking garage. By the time he finally manages to get through the office doors, his teeth are chattering and he can barely feel his ears.
Anders hates the winter.
The lobby is already empty, the receptionist likely having fucked off early for the weekend, and the squeaking of his snow-dampened footfalls on the tiled floor mocks him as he walks: At. Work. At. Work. At. Work. At. Work. He pushes the button for the lift and glances forlornly at his watch. 18:30. He could be eating dinner right now. With Fenris. At home.
A sickening and cheerful ding sounds as the metal door slides open and he steps into the elevator after taking a deep breath, mentally steeling himself for the twenty-two seconds he has to spend in the constricted space. Closing his eyes, he constructs a rough outline for the report he has to write in his mind. The sooner it's done, the sooner the weekend can begin - and the sooner he can go home to relinquish all control to his lover. A smile touches his lips at the thought of forgetting the stresses of this place for two days, of being cared for in the perfect, unique way that only Fenris has. A second saccharine chime tells him that he's reached his destination, and he opens his eyes at the same time as the door before stepping out.
Anders halts his step at once, caught off guard by the faint sound of music filtering down the hallway. He listens, intrigued. The meandering plink of jazz piano hits him first, underlined by a slow and easy string bass, plucked deliberately in time with the beat. When a woman's familiar voice starts in over the band, raw and striking and honest, Anders grins. Etta James, he thinks, and excitedly makes his way down the hall. Merry Christmas, Baby. He'd given the record as a gift last year.
When he unlocks the door to his office and slowly swings it open, his suspicions are confirmed. Fenris stands perilously balanced on the desk chair, arms stretched to the ceiling where he's fixing a piece of mistletoe with a short length of thread. Cullen stands below him, one hand placed (interestingly enough) on the other man's thigh to steady him. Neither of them turn, both distracted - Fenris busy with his task and Cullen busy eyeing the exposed strip of skin at Fenris's midsection as he stretches upward.
Anders grins. The office smells of mulled cider and coffee - Fenris's winter brew, he notes - robust and dark and lightly spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg, served best (in his humble opinion) with a shot of vanilla. On the floor at his feet, a tiny wooden train slowly winds its way around a simple oval track. Inside it, miniscule people dressed in hand-painted sweaters and mittens and scarves, uneven smiles on their faces, stand on rich folds of snow white silk, watching it go around.
Anders recalls painting those smiles with the unsteady hand of a troubled pre-teen boy, the first Christmas he'd spent with his adoptive parents. It had been years ago and he'd been pessimistic even in his youth, waiting perpetually for things to go to shit again, for the bleakness he'd felt in his chest for years to return and overtake him completely.
He was lucky that it never did.
Another track, this one lined with diminutive street lamps and a dark, cobblestoned tunnel that encloses a third of its length, traces the outer edges of his desk, trapping his computer helplessly inside. Artificial trees dot the landscape of the desk's surface, and when the miniature locomotive rounds one smoothed-out corner, tiny flakes of fake snow shift about slightly, a few of them drifting to the floor. He thinks idly that the custodial staff are going to hate him for this, and the thought makes him chuckle. Anders tries to remember the last time he saw the trains - his favourite toys and the best part of the season - thinking back to the years he lived with his parents between high school and university, and for several moments he draws a blank. Then it hits him, the answer simple - he'd shown them to Fenris the first time he'd been introduced to his family. They'd disappeared shortly after that.
Anders had been practically giddy that evening, thrilled with how well everyone was getting along and perhaps mildly inebriated from the wine he'd had with dinner. He recalls dragging Fenris around by the wrist, touring the modest house and describing at length all of the things that had a story behind them. The trains had been the last stop on his informal tour, set up to circle the base of the Christmas tree in their usual fashion, just as they had been every year since he'd moved in. He'd been relentless and thorough in his explanations, verbalizing details that held no significance whatsoever and rambling long past midnight, long past the time when everyone else had wandered off to bed. Anders was young, he was in love, and he was eager to give Fenris everything he possibly could of himself, of his life.
The true marvel was that Fenris had listened - had absorbed every word spoken and unspoken in those few hours until eventually Anders ran out of them. He'd simply smiled as he listened, warm and honest, a common enough expression on a person's face, but on him it was a thing of beauty, of aesthetic perfection. When he took Anders's head in his hands and kissed him hard, mumbled you're adorable into the heated skin of his neck and undressed him right there in the living room, Anders had known. When they made love, lazy and unhurried on the carpeted floor, silent except for their heavy breathing and the sound of skin on skin, he understood.
This man was his reward for fighting through everything he'd been handed in life, for everything he'd had to endure. If life held a tentative karmic balance, this was the good to outweigh the bad. It was undeniably worth it.
Anders smiles again, watching with great interest as his husband nearly falls, his coworker and friend accosting his groin in the name of safety. When he bursts out laughing and both men turn to face him, startled, he puts on the most innocent look he can muster.
"No no, don't let me disrupt your work," he says, unable to contain the grin on his face any longer. "You can't just leave mistletoe hanging like that; it's irresponsible. You've got to test it."
Stepping carefully over the train set on the floor, he makes his way around the desk and grabs Cullen forcefully by the back of his head. Fenris's partner in crime protests being manhandled only briefly, his single surprised mmfff suppressed by Anders's lips when he pulls him in for a kiss. His posture softens almost at once, letting go of surprised tension in favour of submission, the acceptance of a warm body against his own. Cullen is hungry with his kisses, gratefully taking what he's given but greedy for more, and he moans softly when Anders suddenly pulls away, bottom lip held between his teeth.
Fenris watches carefully from his awkward position atop the desk chair, arms crossed and looking thoughtful. "Well?" he asks, tone low and measured, almost dangerous. "How does our mistletoe stand up to your testing?" He stares Anders down, eyes dark.
"It appears to be effective at this altitude," Anders answers with a smirk, not missing a beat, and Fenris doesn't bother responding. Instead he simply extends his hand in an offer to help his husband onto the chair.
Anders steps up, wrapping his arms tightly around Fenris for balance and pressing his body firmly against his. He smiles, the sweetness of the expression perhaps out of context but impossible to hide even if he wanted to. "You snuck into my office and decorated it for Christmas," he says obviously, a touch of reverence colouring his voice.
Fenris laughs, a precious sound Anders will never tire of hearing. When Fenris leans in to press his lips to the skin of Anders's neck, mumbling "you're adorable," Anders squeezes him even tighter.