Work Text:
It starts with just one sprig.
One tiny, seemingly innocent sprig of mistletoe, taped to the doorframe of Carl’s kitchen – angled just slightly to the left so he’ll walk directly beneath it when he comes in from work in the evening.
You’d spotted the bundle of mistletoe in the festive window display of a local flower shop and your mischievous mind had immediately run wild. That, combined with the fact that Jasper’s at his mum’s this week, made for too perfect a setup to miss out on.
You hear the front door unlock, followed by the heavy clunk of his boots and the exhausted exhale that tells you he had a rough day at work. He appears in the doorway, jaw tight, and then he stops dead in his tracks. Looks up at the doorframe.
“...Seriously?”
You shrug. “What? It’s festive.”
“It’s entrapment.”
“Festive entrapment.” You correct, stalking over to him and grabbing a fistful of his shirt to pull him in for a kiss.
He rolls his eyes with all the drama of a teenage girl, but melts against you nonetheless, meeting your lips with a kiss that lasts much longer than required for something he was supposedly ‘trapped’ into doing.
When he pulls back, his hand lingers on the side of your neck, thumb rubbing gently along your jawline. “You know,” he murmurs. “You don’t need to employ ancient folkloric traditions just to kiss me.”
“Oh, trust me, I know,” you hum, planting another quick peck on him. “It’s just fun to see you caught off guard!”
He grumbles at that, but still kisses you again when you both pass under it to go to bed.
The next morning, a second sprig awaits him in the kitchen – taped directly above the coffee maker, where he’s guaranteed to stand first thing in the morning.
You’re up before him, seated at the kitchen table, and smile softly at him as he walks in – half-asleep, hair a mess, scowl deepened. He (predictably) heads straight for the coffee maker, giving you a quizzical look when you smirk and come to stand right in front of him.
You point a single finger upwards, and he glances up. His eyes immediately shutter into an irritated exhale, the embodiment of ‘I can’t believe you’ve done this’.
“It’s six in the fucking morning,” he protests. “And you are not making this into a thing.”
“I already did.” You say cheerfully, wrapping your arms around his neck, leaning in to seal your lips to his. He huffs a sigh into the kiss, and then pecks your cheek, gently pushing you off of him with fire in his blue eyes as he turns to make the coffee.
“This had better be the last one.” He warns, and you shrug sweetly.
You hear the next one being found – a sharp, echoing, “Jesus Christ,” ringing out from the bathroom.
You rush over in time to catch him glaring up at the mistletoe you taped to the bathroom ceiling. He’s dripping, towel wrapped around his waist, hair wet and plastered to his forehead. The look he gives you lands somewhere between unimpressed and deeply resigned.
“If I’m late for work because of this–”
You cross the threshold and kiss him quickly, almost apologetically – until he catches your wrist and pulls you back in for another one, unhurried and slow.
You sputter a laugh, jerking back as you feel cold droplets soaking into your shirt. “Carl!” You scold.
He shrugs, grabbing a towel and scrubbing it through his hair, sending even more water flying your way. “You’re the one who planted it in here in the first place.”
You don’t have a good retort for that, frowning with your arms folded over your chest, and he smirks victoriously at your silence.
The next one is planted with slightly better planning, tied under the head of the lamp that hangs over his couch. It’s his go-to spot for reading or going over case files, and you’re certain it’s where he’ll want to plop down after work today.
Hours later, he arrives home again, finding you already curled up on your end of the couch, feet tucked under you and book set down as he appears in the doorway.
He sees you on the couch and smiles softly, moving to join you, before pausing abruptly and scanning the ceiling above the couch with narrowed eyes. Satisfied that he’s safe, he plops down, leans back, and –
“Oh, you are unbelievable, you know that?”
He just looks at you from where he’s sprawled, one eyebrow raised, his whole face doing that secretly-fond, reluctantly-soft thing he pretends isn’t real.
You bite your lip as you watch him glare up at the mistletoe, stretching up, tugging it from the lamp, and tossing it far away in one clean motion.
“You walked under it!” You defend, leaning back against your end of the sofa as he narrows his eyes at you.
“I live here,” he counters, deadpan. “I walk under everything.”
“Which is why it’s perfect.”
He shakes his head, but in the end he’s the one who tilts your chin up with two fingers and kisses you slowly, every bit of tension he pretends he doesn’t carry easing under your touch.
When he pulls back, he mutters, “You could’ve just asked.”
You smile against his jaw. “But this is so much more fun.”
“You’re a menace.” He huffs a laugh, low and unwilling, but his arm curls around you anyway, pulling you closer, his lips brushing your temple in a way that betrays his farce of irritation completely.
You tuck your face into his chest to hide the smile blooming across your face, wondering what his reaction will be to the sprig hung above the bed – but you’ll save that one for later.