Baby, It’s Cold Outside
John Lennon
5,854 Words
Warning(s) - None
Masterlist
A/N - I combined two festive requests for this one and I see that great minds do think alike... :)
Request One - Could you write something with John and singer!reader who has been a good friend of his, and they have to do a Christmas special? Like, they are doing 'Baby It's Cold Outside', and he dips her. They look at each other's lips for a little too long tee hee. After the show, they get together after John just randomly pulls her into a kiss.
Request Two - Hello! Me again, I loved the figure skating one, thank you so much. Could you now write when where the reader is a famous singer and for a Christmas special she has to sing Baby it’s cold outside with John? But they hate each other at first and then he falls in love with her and throughout the performance he doesn’t follow what they rehearsed and almost kisses her and stuff like that but then in the after party he confesses.
A/N - But, I am sorry about the poor quality writing here :(
“He’s just about your closest friend,” Paul murmured, features coloured with confusion, “You said so yourself.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t want to murder him!” You hollered in immediate response, more acridity to your tone than you had intended. But, you were fatigued and frustrated, and had relinquished control of your feelings long-ago. A glimpse to Paul, however, and you saw that your exasperation had stung. Guiltily, then, you sighed and continued softly, “Our friendship was built on the prerequisite that we would never endeavour to work professionally together.”
Paul refrained from producing a reply, prompting you to continue bellyaching, “Honestly, how you managed to produce five albums with him is beyond me. One song and I’m this close,” and you narrowed your index finger and thumb together.
Now, Paul scoffed, rolling his hazel eyes away, a grimace tugging at his mouth. Quite frankly, on occasion, he wasn’t entirely certain how he had grappled with working alongside John either. He was able to perceive the follow-up complaint that was about to fall from your mouth - another grumble criticising the abysmal bedside-manner of your mutual friend, when a member of the production team craned their head into the backstage room, immediately silencing your brewing lament and he was almost relieved, weary of your humdrum complaining for the day. He would rejoice the day the performance was completed and the three of you might return to normality - when he could resign his role as the middleman tasked with peacekeeping.
A soundcheck was due, apparently, and if the sudden soured expression across your face was anything to go by, you might have just been asked to lick a nettle, as opposed to step onstage alongside an age-old companion. A heave of your chest and you forced yourself to your feet, hurried by the anticipating stare of the production team member and you supposed she was merely ensuring you arrived, the quarrels the team had been subjected to overhearing for the entirety of the morning placing a sense of doubt in the back of their minds - a wispy fear that you might decide to drop the performance altogether.
Dragging your feet from the room, you cast a glance to Paul, weighted with apprehension, “Wish me luck.”
Paul exhaled heavily, catching your line of sight and he recognised the exhaustion slackening your shoulders and he offered a sympathetic smile, inside hoping that John wouldn’t be too harsh. He was already onstage as you pursued the source of your interruption, half-leaning over the piano, shoulder nudging against the pianist slouched atop the stool, index finger trailing the sheet music propped-up. John couldn’t even comprehend stencilled notes on a page, but you assumed that he was instructing a competent pianist how to play. Rolling your eyes away, you sighed wearily and the materialisation of sound split John from his concentration, straightening-up and instinctively casting a half-simper, the gesture neglecting the transitionary strain your relationship was enduring. When you were each invited to perform at the seasonal celebratory production, the initial altercation had arisen over a disagreement concerning which of you might play the piano. Sighting the scarlet steam pouring from John, the sudden despondency of yourself, the production manager had drafted-in another, removing the responsibility from either of you.
“Y/N,” John murmured, “Ready?”
As you passed-by John’s position, you nodded half-heartedly, seeking to convince yourself with the movement, though the effort was futile. Taking-up a guarded stance in front of your microphone, you awaited an indicator to begin.
Half a verse in and you heard John,“Hey - Hey!” He muttered, voice swelling in volume to catch the attention of the pianist and derail his train of thought.
Initially, you were reluctant to glimpse to him, line of sight set on the stage, supposing that he might withhold the sentence forming within the confines of his mind if you refrained from meeting his eye. But, John failed to pause, swivelling to you with a wince, as though he were subjecting himself to true agony by calling-out the additional note you had picked-up in a line. Here was Lennon, an accomplice, one who regularly commended your aptitude as a musician, now implying that your strain wasn’t quite sufficient. A heavy sigh and you nodded in acquiescence, unable to scout the firepower necessary for a scathing retort - you hadn’t gained a note, you knew, but John was an individual capable of ribboning those who challenged him, companionship providing ineffectual protection.
A signal cast towards the pianist and the rehearsal resumed. At the closing line, John half-swivelled in your direction, though his prepared sentence was seemingly swallowed away as you flashed him fierce eyes, rankled expression daring him to say something critical. Supposing he sought to retain his head upon his shoulders, he remained entirely unspeaking. The opportunity for shared conversation, however, was lavished by the approach of the performance director - he had almost stumbled over his own feet in his desperation to reach the stage, perhaps recognising an apt occasion for bickering to erupt. On the very afternoon of the upcoming production, an altercation was a most undesirable outcome. Hauling himself onto the raised platform, he drew his hands together, “That was absolutely fantastic!”
It was a barely-there compliment, at least when set against the praise The Supremes had once hailed you with, but after the persistent negativity John had been subjecting you to as of late, the fleeting display of veneration bettered your soured demeanour, lifted your features with a slight smile. Beneath your stare, the director cast a glimpse to the stage wings and at the furrow of his brow, you spared a glance, revealing onlooking musicians, apparently awaiting their own rehearsal slot. Then, there was a review of his wristwatch and the crease folded into his forehead remained, “It’s high time you two went and got ready, doors open soon,” and the affirmation tempted the maiden signs of stress to smudge his features.
Distracted, the director brushed-by, nearing the tarrying minstrels and you thieved an observation of John, only to discover that his eyes were already tied to your position. An instinctual softening of your features and you were looking upon the proprietor of your heart for a while, the exasperation that had been pulsing through your veins for six days straight seemed to ease. The advance of other musicians onto the stage, guitars straps slung over shoulders, the tremble of a snare drum, conveyed the critical soundcheck, shattering the shared moment as you made to move away. Expecting John to follow, your step faltered, before you spied him ensnared in conversation with a stagehand, prompting you to shift away, your dressing-room at the forefront of your thoughts. You hoped that Paul had decided to stick around so he might keep you company for a while, but an elbow into the space he had been abandoned revealed his disappearance. Not that you could fault him, you were feeling drained from hearing yourself grousing too.
Perhaps, you would politely request a radio to save yourself from an hour, at least, of agonising quiet. The intention, however, was mislaid at the sight of your outfit selected for the performance strung-up on a coat-hanger in the corner. A garnet gown meant to embrace Christmastime and maybe, John would have a merry tie to match, surely you had mentioned the garment enough to warrant it. Taking the silken material in hand, you felt the flutter of your chest - for all of John’s bemoaning, you were thrilled at the opportunity to perform alongside him. Combine the dress, plucked from your dreams, a heartwarming charity concert, and Loesser’s ‘Baby, It’s Cold Outside’ and your enthusiasm had you lowering yourself to the stool strewn in front of the dressing-table to begin preparation.
Between perpetual blows against your dressing-room threshold, which had you peeling yourself from the task at hand to greet the familiar faces on the other side, and the wandering of your thoughts, when you had at last applied your make-up, wrangled your hair into some sort of orderly fashion, and slipped-on your gown, you were seemingly pressed for a spare moment. Within the confines of your dressing-room, you felt secure, comfortable without the prying eyes of press photographers, but, beyond the entranceway, you knew, just about everyone backstage would be dressed to the nine. Besides, if you refrained from shifting soon, John would undoubtedly wander into trouble.
John, it appeared, had already stepped from his own dressing-room just along the corridor, and was currently loitering in the sprawling backstage area, set-aside from the assemblies of fellow performers, overlooking the welcoming eyes being cast his way. Rather, he slouched, his features contorted, indicative of an individual castaway in thought. Drawing your dressing-room to a close, fingers clutching the door-handle, your line of sight trickled over his figure - he was familiar in his pressed trousers and shirt, jacket tugged-on, orderly, though undoubtedly his top-button was undone. If Paul was here, he would instinctively thread the button through. The view of a sangria tie tempted a half-smile to your mouth, relieved that he had been listening after all. Almost reluctant to interject on his contemplations, you progressed towards his position unhurriedly, pausing to make cordial conversation with the company loitering in the corridor, before you drew-up at his side, hand tenderly taking-up a place upon his forearm in gentle greeting. Immediately, his eyes flickered upwards, though not without stealing a glimpse of your attire - he never was apt at concealing the wayward wander of his vision. Upper-lip peeling backwards, he offered a sweet smile, at odds with the currant sheen that mottled his cheeks, and the boyish appearance ought have had you teasingly swatting his hand. But, John received a reserved a simper instead, causing his chest to tighten as he recognised the consequences of his painstaking request for musical perfection.
Beneath the weight of John’s stare, you grew increasingly uncertain of yourself, retracting your hand, line of sight shifting away, shoulders intending to follow, though John abruptly extended an arm. Unexpectedly, his callused fingers caught your chin, checking your retreat, rather guiding your attention to him once more. Unable to forestall yourself, you screwed-up your features in a sort of daft expression and to an onlooker, you must have appeared absurd - John Lennon propping-up your chin, whilst you tendered a featherbrained countenance, each of you garbed in fancy materials. A languid chuckle rattled John’s chest, but his features quickly straightened and he sighed, “Y/N,” and the momentary cheer you displayed seeped away before his eyes, “Are you ready?”
You scoffed, rolling your eyes away, withdrawing from his grasp and snagging sight of the nearing member of the production team, only to pray that they were about to gather you, preferably before you walloped John about the ear. A polite murmur of your name, John’s too, and he proffered the two-minute stage-call, directing you both towards the wings. An arm extended across the way leading to the stage, securing your position and from your spot, you were able to hear the audience, laughter erupting as the comedian onstage recited a wisecrack. You observed as he strolled the length of the platform and another minute, and he mumbled your name, and John’s, spoken into his microphone in hand, before he bowed once, twice, and ducked from view. Brushing-by your shoulder, the comedian was beaming, exhilarated by the audience, nodding in your general direction, before someone led him into the bowels of the backstage area. With John behind, his chest only inches from your back, you heard his sudden intake of breath as the individual blocking your way withdrew, indicating for you to lead-on.
Stepping into vision, the audience flared and the familiarity of such an outburst of noise, low-whistles and wailing, brought comfort, effectively quenching the apprehension that had been beginning to pool within your stomach. John had drawn-up in front of his microphone and you filched a glimpse of him, admiring the toothy smile the onlooking crowd had exposed. Despite The Beatles hardly being able to hear themselves perform generally, you knew that he was most joyous when atop the stage, sharing his music with the masses and to spy him evidently so content made your chest fuzzy. Beneath the watchful eyes of the audience, there wasn’t a spare moment for another introduction, the broadcasting schedule was strict and it required a haphazard clang of the piano keys by your pianist to force quiet over the audience so you might begin. You glanced over to him, seated and flashed him a gracious expression, a suitable indicator for him to slip into the opening bar of your selected song.
‘Baby, It’s Cold Outside’ was sine qua non in households celebrating Christmastime and as the familiar tune materialised, the volume of the audience briefly increased threefold, cheers and hurrahs meeting your ears. The sudden gale sent your line of sight to John once again; in truth, he appeared peculiar without his Rickenbacker slung over his shoulder and you sympathised, feeling vulnerable without a piano to cower behind. Mustering the courage to master the first line was the greatest challenge, you knew, the responsibility worsened by the nation’s attachment to the ballad. With eyes still trained on John, stealing assurance from the sight of him, you levelled your breathing, securing ahold over your nerves to carol, “I really can’t stay.”
Glancing over his shoulder, John met your eye and nodded his head, so slight in movement that it would have passed entirely unnoticed to the audience, but it uplifted you, forming as a silent assurance that you sounded divine. Heartily, he followed through, “But, baby, it’s cold outside.”
Then, you were unable to repress a delighted beam, so broad it caused your jaw to ache, whilst your gaze traced the audience. The crowd was only visible beneath the shadow of the stage lighting if you strained your eyes and you wondered who was out there - famous faces, no doubt, celebrities who had partaken in the auction for a table, and the uncertainty seemed to make your smile broaden. On stage, time, as you knew it, had a nasty habit of slipping-by entirely unnoticed - so hewn into your head, lyrics would fall from your mouth without a twinkling of conscious thought and here, it was only as you initiated the fourth verse that you acknowledged the speed with which the song was sliding away from you. The realisation brought an abrupt resolve to embrace the moment, to ingrain the sights and sounds into your recollections.
From the edge of your vision, you found John and saw that his expression was cheerful too, instantly, the frustration that you had been accumulating turned wispy, scattering, leaving you staring at your companion without an ounce of ill-feeling. Perhaps, your adoration of John was immeasurable, stretching far beyond friendship, but such inharmonious feelings were weightless right now, merely grateful to have the meagre opportunity to perform alongside him, even if it encroached on every principle your friendship had been founded upon. He was shifting behind his microphone, seemingly unable to remain entirely unmoving, a consequence of not having a guitar to preoccupy his hands, you supposed, overlooking his fidgeting.
Then, John was unexpectedly close, shoulder nudging against your own. He had pried his microphone from the stand and waltzed the way to your side, all whilst he sang, “Mind if I move in closer.”
Gosh, he was slippery and fortunate - he never would have intentionally approached as he happened to report such lyrics, he just possessed an ability to land on his feet. Still, you couldn’t quite fault him for it.
Harmonising an emotive, “But, baby, it’s cold outside,” you were almost sufficiently astonished as John seized ahold of your hand without warning, to fall away, silent in astonishment. Wide eyes flickering to him, though he refrained from ever peeling his sight from the crowd, acting with such collectedness that it was as though the offhand movement had been preplanned. Yet, such an act hadn’t occurred in any rehearsal and there definitely hadn’t been any choreography, in fact, you figured you would plant your feet on on a single spot and sing. John clutching at your fingers wasn’t exactly a fresh experience, one of you was often tugging at the other, but atop the stage, beneath the observation of the audience, it would certainly stir several speculating articles in the morning paper. But, his hand was warm and heartening and you didn’t mind, growing valiant as to pluck your microphone free too, granting you movement over the platform.
For dramatic emphasis, you even stole a step away from John as you protested, “I simply must go,” endeavouring to reject the gentleman’s advances.
“But, baby, it’s cold outside,” John retorted, using his grasp of your hand to abruptly pull you close, nearer than you had each been previously, though on this occasion, you willed yourself to focus upon the audience, refusing to reveal an inch of your surprise to John.
The unfurling scene on the stage appeared as innocent entertainment to the audience - two bickering adults, each acting in an excessively melodramatic manner. Following the subsequent verse, you sought to reason, “My sister will be suspicious.”
Then, John acted lightening-fast, extending his arm to wrap about your waist, immediately swivelling you, slowing only when you were facing one another, precariously little distance between you. The lyrics were imprinted into your thoughts and you knew just the line that was to come, though there wasn’t an opportunity in which you might prepare for the lowering of John’s stare, threatening as it fell to your mouth, dressed-up in scarlet sheen. “Gosh, your lips look delicious.”
Perhaps, John had improved on the acting expertise he showcased in The Beatles movies and had merely taken to method acting, or, there was something he hadn’t yet informed you of. Your easy-going expression faltered, murmuring about your brother, thoughts dusky with John. He wasn’t quite finished shifting yet, it seemed, folding forward, a hand pressing against your back to support you as he effortlessly dipped you low, your fingers desperately hooking onto his shoulders, horrified that he might stumble. This definitely wasn’t scheduled, if you had known, you surely would have objected, but, right now, John was lilting about your lips and, still doubled-over, there was no doubt that he was preoccupied with your pretty mouth, leaving you feeling more than flustered.
John kept you in position for a far greater amount of time than was proper and it was positive fact that there would be discussion over the matter during the morning headlines. Righting you, gently guiding you upwards with a tender grasp, as though he hadn’t just acted as he had, you stepped away in faultless characterisation, asserting, “I’ve got to get home.”
You were treading deep water now, retreating to John again, placing a tenderhearted hand upon his shoulder, admitting, “You’ve really been grand,” and Lord knows, he had, you might witness The Beatles perform on a million occasions and still be awestruck at the sight of John.
It seemed that, for his brassy, boyish nature, former Teddy Boy and all, John was momentarily unmanned by your display of coquettish courage. Whilst your gentle touch paled against his daunting sweeping of your feet, it nevertheless conveyed the coy essence of Loesser’s seasonal ballad and to any onlooker, it appeared as another detail in meticulous choreography. “There’s bound to be talk tomorrow,” you sighed, and there most definitely was.
With shoulders almost flush, identical simpers shading your features, you concluded with flawless harmony, “Baby, it’s cold outside.”
Even the bow you each performed, painstakingly conscious of the restricted schedule, was enacted in unison, before you each righted and raised an arm, waving to the audience, relishing the raucous that the motion elicited. The response was overwhelming and you were relieved, slightly rattled by John’s off-the-cuff movement, though it appeared that the crowd found entertainment in the phantom choreography. Assuaged by the reaction, you might have marched from the stage right away, head whirring and chest heaving, had John not recognised your intention and seized your fingers between his own, delivering you from significant humiliation. It was your responsibility to invite the performance director onto the stage to wrap-up the evening and fortunately, John, at least, had remembered, even if the task had been dislodged from your own contemplations. Graciously, he thanked the audience, before he trailed into silence, glimpsing to you in anticipation and, as though you hadn’t almost overlooked the commitment, you beckoned the individual behind the entire production onto the stage.
The gentleman trotted near, inclining his head in your direction, before his attention switched to the onlookers, querying in jest, “How wonderful was that? John Lennon and Y/N Y/S/N!” And he flashed an authentic beam across the stage, quietly liberating you each from your positions, granting you access to withdraw backstage.
Then, you were in the lowlight of the backstage area, faintly aware of the rapture of the production team, tapping you on the back, offering commendations on your performance. There materialised murmurs expressing just how enthralling the act had been - an impeccable conclusion to the production and in the commotion, John drifted away, seemingly snagged by a newspaper reporter. Certainly, there would be another journalist after your own account, but you were swift to duck from the space, desperate for your dressing-room, requiring a moment to catch your breath after the unforeseen developments of the evening.
A tottery stroll down the corridor, feeling unsteady on your heels, giddy even, you were conscious of eyes on you, supposing that each set had witnessed your perilous performance. Yet, everyone beamed and brought their palms together, querying whether you would be found at the subsequent after-show function and on each occasion, you confirmed, racking-up a long list of people to meet at the gathering. Reaching your dressing-room, you cracked the entranceway wide and slipped inside, limbs trembling, vision quivering as though you were highly intoxicated, despite having had only stolen sip of champagne to drink. The inebriation was a result of John, there was little doubt, but just precisely what he had been doing, you weren’t sure. Years of friendship and all of a sudden, entirely out of the blue, he was pulling you unfathomably close, dipping you, staring unceremoniously at your mouth, all beneath the watchful eyes of an audience, serenading you with a coy number, trying to tempt you to waste the night alongside him. Muddled and topsy-turvy was an understatement of your emotions.
Though, the moment was certainly electrifying - John’s hands cupping your waist, his chest brushing against your own, the material of his tie grazing against your collarbone. Perhaps, it was a charade to secure the front-page of every newspaper and the consideration scalded, but even so, even if the performance was the only moment of such explicit closeness with John you would receive in your lifetime, you would cherish the memory.
Here, you lowered yourself onto the dressing-table stool, instinctively reviewing your appearance in the mirror, apprehensive that you might reveal smudged makeup, or such like, to sour your buoyancy. But, you were entirely unchanged, excluding the cerise flush clinging to your cheeks, but John was responsible for that. As soon as you began to believe that he had been nudged from your thoughts, he ambled-in once more and you were again musing over the passion that appeared to overwhelm him. An effort to address his terrible bedside-manner he had been subjecting you to, maybe, or, the dreamy, teenage rosy-glasses not quite abandoned in youth, hoped, it was a result of true sentiment. Folding forward, you settled an elbow upon your knee, chin shifting to rest on your fist and, dressed-up in your garnet gown, you appeared absurd as the threshold suddenly split open and someone stepped into the dressing-room. Raising your line of sight and you found a familiar face sauntering inside, it was Paul, garbed in a suit, seemingly having observed the entire performance from one of the tables, indulging in champagne and mindless chatter. As he caught sight of you, still slouched in your peculiar position, replicating a great Greek mislaid in thought, and he smiled, arching his eyebrows into flight.
He paused in the doorway, leaning a shoulder against the frame and teased, “Well, I haven’t seen John, you murder him after that display?”
A simper slackened your mouth, hand falling away from propping-up your chin, gaze flickering briefly onto the carpet underfoot and you shook your head. “I haven’t seen him,” you sighed, features still soft, until you truly acknowledged Paul’s chaffing expression and your tone turned stern, “Did you know that was going to happen?”
Sighting your brow, creased with accusation, Paul held-up his palms, protesting his innocence in the movement, though you decided that his jeering beam was suspicious. But, he purloined the opportunity for disputing the matter, concern edging into his eyes, “Anyway, what’re you doing in here? You not comin’ to the party, you’re the star of the show, love.”
“Right,” you murmured. Of course, you had dipped to the dressing-room to level your breathing, to collect yourself and try to dislodge the blush that had spread as far as your chest, exposed by your dress, but you wouldn’t dare confess such a thing to Paul. So you stood, relieved to feel more stable in your heels, and evaded providing an answer, instead straightening your dress and gesturing towards the entranceway. “Lead the way, McCartney.”
Paul smirked, before he pushed himself from the doorframe, crooking his arm as he did so, offering it for you to take. With a hand resting in crease of his elbow then, he guided you from the safety of the dressing-room, making for the after-party, surely now swinging after your few minutes hidden away. The dressing-room, however, seemed only to have offered a foothold for nerves to fill and you were unsure how John might react to you after the performance. You were thick as thieves, often flirting, but the production certainly crossed all boundaries of friendship and you sincerely hoped it wasn’t merely a shallow spectacle for the audience, your heart was too invested for such agony.
The sound of the function underway gave it away before you caught sight of it - a troop of musicians performing live, a rendition of Chuck Berry seeping from the hall, before you encountered the first gaggle of guests, all twittering to one another. At your approach, they glimpsed your way, extending greetings and admiring expressions. With Paul at your side, you knew that you would happen upon John sooner rather than later, Paul already casting searching glances into the mass of people swarming the space and more than likely, John was scouting for him too. Honestly, if ever you sought one of them, you need only seize the other and they would materialise soon enough.
Through the legion of people you advanced, seemingly unable to locate John and the number of invitations sent your way from people insisting on buying you a drink was increasing with every step and you considered peeling away from Paul to find entertainment in the other guests, presuming that John would appear eventually. But, perhaps spying your fading dedication to the search, recognising that he was about to lose you amongst the horde, a hand slipped around your waist. You were already preparing to chastise the audacity of the individual responsible for acting so primitive, when your tearing gaze, hastened by your choler, revealed that John had strayed near. Upon spying your blistering expression, he beamed boyishly, not bothering to retract his arm, whilst you stalled the fierce words about to tear from your throat. At last, Paul discerned the materialisation of his companion and welcomed him, exchanging talk concerning the performance, though some unspoken conversation seemed to be occurring and you made a note to grab Paul by the collar later in the evening and curse him for allowing you to enter the stage, entirely unaware of John’s scheme. Albeit that he had witnessed the performance, was conscious of the tension dripping from both John and yourself, Paul appeared unwilling to shift from your company, quite content conversing with either of you, even in the venue crawling with other celebrities. Whilst you admired him for it, were gladdened that he held your friendship in such high esteem, you almost wanted to scream, desperate to have a minute alone with John.
“Hey,” Paul muttered after a moment of quiet, his line of sight trailing to the bartender across the way, “You two want a drink?”
Engaging your mouth with greater haste than your brain, you expressed a firm yes, seizing the opportunity to encourage him to step away. It seemed, however, that you weren’t entirely isolated in your desperation, for at the very same moment, John had nodded, conceded that he would appreciate a drink too. Perhaps, John was genuinely thirsty, or, he was simply sending Paul on his way, but he acknowledged the request and shifted, at last granting you a spell with John.
Determined to overlook the possibility of embarrassment, you attacked the chance for speech as soon as Paul withdrew, swivelling to John with arched eyebrows, “Was I sufficient for you, Lennon?”
Whilst your tone was intentionally brash, your features were relaxed enough to tell John that you were merely talking in jest. He feigned careful contemplation for a fraction of a second, creasing his forehead with thought, nose screwing-up, before he revealed a smile. You knew that he would never entirely realise how terribly he had acted as of late, but he possessed an irritating ability to have you mislaying any ruffle he might have caused. In truth, John had almost refrained from stepping within half a metre of you onstage, horrified that he might make a mistake, or embarrass you, damaging your friendship. But the sight of you in your fitted frock, frightfully talented as you serenaded him so coquettishly, had tipped him over the crest of the cliff. He had been endeavouring to wrangle an array of conflicting emotions into order for a while, apprehensive to skip-over the border of friendship, alarmed that you wouldn’t replicate his affection. When he considered it, he had passed such a significant amount of time with you, how exactly was he supposed to not fall for you he wasn’t sure. Now, he wasn’t much of a romantic, not really, but he certainly sought something more than the meagre relationship you shared at the moment, which had him feeling unsatisfied, agitated that you might discover another.
Here, beneath his stare, you sighed, seemingly satisfied with his smile as sufficient reply and he observed as your head turned away, attention wandering, whilst your fingers lifted to the unbuttoned front of his jacket, taking the material in hand as to ensure that he remained near, fearing that if you let go and looked away, he would disappear. Firstly, he wasn’t opposed to the graze of your fingertips, perfectly content to have you hooked into his side. But, more significantly, there were very few occurrences that would pry him from you and never would he willingly leave, but he supposed you didn’t quite know that. So, with the hand still wrapped about your waist, he gently squeezed your side, immediately levering you from your thoughts and you flashed your eyes to him, silently querying what he desired.
He was astonished that you weren’t hauling him over the coals after the performance, aware that he probably deserved a grilling. Perhaps, you were reluctant to encroach the subject, but he was brazen, famed for being stalwart, and wasn’t prepared to give-in to something as fickle as sentiment. Besides, your gentle eyes were begging him and, if he was interpreting the sight incorrectly, they had such kindness pooled within them that he was reassured that you would forgive his misdeed if he wrongly overstepped. So, he suddenly bent forward, his intentions broadcasted by the lowering of his line of sight towards your lips, which had enraptured him onstage and now, were just as appetising. The shifting of your hands, each grasping a fistful of his jacket, told him that you sought this too and he closed-in, mouth meeting yours and for half a moment, you might have been the only pair in the room, the venue melting away as you each poured your heart out for the other. John was blissfully balmy, his fingertips digging into the flesh of your waist, his chest pressed against your own, so close that you were convinced he would be able to feel the hammer of your heart from behind your ribcage.
The embrace was entirely unforeseen, you swivelling in response to his touch, assuming that he was about to form leisurely chatter, but here you were, mouth firm against his own, almost sinking into one another. Perhaps, morally, you ought to have been opposed - this was your closet companion, but you couldn’t quite bring yourself to care, you had been wanting this for seemingly so long. Reluctantly, he eventually withdrew, eyes flickering to your face to ascertain your response - he was aware that you hadn’t pulled away, but even so, he was apprehensive that he might find distaste in your features, maybe you would berate his out-of-the-blue affection and clout him. To his relief, you appeared passive - overcome with neither wrath, nor sheer delight, merely stalled with shock. Then, you seemed to tug yourself together again, sufficiently enough to muster a small smile, head falling forward onto his shoulder, whilst your hands wound around his back, finding solace against his shoulder-blades.
From your shifting, his mouth fell near your ear and you heard his soft sight of content and you considered the possibility that perhaps he had been harbouring a similar sentiment as you, maybe for just as long. His wavering exhale was uncharacteristically serene - he was ever picking-up women and yet, now he appeared genuinely relieved, and you supposed that stepping over well-established boundaries with your friend was more daunting than taking home a groupie would ever be. With fingers tracing shapes over his jacket, you sought to soothe him, reassure him that you weren’t opposed to developing your relationship, that you were astonished certainly, but not angry. Loesser most definitely deserved your appreciation for ever putting pen to paper to produce ‘Baby, It’s Cold Outside,’ and seemingly, bringing John and yourself together. Hell, it was mightily cold outside and John’s house was a whole lot nearer than your own; maybe he would try to tempt you home with him, and you wouldn’t put up half the fight of Loesser’s wife.