Work Text:
Mark Beaks stared at the Christmas tree in his penthouse apartment’s living room, frowning at its perfect symmetry and perfect decorations. Something was missing. The white and silver ornaments caught the city lights streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows and reflected arrays of lights around the barren white walls of the room, but the tree felt as sterile as his social media feed in the early mornings. The scent of fresh pine mingled with the expensive cologne that he had started wearing because he'd noticed Falcon's subtle appreciation of it when he buried his beak in his neck and stayed there for longer than he normally would; hot breath ghosting over his feathers before he pulled away in favor of other activities.
His phone buzzed with another notification – probably another thousand likes on his latest post – but for once, he didn't immediately check it. Instead, he adjusted his cashmere sweater (grey, because Falcon had once mentioned it brought out his eyes) and tapped his foot against the polished concrete floor, anxiety and frustration mounting as he continued to stare down his arbor adversary.
"You're overthinking it again," came a deep voice from behind him as Mark’s beak ticked up minutely in a smile. Falcon's reflection appeared in the window, his usually stern expression softened by gentle amusement. He had shed his customary tactical suit for the evening, wearing instead a black long sleeve turtleneck that made Mark's heart skip a beat and sent blood rushing to his cheeks. Some habits died hard though – Mark knew there were at least three hidden weapons on his person, and somehow, that was endearing and also intriguing as his eyes roamed over his reflection wondering where in the minimal folds of his clothes he could have been hiding his preferred items.
"I am not," Mark protested, clutching his phone like a security blanket. The device was a limited edition prototype – one he'd designed himself, with a custom titanium frame and a notification system more complex than most government communication networks. His latest social media analytics were probably running in the background, tracking every micro-interaction with the kind of obsessive detail that made tech investors swoon. "I just need the perfect aesthetic for—"
"For your InstaPic?" Falcon raised an eyebrow, stepping closer. The movement was calculated, predatory – a habit from years of security work that now felt more like an intimate dance. The spicy notes of his aftershave made Mark's knees weak – sandalwood and something darker, maybe leather, a scent that spoke of danger and protection in equal measure. It was a cologne Mark had once tried to identify, spending an entire evening analyzing its chemical composition before realizing he was more interested in how it felt when Falcon was close.
The tree behind them glinted with carefully arranged ornaments, each one positioned with mathematical precision. White and silver caught the city lights, creating a tableau that looked more like a high-end design magazine spread than a personal Christmas display.
"Fine? Fine? " Mark's voice pitched higher, a telltale sign of his rising anxiety. His fingers drummed an erratic rhythm against the phone case – a nervous habit that would have triggered most people's irritation, but which Falcon found inexplicably endearing. "It needs to be spectacular! It's our first Christmas together and—"
Mark cut himself off, suddenly self-conscious about the admission. His fingers fidgeted more intensely, tapping out what was probably a complex algorithm or a half-formed tweet. The phone case – a custom piece he'd designed himself – had tiny circuit board patterns etched into its surface, a silent testament to his perpetual need to transform everything into something measurable, something perfect.
Falcon's gaze softened as he closed the distance between them. Where Mark was all nervous energy and calculated design, Falcon was deliberate stillness. His hand – capable of disarming complex security systems, of breaking and protecting with equal skill – now moved to rest against Mark's fidgeting fingers, stilling their restless movement. His other hand settled on his shoulder, thumb brushing against the soft fabric. "And?" he prompted gently, letting Mark take his time and allowing him space if he should need it.
Mark turned, looking up at his boyfriend's face with wide eyes. Gone was the ruthless security expert who had once tried to expose his schemes. In his place stood someone who somehow saw past Mark's carefully curated public image – someone who knew the real Mark Beaks, not the tech mogul, not the social media sensation, but the person beneath the carefully crafted persona.
Falcon knew about his 3 AM coding binges, the ones Mark would never breathe a word about publicly. He'd seen Mark hunched over multiple screens, lines of code reflecting in his glasses, surrounded by cold pizza and energy drink cans, muttering complex algorithms under his breath. He knew about the secret drawer in Mark's home office – the one filled with a collection of vintage programming books, their spines cracked and pages dog-eared, hidden from the world that saw Mark only as a flashy entrepreneur.
And the stuffed animals. Mark had an entire shelf of them, carefully positioned behind a sliding panel in his walk-in closet. There was Mr. Circuitboard, a plush robot he'd won at a tech conference hackathon years ago, its worn fabric telling stories of late nights and early breakthroughs. Another was a vintage Darkwing Duck plush, a remnant from his childhood in Duckburg, its cape slightly frayed but still proudly displayed. There were more, each item displayed in its designated space and carefully cataloged and Falcon was the only person who knew that they existed – the only one Mark had ever trusted enough to show his most vulnerable collections.
"And I want it to be perfect," Mark admitted quietly, voice barely above a whisper. The words carried more weight than any of his carefully crafted tweets, more vulnerability than any viral post. His tech-callused fingers loosened their death grip on the phone – a device that was usually an extension of his very being. The screen remained dark, notifications piling up unnoticed.
"For us," he repeated, and those two words meant more than any algorithm, any marketing strategy, any public image he'd ever constructed. For the first time in years, Mark Beaks was choosing a moment over metrics, connection over content, reality over representation.
His phone – that beacon of constant connectivity, his window to the world, his primary tool of communication and control – sat forgotten. Prime posting hours ticked by, engagement rates would drop, no doubt Waddle’s social media team would have a mild panic attack, and Mark found he couldn't care less about any of it, not when Falcon was standing in front of him, looking at him as if he were something precious.
Falcon reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, clumsily wrapped package. The wrapping paper was a chaotic explosion of holiday emojis – tiny digital snowmen, dancing Santa Claus, sparkling Christmas trees, candy canes, and wrapped gift boxes scattered across a deep forest green background. Some emojis were slightly cut off at the edges, others overlapped, creating a delightfully haphazard pattern that looked like it had been printed by someone who had just discovered the emoji keyboard for the first time.
The paper was clearly printed on standard printer paper, the edges slightly rough where it had been cut with what was probably office scissors. Pieces of tape were applied with the precision of a man more comfortable disarming bombs than wrapping presents – some tape strips were longer than needed, others barely covered the seams. One corner was taped down with an extra-large piece that bubbled slightly in the middle, creating an unintentional landscape of sticky terrain.
The bow was a travesty of craft – clearly hand-tied with what looked like a piece of red ribbon Falcon had probably found in a desk drawer. It was slightly crushed, one loop shorter than the other, creating an asymmetrical knot that would make any professional gift wrapper weep. Mark could tell he'd wrapped it himself – probably using those enormous hands that could disarm a security system in seconds but struggled with delicate paper. There were tiny puncture marks where Falcon had clearly stabbed the paper with his finger while trying to fold it, and one corner was slightly crumpled, as if he'd gotten frustrated and nearly crushed the entire package.
"What's that?" Mark asked, his usual rapid-fire speech slowing to match the intimate moment. His fingers traced the misaligned emojis with a reverence usually reserved for his most viral tech prototypes. Mark, who had built entire marketing campaigns around the perfect emoji combinations, found himself utterly charmed by the chaotic arrangement. These weren't the meticulously curated emojis he'd spend hours selecting for his social media posts – the strategically placed 🔥 or the perfectly timed 😎 that would guarantee maximum engagement. No, these were messy, imperfect, almost painfully sincere emojis that looked like they'd been randomly generated by someone who had only a passing understanding of digital communication.
A laugh bubbled up in his throat – part amusement, part genuine delight. He recognized the Christmas Tree that was slightly tilted, the Santa Clause whose beard was half-cut off, the gift warped box that seemed to be photo bombing the other emojis. It was everything he would have edited out of a post, and yet, here he was, falling more in love with every misaligned pixel. His thumb ran over a slightly smudged snowflake, and he realized this was possibly the most perfect piece of wrapping he'd ever seen.
"Open it," Falcon said, a hint of nervousness in his typically confident voice.
The paper crinkled softly as Mark unwrapped it, careful not to tear it despite his usual impatience. He peeled back the tape with surgical precision, knowing how much effort Falcon had clearly put into this. Each piece of tape resisted with a soft, stubborn pull, revealing more of the emoji-covered paper beneath.
Inside was a handmade ornament: a small silver frame containing a candid photo of them from their first real date, caught mid-laugh at some forgotten joke. Mark remembered the day – they'd gone to a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop because Falcon refused to be seen at any of Mark's usual Instagram-worthy haunts. The coffee had been terrible, but the company had been perfect.
"It's not symmetrical," Falcon said, his deep voice rumbling in his chest. The sound resonated through Mark like a frequency he'd never analyzed, never tried to quantify or optimize. "It's not filtered. But it is real."
Like them, Mark thought. Their relationship was a complex algorithm with no predictable output. It defied every calculation, every probability matrix Mark had ever constructed. They were an impossible equation – a high-stakes tech entrepreneur and a security specialist who had once been hired to investigate his company. Their first meetings had been confrontational, professional, a chess game of wit and suspicion. Now, they were... this. Undefined. Unexpected. And beautiful in every way.
Their relationship wasn't perfect or polished, wasn’t gold plated and held together with contracts that defied how anyone but themselves could view and scrutinize, but it was genuine in a way that terrified and thrilled him. Mark had built entire technological empires on predictability, on controlled variables and measurable outcomes. Falcon was none of those things. He was a variable that changed everything, a wild card that rewrote Mark's entire operational system for the better, an amendment to code he never thought could be fixed.
Mark stared at the ornament for a long moment. Up close, he could see the details of Falcon's craftsmanship – the slight imperfections that told a story. The soldering wasn't clean, wasn't perfect. There were tiny, almost imperceptible drips of metal where Falcon's hand had wavered. Tiny burn marks marked the edges of the frame, evidence of multiple attempts. Mark recognized the work of someone who was meticulous but not practiced, someone who had learned this skill specifically for this moment.
He walked to the tree and hung it front and center, deliberately disrupting his carefully curated color scheme. White and silver gave way to the raw, unfiltered silver of the handmade frame. His designer tree – which had cost more than most people's monthly rent and had been professionally decorated – now had this one imperfect, beautiful addition.
His fingers lingered on the frame, tracing the slightly uneven edges. Each tiny imperfection was a testament to effort, to intention. To love, Mark realized. This wasn't about aesthetics. This was about something far more profound.
"Now it's perfect," he whispered, the words softer than any of his carefully crafted social media posts.
He leaned back against Falcon's chest, feeling the solid warmth of him. Strong arms wrapped around Mark, creating a cocoon of safety that no technological security system could ever replicate. The steady thump of Falcon's heartbeat was better than any trending soundtrack – a rhythm more complex and beautiful than any beat Mark could algorithmically generate.
It was raw. It was real. It was theirs.
Outside, snow began to fall over Duckburg, the flakes catching the golden glow of the city lights. But neither of them noticed, too absorbed in their own private moment of warmth. Mark's phone lay forgotten on the coffee table, its screen dark for once, while Christmas music played softly from hidden speakers, and the scent of hot chocolate wafted from the kitchen where two mugs waited – one in pristine white, the other a chipped souvenir from a security conference.
For the first time in years, Mark didn't feel the need to document the moment. Some things, he was learning were, better kept private, treasured rather than shared. Besides, he thought as Falcon pressed a gentle kiss to the top of his head, no filter could capture this feeling anyway.