Work Text:
the richmond network station had, arguably, always been the brightest building on the boulevard.
from floodlit billboards sporting virginia’s golden boy of television with his signature, ‘trust us with your news!’ slogan painted in swooping letters beneath a million-watt smile, to the glittering charts and approval ratings their broadcasts toppled at breakneck speed. fluorescent, dazzling, and blinding all at once; a rising neon lightshow born from brick and mortar.
but tonight, channel six was aglow.
the studio was bursting with tinsel and wreaths in every corner, with velvet ribbons and stockings hanging off cameras and teleprompters—to which the executives graciously turned a lenient eye. tinkling laughter bubbled all around; delight and joy audibly likening themselves to the festive sparkle of champagne.
and there, in the middle of it all, amidst a sea of staff and crew, was none other than the network’s rising star.
whittman, comma, vincent.
he was dressed in a horrendous sweater poorly embroidered with holiday-themed sharks (but knowing him, he probably thought it was the most fabulous thing in the world) and a vivid red santa hat that was a hair away from slipping off his head. his smile was crooked, uncharacteristically genuine, high against the flushed apples of his cheeks, and—oh. he was definitely hammered.
you eye him warily from across the room as the switchboard and makeup girls tittered and giggled around you, cheap wine sloshing from their glasses while they animatedly gossiped among themselves. as you trace the rim of your goblet and allow the alcohol to settle into your palate, the commotion of the party and the girls’ voices quieted into a faded noise. but even through the mild cacophony of your thoughts, bits and pieces of the scopes they exchanged still permeated your ears.
cindy from HR has a thing for the studio director’s son. one of the secretaries, dottie, got engaged recently. the microphone guy—was it gary?—yeah, gary, got hitched vegas-style to a chick from maryland. and those greasers from light and sound production—arthur and lewis—apparently, they’re long lost brothers. seriously? oh, but, you know, word around the studio these days is that mr whittman has been awful sweet on assistant producer (name) recentl—wait, what?
immediately, you snapped out of your daze. but before you could stammer out an indignant retort in denial, an inebriated call of your name rang from across the room.
“speak of the devil,” someone from reception giggled.
you threw the girl a withering look before turning your attention to the main source of your grievances all night.
vincent’s heterochromatic eyes lit up when they met yours from across the room. he opened his big mouth once again, probably to call you over, but you unamusedly turn around to pour yourself another glass of wine, downed it, then promptly excused yourself to the ladies’ room.
the staff’s collective laughter roars behind you.
ooh man, he would not be happy about that.
—
you note how maintenance had gone out of their way to change the ivory to gingerbread shaped soap. the scent of cinnamon and cocoa butter seeps into the air, settling into your lungs with its intended, comforting holiday touch.
your hands find the pressed linen of the hand towel as you study yourself in the mirror. pleased, a small swell of pride surges within you when you notice how your rouge and hairspray were still intact.
after a deep breath of air to attempt regaining your balance and a sliver of sanity, you straighten your collar, dust off your skirt, and open the bathroom door with a firm grip—
only to be met with a sprig of mistletoe shoved in your face.
you shriek. loud.
“son of a—” you register just who exactly is standing in front of you. “vincent!”
he peeks from behind the evergreen and gives you a dopey smile. “hi.”
your hand smacks against his shoulder in indignation, to which he responds with a yelp. “wha- hey!”
“you startled me, you idiot!” you scold. “did you seriously follow me all the way to the ladies’ room?”
with all the seriousness that a disastrously buzzed man could muster, he replies, “yes.” he holds up the mistletoe again like it would explain everything.
“...what.”
vincent grins widely—you recognise it as his infamous showmanship grin. “it's christmas! festivities, baby.”
as if to prove his point, he punctuates it with a round of jazz hands. the mistletoe and bourbon in his intoxicated grip jostle with every movement, consequently causing a bit of whiskey to slosh over the crystal. he jumps back with a curse under his breath as the liquor narrowly misses his slacks.
you want to be mad at him. really, you do.
but as you watch him fumble over himself, gingerly stepping away from the spill and scrunching his nose to push up his spectacles—knowing that this silly boy came all the way out here, away from the party and the crowd he loved so much, just to seek you out and steal a kiss—you find it impossible.
an impossible feeling for an impossible boy.
you feel a smile begin to betray your willpower, but dignity bites it back.
“vinny,” you start, sighing. “you're drunk.”
he blinks at you.
once. twice.
then he pouts.
“i know.” his bottom lip juts out. “but i still wan’ to kiss you.”
you flush, but do your best to will it away as you stiffly pat him on the shoulder. “come back when you're sober, honey.”
he gapes at you, lips parting as if to retort, before closing it. his eyes go unfocused as he stares, like he’s trying to comprehend your audacity to shoot him down. you find it funny how he looks like a fish.
before vincent could knit his resolve back together through his drunken stupor, you turn on your heel and throw him a grin over your shoulder as you make your way back to the party. “behave, whittman, and i’ll think about it.”
you bite back a laugh as you hear a despairing, slurred, “nooooooo,” behind you.
—
you were being half-serious when you told him to come back sober.
for the past twenty minutes, vincent has been trying to not make it obvious that he’s trailing behind you, still clutching that stupid mistletoe in hand. he hasn’t touched another glass of bourbon since the hallway.
you momentarily tear your gaze from the switchboard girl you were talking to and fix it over her shoulder, eyes narrowing at the damn fool, who quickly looks away and pretends he hadn’t just been pleadingly staring holes into the side of your face.
from there on, it’s a game of cat-and-mouse.
you bid the switchboard girl a merry christmas and a “see you later”, then move on to a bunch of the camera operators—partly to catch up with them, mostly to test the idiot.
true enough, he smoothly slinks to the flock of technicians behind you, charming his way into their conversation. after all, as tipsy as he might have been, he was still the vincent whittman.
you spend about five minutes with the cameramen, then politely excuse yourself to seek out your fellow producers. predictably, vincent follows suit about a minute and a half later, finding a crowd near yours once again.
this bitch.
he keeps it up for about fifteen more minutes before giving up the act entirely and just starts following you like a lost child. he hovers close whenever you switch between groups, letting his charisma overshadow his blatant display of wanting your attention—obvious only to the two of you.
vincent laughs, jokes, and skillfully adds on to your witty remarks with clever quips of his own.
he still hasn’t let go of the mistletoe.
“HR sure outdid themselves with the decor this year,” one of the light engineers comment, snorting into his brandy. “might give me a run for my money. the place is blazin’.”
you snicker, squinting up at the christmas lights strung across the rigs. “way too bright, if you ask me.”
“not quite as bright as the company i’m keeping.” vincent makes a show of winking, propping a hand on his hip as he leans one arm on the table. he fiddles with the leaves of the plant he’s refused to loosen his grip on, playfully nudging you with his elbow.
you decide to humour him, slipping a hand around his bicep. “sure you didn’t rehearse that one in the mirror, golden boy?”
the staff doesn’t give him time to retort. playful, drawn out ooh’s rise from throughout the little group, and one of the script clerks pipe up with a teasing, “should we get you a room?”
a slight red flush creeps up vincent’s neck, but he pointedly ignores the staff’s giggling, craning his neck to look down at you as he replies to your earlier question. “that? not exactly.” he tries not to let his self-assured smirk wobble into a goofier, delighted grin—and fails spectacularly. “you know that spontaneity is my specialty.”
“but,” he continues, straightening his posture and raising his arm to dangle the mistletoe over your heads once more, “i may have been practicing this one all night.”
a wave of cheers and whoops of ‘attaboy, vince!’ flood the air. out of the corner of your eye, you see one of the errand boys point his brownie hawkeye at the two of you, preparing to angle a shot.
“well?” vincent grins at you, suggestively wiggling the mistletoe. “gotta give the people what they want, sweetheart.”
you hum thoughtfully, turning to face him fully. he shifts his arm, untangling your grasp from it and sliding his hand around your waist with a gentle kind of slowness.
“perhaps,” you reply, trailing your hand up to find his. vincent flexes and lowers his fingers, thinking that you were trying to hold him, but you quickly snatch the mistletoe out of his grasp instead. you smirk, continuing to hold it mid-air. “but only if it’s on my terms, loverboy.”
your other hand finds the collar popping out of his christmas sweater and you swiftly tug him down, capturing his lips in the kiss he’s spent the whole night grovelling for.
his knees nearly buckle, and he all but melts into your mouth; a soft, pleased noise echoing from the back of his throat into yours.
the cheers only grow louder.
you faintly register the blinding flash of a kodak camera from behind your eyes, but the sensation of vincent lowering his hand from your hair to the cusp of your neck to pull you in closer, and the tender yet desperate press of his lips to yours—completely drowned out the rest of the world and everything else that came with it.
your whole universe zeroed in to nothing but him.
when you break for air, vincent’s glasses are lopsided and fogged, his usually pristine hair falls over his dazed eyes, and the smudge of your lipstick staining the left side of his mouth finishes off the whole debauched look.
you take a moment to admire your work. he looks good.
whistles pierce the air, but you pay them no mind. “happy?” you ask, breathless. you're smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.
he takes a moment—a heartbeat, really—like he's memorising just how breathtaking you look. as electric blue and forest green immortalise you in this moment forever, framing you in the soft glow of christmas, his breath catches in his throat.
vincent’s lips twitch and spread into a wide smile that lit up his whole face, dazzling and incandescent as the lights that would one day bear his name.
he presses his forehead to yours and brushes the bridge of your nose with his own.
“bewitchingly.”