[[Author's Notes:
I love you all. Your reviews mean the world to me. :D They're like a fantastic early Christmas present. And I will be offering a very special something to each of you reviewers in my next post, so be on the lookout for that. ;)
Peace, love, and slash,
&hearts, Elske]]
True to his word; Carlton Lassiter is spending his Christmas eve exactly the way he'd told Spencer that he would be - he hasn't started drinking yet, true, but the evening is young. He's just finished his phonecall with Lauren and studiously ignored the call from his mother (and erased the evidence on the answering-machine tape). Meanwhile, he's plopped on the couch, and the true crime channel is playing Dateline and there's nothing Christmassy at all about that, and it's just the way he likes it.
He's almost startled when he hears someone knocking at his door, as if part of him doubted that Spencer would actually show up - as if maybe Spencer might have gotten a better offer somewhere along the lines. But sure enough, it's Shawn Spencer on his doorstep.
"Merry Christmas Eve, Lassydear!" Spencer proclaims, reaching out and pulling Carlton into a hug, right there in the doorway.
"Spencer. Um. You want to come in?"
Spencer gives him a look. "No, I drove all the way over here just to stand outside your house. Be sensible. Oh, and I brought you this," and he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a - slightly emptied - bottle of alcohol. "Eleven fluid ounces of the best scotch I could find on late notice. I was going to pour it into one of those fancy crystal bottles classy people have in their houses, but I didn't think it would survive the trip over here."
Carlton grins. "I used to have one of those." He takes the gift from Spencer, sets it down on an end-table.
"Past tense, Lassy? What happened?"
"If I can't shoot things when I get mad, I break things. It was a bad day. Ever been called collect and then dumped? From jail?"
"Nope. You've got one on me there." Spencer shrugs out of his jacket, kicks off his shoes, and then unbuttons his jeans.
Carlton raises one eyebrow. "What...what are you doing?" he asks, and there's something a tiny bit nervous in his voice.
"Taking off my pants, and I suggest that you do the same." He looks at the frozen expression on Carlton's face, and pouts. "I can't be the only one without pants, that'll be awkward. And how are you supposed to relax while wearing pants? Think back, think about your whole entire life and name one time you've been truly relaxed while wearing pants. I dare you."
Carlton ponders the question, and finds that he has no choice but to agree. "You make a valid point."
"Thank you." Spencer's stepped out of his jeans and stoops to pick them up off of the floor. He folds them carelessly, tosses them over by his shoes. "If you're going commando, you totally reserve the right to make me take these off too," he adds, gesturing to his green boxer-briefs, and Carlton feels himself start to blush.
"No, no, it's fine," and he undoes his belt, unzips his pants, and he can feel the heaviness of Spencer's gaze the whole time.
"Dude, this is the most boring strip-tease ever," Shawn says, with a wink. "Are we not at the watching one another take off clothing stage of our relationship? It's okay, I'll get some glasses for the scotch, or did you break all those too?"
"Cabinet next to the refrigerator," Carlton stammers, and when Shawn's in the other room, he manages to get his pants off, and then he decides that it looks ridiculous to be in worn out boxer shorts and socks and no pants, so he pulls off his socks before curling up, almost defensively, into a corner of the sofa.
"Here we are," Spencer says, passing a glass of scotch to Carlton, sitting very close next to him on the sofa. "What's going on?" he adds, pointing to the television, and Carlton fills him in on what happened in the first half hour of Dateline.
The uncomfortableness passes, rather quickly, Carlton finds: and if you'd asked him a month ago if he'd ever be comfortable pantsless on a sofa drinking scotch with Shawn Spencer, he'd have told you to get your head examined or perhaps threatened to shoot you, but it's funny how life works sometimes. He reaches over and absently begins running his fingers through Spencer's hair; is gratified by the response (a pleased sort of murmuring from the other man, a shifting closer on the couch, an abandoning of an empty glass on the carpeted floor.)
"For the love of Val Kilmer, Lassy, kiss me already," Spencer mumbles, reaching out to take Carlton's empty glass away and discard it next to his. "Please? It is Christmas?"
Carlton blinks for a moment, then shifts his weight abruptly sideways, and then Spencer's flat on his back on the sofa peering up at him and it's really quite breathtaking, the feeling of being wanted. "Since you asked so nicely," he murmurs, with a smile, and leans over to give the other man a chaste peck on the lips.
Spencer mutters something incomprehensible, reaches out and wraps both arms around Carlton, pulling him roughly down on top of him. "I know you can do better than that," he teases, and Carlton obliges.
And so this is Christmas Eve: falling asleep on the sofa with true crime on tv and a bottle of scotch at hand, but this year with extra Shawn Spencer kisses and cuddles to sweeten the deal.
[and on the eleventh day of X-Mas his true love gave to him: eleven (fluid) ounces of scotch, ten chocolate candy kisses, a nine o'clock feature film, eight pieces of pizza, seven cowboy movies, six cherry candy canes, five peanutbutter pancakes, four museum tickets, a three scoop ice cream sundae, two civil war books and a root beer flavoured condom!]