tucker’s wanted to kiss someone under mistletoe since he was twelve years old.

he’s never actually seen mistletoe in real life, but it’s in every sappy, made-for-television hallmark christmas movie, and who doesn’t want a socially acceptable opportunity to kiss a hot maybe-stranger practically whenever you want. and maybe, not that he’d ever admit it, but there’s maybe some teeny tiny microscopic part of him somewhere deep inside that swoons whenever the leading couple leans in amidst twinkling lights and probably a crackling fireplace and maybe even a snowy backdrop if they’re really heaping on the cheese factor.

tucker doesn’t even give a shit. he wants all of it.

[but don’t tell church]

and now he’s in a big wooden lodge set in a snowy mountain range, there’s a seven-foot-tall pine tree dripping with baubles and lights in the corner, and if this isn’t the setting for every one of tucker’s christmas-themed pg13 fantasies then he doesn’t know what is.

“i’m gonna get tex to kiss me,” church mutters determinedly into his probably spiked eggnog.

tucker turns from the bay window where he’d been watching the dakota twins dominate in the snowball war fight that had sprung up between them and roughly any hapless soul that happened to be outside. despite being inside, church is bundled in at least two sweaters, and the shapeless mess of wool caboose had knitted for him and called a scarf. his cheeks are a bit flushed and his glasses keep sliding down his nose and honestly if he wouldn’t get punched in the nuts for it tucker would coo and cuddle the fuck out of him.

tucker raises his eyebrows. “well… i mean you guys are dating. it shouldn’t be that difficult.”

church barks out a laugh. “no–i mean in public. she’s not into like… pda and shit. thinks its pointless and immature.”

“so, what? tex doesn’t seem like the type of girl to be suddenly coerced into tongue-fucking your esophagus.”

church pulls a face. “jesus christ tucker no. i don’t want–it’s christmas. i just want to get her into under the mistletoe and,” he trails off, the flush on his cheeks darkening and seriously a douchebag this big shouldn’t be allowed to be this adorable. 

“holy fuck dude you totally want a hallmark movie mistletoe kiss!” tucker crows.

“shut the fuck up, or i swear to god–”

tucker holds his hands up in surrender. “dude, relax! i’m not making fun–for once–i think it’s adorable!”

church squints at him suspiciously before saying, “i honestly think that might be worse.”

“what? no!” tucker claps a hand on his shoulder and gives him a little shake. “i’m only telling you this cause i think you’re a little bit drunk and also because you have no room to argue but i–” he stops, brain backpedaling furiously. “hang on what mistletoe?”

“york brought it,” church says slowly, “what were you going to tell me?”

tucker grips his shoulder tighter. “no that’s not important–york brought actual real life mistletoe?”

“fuck yes that’s what i just said,” church snaps, shrugging his hand off. “it’s hanging in the back of the kit–where are you going?!”

but tucker’s already halfway across the living room, dodging around kai and donut where they’re taking selfies in front of the fireplace, and skidding into the large kitchen. the lights are set low, and the hallway heading towards the back porch is dark so it takes tucker a minute, but as soon as his eyes adjust he spots it.

“holy shit it actually exists,” he says quietly to himself.

just a few green sprigs sprinkled with white berries, dangling in the rear entrance (bow chicka bow wow) of the kitchen. before he can move in for a closer look there’s a commotion from the back and he has to scramble to the side to avoid getting run down by several snowy ex-marines. south is in the lead, glowing with triumph even as she dumps snow with every bound; connie and north close behind–equally snowy, equally triumphant. maine stomps by, growling under his breath, and york trails after him with a despondent look on his face.

“you missed a good fight, blue!” sarge hollers as he drags a sodden caboose into the kitchen.

tucker arches a brow. “is your nose bleeding?”

“of course! you don’t go into a battle without earning some badges of valour!” the man says, before spitting out a tooth.

“i am very cold, and very wet, and very afraid of the blonde lady,” caboose intones solemnly.

“which one?” sarge grumbles as tex saunters through–completely bone dry.

caboose considers this for a moment before replying, “i am afraid of all of the ladies.”

“i think that’s the smartest thing you’ve ever said, son,” sarge chuckles before hauling him off towards the bathroom.

“these people are terrifying,” tucker says to himself.

“aw, c’mon now–we’re not all bad,” a familiar voice teases behind him.

tucker turns, mouth open for what will undoubtedly be a witty, perfectly crafted response, until he chokes on a suddenly dry tongue.

wash is leaning against the door frame as he kicks off his boots and chucks them back towards the mudroom. he yanks his hat off and scrubs a hand through his messy hair to try and tame it into some type of order–spoiler alert: he fails. his cheeks are flushed from the cold and his eyelashes are dark and clumped together with moisture. he’s already shed his jacket at some point and he’s wearing that fucking cashmere sweater carolina got him and it clings to his very climbable shoulders and tucker is going to die he is not prepared for this he’s going to keel over on christmas fuck caboose is going to be traumatized.

“i don’t know you do make my life pretty difficult,” he manages to croak out.

wash laughs [fuck right off] and fluffs his hair again. “well then i guess next year we won’t invite you back here.”

tucker jabs a finger against his chest. “first of all: how dare you–i have made this trip a delight. secondly: this isn’t even your place and i’m ten percent sure south likes me more than you anyways so i’m mostly sure she’d still invite me back.”

“ten percent?” wash smirks as he reaches up and snags tucker’s finger before he can reclaim it. “sure you wanna bet on those odds?”

tucker lightly tugs on his hand but really he doesn’t necessarily want wash to let go anyways so who is he kidding. “well i’m banking on the fact that you definitely like me so that tips things more in my favour.”

it could be the low lighting, but tucker hopes thinks that the flush in wash’s cheeks brightens even as he chuckles. “you’re awfully full of yourself aren’t you?”

“i’d rather be full of you,” because wow tucker has no control of his mouth jesus christ.

wash’s face is definitely red now but a laugh startles out of him so at least tucker hasn’t fucked up yet. he’s watching the lines around wash’s eyes crinkle, and getting distracted by just how many freckles the blonde actually has as he realizes just how fucked he really is.

he’s always wanted to climb wash in an abstract kind of way–before he learned how he likes his coffee, and how many cats he’s fostered in the last couple of years [five]–but over the past six months that generic lust has morphed into- into-

[shit]

he’s opening his mouth to probably make a terrible mistake when there’s a crash from the living room and connie’s tinkling laughter mixed with church swearing voraciously. it startles him enough that he snaps his mouth shut and ignores the faint disappointment lingering on the back of his tongue. he tries to take his hand back while wash is distracted, but the former soldier tightens his grip and grins down at him.

“you’re not getting away that easy after a line like that,” he says, voice low and sending shivers down tucker’s spine.

he smirks. “you gonna hold me to it?”

wash bares his teeth in a smile and tucker’s knees go liquid. “i’d rather hold you to me.”

“holy shit, wash, when did you get game?”

“i’ve always had game,” wash sniffs, “i just didn’t have anyone worth using it on.”

has wash always been this close? he definitely wasn’t that close before because tucker definitely would’ve noticed how soft the grey of his eyes is and the faint scar that draws attention to his upper lip and is he wearing lip balm because they definitely look soft and pink and–

“hey cockbites!”

tucker startles and wash abruptly straightens [was he leaning in? what was he leaning in for? why was he leaning in?] and glares over tucker’s head. “south wha–”

tucker turns to see south cackling where she’s standing at the kitchen counter pouring herself a drink. “pucker up assholes.”

tucker cocks his head, confused, but wash’s hand spasms around his finger and when he turns wash has flushed again, eyes tipped up towards the roof. tucker follows his gaze and his heart trips into overtime because they’re standing under the mistletoe. 

“oh my god i’m starring in my own hallmark movie,” tucker says.

“what?” wash blinks down at him and then squawks when tucker fists his hand in the collar of his sweater and yanks him down.

well he’s definitely not wearing lip balm, tucker thinks. wash’s lips are slightly chapped and cool, moving gently against his. tucker feels a hand slide into his dreads and pull gently to adjust the angle of his head. he steps in closer, pressing their chests together and releasing wash’s sweater to curl a hand at the nape of his neck. something rumbles in tucker’s chest and he realizes it’s wash making a pleased sound that reverberates through tucker’s ribs. his knees quiver but when he leans harder against wash the blonde just sighs gently into the kiss and wraps a steadying hand around tucker’s hip.

someone is distantly cheering and tucker can’t tell if it’s just in his head or his stupid friends and honestly he can’t really be fucked to care. wash nips lightly at his lips and nudges their noses together before drawing back the barest amount. tucker’s eyes flutter open in time to catch wash licking his lips and something pulses in his abdomen. he can feel fingers gently playing where the hem of his shirt has ridden up to expose a sliver of skin and honestly who does wash think he is doing things like this in public this is indecent there are minors around or at least caboose.

wash is grinning down at him when he finally focuses and tucker knows he’s smiling like a lunatic. “how’s that for game?”

tucker snorts, shifting so their hips align, smirking when wash’s breath hitches. “i’m pretty impressed. i’ll probably need to see more to really get an idea of how good it is.”

“hopefully i won’t disappoint,” wash murmurs, ducking down to slide their lips together again.

“boooo, stop tonguing in the kitchen. you’re putting me off my appetite!”

“like anything could put you off your appetite, fatass.”

wash’s breath rushes over his face as he huffs out a laugh and tucker pulls away to glare at grif over his shoulder. “c’mon, we’ll go sit on the porch.”

tucker swivels to stare uncomprehendingly at him. “it’s like negative zero outside dude.”

his heart flutters when wash laces their fingers together and tugs him down the hall with a smirk. “you can sit in my lap if you get cold.”

“oh my god you’re like everything i’ve been asking santa for for years, you can throw out the gift receipt i’m keeping you forever.”

wash blinks, startled and tucker curses his stupid fucking mouth before the blonde breaks into a blinding smile. “you couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”

tucker beams back. “merry fucking christmas to me.”

x

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