#because the world needs another McDanno Hallmark Christmas fic

[goneahead]

here is a (long) bit from one of the three WIPs currently in the hopper. yup, its Hallmark Christmas House Tour AU. um, sorry?

Steve had dragged himself out of bed three times. Twice to let the dogs out, once to feed them. Each time, he’d promised himself he would throw some clothes on, and go work out. Only to find himself crawling back into bed instead.

A cold nose snuffling his ear woke him for the fourth time. He cracked open one eye. “I'm up, OK? I’m up.”

Houston gave a happy woof, while Austin danced around in excited circles.

Steve sat up with a groan, rubbing his shoulder. Fuck. He hated jetlag. Of course 8IA didn’t care—they had scheduled photoshoots in three different countries in the past month. At least he had a few weeks off—and then he had to do some stupid ESPN sport thing in Honolulu.

He got up, dragged on a pair of sweatpants, stumbled to the patio door. Let the boys out, glanced at his watch. Almost eleven o’clock. He padded into the kitchen, started a pot of coffee, and then opened the fridge, because he was starving.

He’d bought groceries last night, but assembling any of it into something edible seemed like a lot of effort. He was still staring at the contents of his fridge, when the sound of scratching at the patio door brought him back to reality.

He went over, let the dogs in—and swore when the doorbell rang. Why was anyone disturbing him on a Saturday—oh shit. The damn interior designer.

And he was in his oldest sweatpants. And nothing else.

Damnit.

For one fleeting second, Steve considered putting on real clothes. Instead he ordered the dogs to stop barking, and padded to the door. He opened it, expecting—well, an interior designer. Instead, there was a short guy, in a dress shirt and slacks, standing on his porch.

Muscular, broad shoulders, blond hair, and blue eyes. Exactly the kind of guy Steve would date—if he was allowed to date.

“Hi. I’m Danny Williams.” Those blue eyes flicked down to the holes in Steve’s sweatpants, back up. “My sister Stella called you yesterday?”

“Uh, yeah.” Steve was really regretting not getting dressed now. He waved the dogs back. “Come in. And don’t mind the dogs. They’re friendly.”

Danny gave him an overly polite smile, stepped inside.

“Would you, uh, like coffee?” He turned around—and realized he’d just dropped his luggage in the hall last night.

“Sure.” Danny followed him, stepping around the luggage. His tone was now hovering somewhere between ‘I’m being professional’ and ‘I’m dealing with a crazy person’. “I’d love a cup.”

So much for making a good first impression.

Steve mentally kicked himself for not remembering the appointment as he headed to the kitchen. At least his kitchen was clean—because he’d ordered a pizza last night and then crashed.

He poured two cups. “You take milk or sugar?”

“Black’s fine.” Danny’s eyes now flicked to the dining room. “So, how long have you owned this place?”

“Nine years.” He started to take a sip of coffee, stopped when Danny gave him an odd look. “Why?”

“I was just—expecting more furniture.”

Steve was about to point out that he had furniture, except—he’d finally gotten rid of his two ridiculously uncomfortable couches several months ago. And he’d been so busy traveling, that he’d never replaced them.

He’d also never gotten around to buying a dining room table, because he normally ate at the kitchen island, or used the table on the side deck.

“I haven’t had a lot of down time.” The excuse sounded lame, even to him.

“Uh huh.” Danny set his mug down. “Have you eaten?”

Steve opened his mouth, but Danny continued talking. “That’s what I thought. You know, the best way to deal with a hangover is to eat something.”

And then he opened Steve’s fridge, and started pulling out various things.

Steve opened his mouth to protest he wasn’t hungover—then closed it because Danny had grabbed a knife from the knife block and a cutting board from the dish drainer, and was now chopping up a tomato.

Very competently chopping up a tomato.

Maybe it was because he was so fucking tired, but Steve was having trouble figuring out what the hell he was supposed to do. The hottest guy he’d ran into in years was doing cooking stuff. In his kitchen.

“I need a bowl.” Danny moved on to chopping up deli meat. “And a pan and a spatula.”

He found himself pulling down a bowl, grabbing a frying pan and a spatula. And setting out a couple of plates and forks.

“Thanks.” Danny pointed the knife toward one of the stools. “I got this. Sit down and drink some coffee. Or better yet, grab some water. Trust me, it’ll help.”

Steve gave up. He grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, and sat down. “Austin, Houston, stay out of his way.”

“It’s OK, I’m used to it.” He finished chopping up everything, began breaking eggs into the bowl. “My sister has a golden retriever who’s always under foot. Whisk?”

“Second drawer to your right.” He tried to ignore how Danny’s biceps flexed as he cracked eggs. “So, uh, how did you become an interior designer?”

“Well, it turns out there are two ways to become an interior designer.” He found the whisk, started mixing the eggs. “One, you go to design school, then you apprentice with someone for a while, before striking out on your own.”

He finished, turned, and put the pan on the stove—and damn, Steve was having a hard time not staring at how Danny’s pants hugged his ass. “Or two, you graduate from the police academy, promise to serve, honor, and protect—only to wake up one day to find yourself picking chintz out of a line up.”

Steve hadn't seen that one coming. “You were a cop?”

“I was. But it’s not the best career choice if you’re a single dad, so—” He shrugged, poured the eggs in the pan. Waved the spatula at the fridge. “I’m assuming that you like pretty much anything but mushrooms?”

Damnit. Of course Danny would be straight. And have a kid.

“I like mushrooms, I just didn’t buy any.” Steve reminded himself that it didn’t matter. As long as he was under contract, he was straight.

“One omelet, with everything but not-bought-mushrooms, coming up.” Danny poked at the eggs with a spatula, then dumped all the stuff on the cutting board directly into the pan. A minute later, he expertly folded the omelet, slid it onto one of the plates.

Houston and Austin watched the entire procedure with great interest.

“Sorry, this is strictly human food.” Danny divided the omelet, placing the bigger half onto the second plate. He set it in front of Steve. “Eat.”

Steve took a bite—and had to suppress a moan. The omelet was fluffy, and full of cheese and ham and tomato. “This is really good.”

“Thanks.” Danny gave him a smile—a real smile. It made his eyes look even more blue.

“So, uh,” Steve shoved in another bite, “do you cook for all your clients?”

“Nope. Just the ones that are hungover,” Danny’s smile widened as he sat down, “and the ones who don’t have any furniture.”

“I’ve been meaning to replace the couches; I’ve just been busy.”

Danny looked at him for a long moment. “Steve, why did you put your home on a Christmas tour? You haven’t finished moving in.”

You haven’t finished moving in.

The words crashed into him like a rogue wave. He’d owned the place for nine years and yet, it just felt like another hotel room. And honestly, his old condo in Honolulu had felt the same way.

Steve hesitated, then went for the truth. “Because Kono kept bugging me. She works at the—”

“—pet store. Yes, I know Kono. Apparently, a condition of my employment is that I have to buy both Christmas and birthday gifts for my sister’s dog.” He waved his fork in the air. “The way I see it, you have two options. You can withdraw from the tour, and then you can spend another nine years trying to find time to buy a couch. Or—you can run up the white flag and let us do it for you.”

Steve finished the omelet, pushed the plate away. Until thirty minutes ago, being in the same room with an interior designer was absolutely the last thing he wanted to do. But maybe hiring somebody—if that somebody was Danny—wouldn’t be so bad. “The Christmas tour’s in three weeks.”

“Trust me, I know. Lucky for you, most people don’t schedule an overhaul of their house during the holidays—so we can squeeze you in.” Danny waved his fork some more. “If you’re interested, I can take some photos and measurements; get you a quote by Sunday or Monday.”

The thought pushed in that if he hired Danny, everything would be done by December 17th. Sure, he would still have to endure the three day Christmas tour, but—he wouldn’t have to worry about buying couches. Or finding time to deal with his half-finished office.

“Earth to Steve?”

“Would $78,000 be enough?” Steve had overhead someone bragging about dropping $78,000 on redecorating their place at the last party he was at. At the time it had seemed an outrageous amount—but he was so damn sick of living in hotel rooms. “To do everything?”

“That would most definitely cover it, yeah. I’m still going to give you a quote, so you’ll know what you’re paying for.” Danny pulled out his phone, checked something. “Any chance that you are free either Monday or Tuesday? The sooner we pick out some furniture, the better. That way, it can be delivered as soon as the painting is done.”

“Monday’s good.” Steve said it quickly, before he could second-guess himself.

“Great—because three weeks doesn’t give us a lot of time.” Danny finished the last bite of omelet, took another swallow of coffee. “OK, why don’t we start by having you give me the grand tour?”

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