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There’s a Christmas tree in the office.
Blazer insisted on it, saying it would ‘boost morale.’
So there it sits in the corner of the bullpen, looking desperately out of place under the dull drop ceilings and drab carpet.
Just some stupid plastic thing with lights that hurt to look at—none of the warmth in them of the holidays when he was a kid. Back when everything was coated in the haze of incandescent youth. Back before everything went to shit in his hands. Back when his family still talked to him.
So yeah.
Maybe the tree’s got Sonar feeling some kind of way, and maybe he thinks about kicking it over and stamping on those horrible blue lights that let out such a fucking annoying whining noise no one else can hear.
But the rest of the team seem to like it, they all get stupid, shitty gifts for each other and wrap them terribly underneath it. Except the one for Robert. Even Sonar was down to chip in for the personalized coffee mug with a team selfie custom printed on the side for their favorite (read: only) dispatcher. That one is wrapped neatly—by you he’s sure—and set aside for opening at the office holiday party tonight. Everyone else has gone home to get ready before heading back in to christen the conference room with their first official Z-Team holiday gathering.
He’s thinking about skipping. Taking a page out of Punch’s book and just Irish goodbye-ing his ass home early. Mal will ask questions, but she’ll back off if he mopes enough about it. And probably everyone else will be drunk enough not to notice he’s gone. Cooped up at his place, where there's no tree and no electric whine of harsh lights cause they’re more fucking eco concious or whatever and no one to ask why he’s being such a fucking bummer—
“Hey.”
Sonar jumps about ten feet in the air and whips around. He thought the office was empty this late at night. Even Robert had packed up and headed out. But you snuck up on him somehow, lost in thought enough to not hear your soft footfalls on the carpet. It’s dim, nothing but the shitty multicolored lights that cast a purple glow across the vacant room. You manage to look nice though, even under the LEDs.
Maybe he should tell you that.
“Fuck, jesus what are you still doing here?” he asks ears stuck straight up and honed in on you against his will.
“Sorry, had some paperwork to catch up on. I thought you heard me,” you’re laughing a little, but he’ll let it go. It’s a pretty sound even with the undercurrent of electricity.
It feels smooth in his ears, like running his hands over cool wood. The sound of it has a corresponding flavor as they often do for him—whipped frosting, the artificial sugar of a snack cake, warm from hours shoved in a lunch box, shared on a bus ride home.
“No, I was, uh…” he gestures vaguely in the air around his head, tries to signal ‘contemplating my strained relationship with the holiday season now that I’m such a fucking dissapointment’ without actually sharing any of that.
You nod like that means anything to you and drift a little closer, eyeing the tree and the mess of tape underneath. It really looks like hell except for the knitted tree skirt, a special donation from Waterboy’s grandma.
“It’s pretty,” you say, waving at the tree.
“Oh yeah, really brightens up the office.”
God he’s so stupid.
“Well, I don’t think anything can really make this place look good necessarily,” you chuckle again and it’s all parquet floors—Little Debbie sweet on his tongue.
“Yeah no, we should just trash it.”
So. Fucking. Whipped.
Not that you know that. Or maybe you do and you’re just being nice by not reporting him for staring so much. You are nice. Especially to him. God knows why. On the eye roll at his own expense Sonar catches a glimpse of a box in your hand clutched tightly in a fist.
You notice him noticing and start to fidget a little on your feet. His ear flicks in your direction as the background sound of your heart kicks up in tempo.
“Oh, right, this is for you.” The tiny gift sits in the center of your outstretched palm, delicately wrapped in pretty, navy blue paper that sparkles with snowflakes. It’s the exact shade of Sonar’s blazer. “I thought it would be better—well cause we’re doing gag gifts, or just that you might want to open it before the party?”
It’s a little odd seeing you nervous. You’ve got him all worked up too, excited deep in the pit of his stomach. Something he hasn’t felt since he opened that acceptance letter with the big H monogrammed on the envelope. Sitting in his parents kitchen, thinking of what might be inside.
How it’ll change things forever.
Sonar reaches out a hand slowly and takes the box, ripping the paper at the seams and popping it open on the hinge.
“Holy shit, is that—?”
An earring sits in a jewelry box, shiny, real gold from the looks of it with an intricate engraving. It may have once been a ring, judging on the size. He imagines it will fit perfectly, rubbing an unconscious finger over the empty piercing by the tip of his ear. His old one fell out at some point on his first day in this goddamn office. He never bothered to find a new one.
“Yeah, Mal said you lost yours when I asked,” you murmur, rubbing at the back of your neck. “I found it in one of the vintage stores downtown and had it redone as an earring. Figured it’s kinda hard to find ones that would fit your ears.”
“Wow, thank you,” he offers lamely, admiring the box and ignoring the warm feeling in his belly at the idea of you asking about him. Walking your pretty self all over town to get something he’d want. Making sure it’s just right.
He didn’t even think to get you something, fuck—
“I don’t expect anything back, so don’t sweat it. I just wanted to do something nice,” you say it like you mean it and that’s the worst part somehow.
Four fucking years and a Harvard degree and he can’t even remember to get his office crush a gift on Christmas. Here you are, so fucking perfect and he’s losing it a little more every day. His mother hasn’t called him in over a year.
“It’s perfect,” he says instead and offers the box back to you, gestures towards his ear. “Could you?”
You’ve got this giddy little smile on your face—satisfied with yourself—rocking back and forth a bit when you nod. This close he can smell your perfume, hear the little intake of breath when he bends down so your faces are just inches apart. Gentle fingers skate against the sensitive skin inside his ear when you lean in on your toes to clip the little ring in place.
“It’s cute,” you say, eyes flicking down to his lips.
Holy shit, you’re definitely looking at his mouth. Gaze going up to his and back down again and he can’t be misreading that right? God, he should lean in. He’s done this like a million times, but there’s no smooth pick up lines coming to mind and he can’t fucking figure out what to do with his hands. Why is this so hard now?
Now, when it actually matters.
But his thoughts all slam to a roaring halt a moment later.
And then the world is all peppermint.
The room is reduced to the sharp sugary bite of candy canes when you rest your palms on his lapels and seal your mouths together. There’s nothing but static snow in his ears. You press in closer, lips gliding against his again before pulling away.
“I’m not misreading this, right?” you whisper against him and your breath is all cool like the wind on the opposite coast he’s never been back to but misses every winter.
Sonar’s still stuck trying to think of the last time someone kissed him first and keeps coming up blank. He’s not sure what to do with it. Not sure how to make the second move.
“God no,” he replies when his brain catches up, hands wandering to your waist and pulling you in again, savoring it this time. Enjoying the way you move with him, follow his rhythm, lead him in your own.
You’re really fucking great at this actually, it’s a little dizzying.
He’s got to really reign in the urge to whine when you pull away, force his fingers not to grasp on tighter when you step back and let your hands fall down to your sides.
“So, I’ve perhaps gone a bit out of order here,” you clear your throat, bite at your lip which is so fucking cute he might curl up and die. “But can I take this to mean you might not be opposed to coming as my date to the staff party tonight? Prism decided we should all couple up and I thought maybe—”
“Yes,” Sonar replies, the word just tumbling right off his lips. His hands are fucking shaking. “Yeah, yes I would not be opposed to that at all.”
It sounds just as desperate as he feels and he doesn’t even care. Not if you smile like that.
“Okay,” you breathe out in a rush and do that little bouncing thing on your heels again. “I’m gonna go home and change, then. Pick me up in an hour?”
He just nods dumbly, jaw slack and ear pleasantly heavy with the phantom weight of your fingers. You smile again, and he watches you go until the office wall obscures his view. Until he hears the front door click shut and your footsteps fade away into the parking lot.
Then he stands some more, stares back at the tree and for a split second—probably just a trick of the light—the string of little bulbs has a softer hue. There’s a gentle halo around each fleck of color, warmer and subdued.
Magic.
Just the way it used to be.