Logan Winters leaned back in his chair and considered jumping from the seventh floor of his office building.

Christ, this meeting was boring.

A trip to the A&E could only spice things up. Who knew what he'd find? A man with crushed ribs from a Christmas tree accident. A woman with burnt fingers after reaching for the mince pie tray without oven mitts. It really was the best time of year for it.

Across the table, Kate's eyes narrowed.

Don't you dare, she mouthed, her eyes flicking to the door.

Logan grinned. Kate would be well mad if he just glided out the door, leaving her to the mercies of their editor, Jim Banks. Hell, maybe that was incentive enough. He always fancied Kate more when she was angry with him.

Logan mimed choking himself to death. Kate's lips twitched.

His phone buzzed.

Idiot, she wrote.

Logan studiously ignored this.

Up at the front, Jim was droning on and on about various statistics and their editorial strategy for December. Logan tried very hard not to look at Kate. "Editorial strategy" was one of Jim's favourite sayings; if their editor didn't like Logan's pitch about a celebrity's shoes, then it wasn't part of the editorial strategy. If he fired a writer, it was because that writer didn't fit with the editorial strategy.

Logan heavily suspected Jim's wife could get him a tie he didn't like for Christmas and Jim's excuse for returning it would be that it "didn't fit with the editorial strategy."

"Logan."

His eyes snapped up. Jim was looking at him expectantly.

"Your pitches?" he prompted.

"Oh." Logan cleared his throat. "Right."

He consulted his notebook, reading through a list of four. The first two were features on football teams in the area doing Christmas toy drives, and the third was a review of a pantomime that Benedict Cumberbatch had miraculously agreed to do. Poor sod. Logan hoped they were paying him well.

The fourth pitch was slightly more vague.

"I want to do some sort of holiday prank," Logan explained. "A Borat-style personal essay. Something the public can really sink their teeth into."

This was a risk. Jim rarely approved personal essays, and especially not from writers that had been at Shout! for less than two years. But to Logan's surprise, Jim leaned forward, steepling his fingers.

"What sort of prank did you have in mind?"

"There's a pair of football players," Logan said quickly. "Identical twins. I could reach out and see if they'd be willing to trade places for a week during Christmas events."

"How is that personal?"

"I'd go with them," Logan said. "I'd document their experiences: what it's like to switch places, people's reactions to finding out..." He paused. "A fly on the wall, if you will."

Jim tapped his pen on his notepad. He didn't look unconvinced, Logan realized with relief. Merely contemplative. Which was good. Logan could work with that.

"No," Jim said, and Logan deflated.

"No?"

"We won't be able to afford the twins," Jim clarified. "They're too big. And even if we could, it's not personal enough. I want something that you're emotionally invested it. Something that you're experiencing yourself."

Logan leaned back, and the other eight writers in the room snapped towards him; their heads had been swinging back and forth during the mental game of pingpong. Jim, however, had just landed the winning shot. Logan had lost.

Kate cleared her throat.

"Don't you have an identical twin, Logan?" she asked.

She was smiling slightly. Logan frowned. He didn't trust that smile; the last time that Kate had smiled at him like that, they had ended up drinking a bottle of Merlot each and then skinny dipping in the Thames at one o'clock in the morning.

It didn't bode well.

"Yes," Logan said slowly. "Why?"

"Well, why don't you switch places with him?" she suggested.

Logan blinked. That was — well, that idea was—

Pretty good, actually.

Fair play to Kate.

"I like that," Jim declared, jabbing a pencil in Logan's direction. "You can switch places with your brother for the month. Holiday parties, friends, girlfriends — see if anyone can spot the difference." He was gaining enthusiasm, now. "We'll run it as our front page. Double Trouble: We Had Identical Twins Switch Places for the Holidays."

"Oh." Logan blinked, alarmed. "That sounds great, Jim. It does. But I—"

"It can be a long one. 4,000 words."

Logan nearly choked. 4,000 words? That sort of coverage could boost his career into the next stratosphere. Hell, he was Anna sodding Wintour at that point.

Logan would take it.

"What about my other articles?" he asked quickly. "The listicle on holiday pubs, or the feature on the origin of sugarplums. I still need to speak with people, gather information—"

But Jim was already shaking his head.

"Scrap them," Jim said firmly. "In fact, don't bother coming into work at all in December. I want you to focus on this. Make it good, Winters. I mean it."

Logan almost dropped the pencil.

No editorial meetings? For a whole month? Screw it, then, he'd do it. Hell, Logan would have happily cut out his left kidney and gift-wrapped it as a Christmas present for Jim to avoid the hellish Monday morning drags.

This was child's play.

"Okay," he said, shrugging. "I'm in."

"Excellent." Jim capped his pen. "There's just one more thing: your brother." He looked at Logan expectantly. "You think he'll be willing to do it?"

"Of course," Logan said smoothly. "He loves that sort of thing."

Jack was not loving that sort of thing.

"Absolutely not," he growled. "That's the worst idea you've ever had, Logan. And that's saying something."

Logan sighed. He had arranged to meet Jack for dinner at a dodgy pub in Clapham in the hopes of appeasing his brother, who considered greasy fish and chips the highest form of cuisine. Alas. It seemed not even the plastic wreaths, reindeer coasters and cheap pints of beer could cheer Jack up.

"Why not?" Logan asked evenly.

Jack stared at him. "Are you mad?"

"Let me guess," Logan drawled. "You're scared of Mum finding out."

Jack's hand clenched around his knife. "No," he said slowly. "I'm scared that if we switch places, you'll torch my career, friendships and love life in a matter of days."

"What love life?"

Jack's hand was white on the knife. Logan had a sudden vision of his brother lunging across the table and stabbing him with it. He switched tactics.

"Please," Logan said, leaning across the table. "I need this, Jack. Jim never lets anyone write personal essays, and if I can do this — if I pull it off — then I'll be on the front page of Shout!. That's career changing. No, that's life changing."

"I'm not doing it."

"What if I did all your washing?"

"No."

"Loaned you my car?"

"I can't even drive," Jack said, exasperated. "What the hell would I want with your car?"

This was, Logan reflected, a rather good point.

"Please," Logan repeated, and he didn't need to feign his desperation. "Please, Jack. I'm begging you. I'll do anything."

There was a long, horrible pause. Jack took a bite of his fish and chewed it so slowly that Logan half-suspected it would rot in his mouth before he digested it.

"Okay, let's say I did agree," Jack said finally, swallowing. "What's your plan, Einstein?" He scowled. "In case you hadn't noticed, we're nothing alike."

"We're identical, idiot."

"I mean our personalities."

"Oh." Logan frowned. "Well, that can be fixed."

Trading wardrobes would be easy, so long as Jack could be convinced to wear colored chinos and crushed velvet blazers. Logan could suffer through a few weeks of navy pullovers from Jack Wills. He grimaced. For the article, he reminded himself. It was all for the article.

They both lived alone, so they could trade flats. No one would be the wiser.

As for their mannerisms...

Logan sighed inwardly. Well, Jack would have to be taught how to work a room. That much was clear. And Logan would probably need to develop a love of Scrabble and droning on about abiogenesis.

Christ.

Maybe this would be harder than he thought.

"You'll need to gel your hair," Logan continued, eyeing his brother's floppy blond locks with distaste. "And work on your smile."

Jack bristled. "What's wrong with my smile?"

"It's too..." Logan considered this. "Teeth-y."

"It's too teethy?"

"Yes. It scares people."

Jack muttered something about Logan smiling like a cartoon Disney villain. Logan decided to take this as a compliment; he loved Gaston.

"You'll need to fix your eyebrow," Jack said, and Logan frowned.

"What?"

"You know." Jack motioned to his own left eyebrow. "From the rugby accident."

Ah. Shit. That's right. A few years ago, Logan had managed to piss off the captain of an opposing team, who promptly tackled Logan to the ground, splitting open his face. Five stitches later, the skin was healed, but still scarred.

Admittedly, Logan had slept with the bloke's girlfriend.

So he probably deserved it.

"I'll fill it in with make-up," Logan said, waving Jack off. "You know what that means though, right?" At Jack's blank look, he grinned, making scissor motions with his hands. "We'll need to cut yours off."

Jack groaned. "No."

"Yes."

"Seriously? You want to shave my eyebrow off?"

"Well, not all of it," Logan said in a placating tone. "Just some of it. Less than half, really." He paused, sizing his brother up. "That bruise on your face should help, too. We can say you got into a fight. Nobody will ever believe it's you."

Jack muttered something vaguely non-complimentary. Logan smirked.

"How did you get it, by the way?"

"I was run over by an elf."

Logan blinked. "Beg pardon?"

"I was run over—" Jack broke off, shaking his head. "Never mind. Long story." He stared morosely into his beer. "God, I can't believe I'm agreeing to this."

Logan perked up at that. "You are?"

"Yes. But I have two conditions."

"Anything."

Jack took a very long sip of beer. "Firstly, I still get to tape University Challenge; we'll switch places right before." He scowled. "There's no way that you're competing for me."

Logan blinked. Ah, shit. That's right; Jack was meant to be competing in the first round of University Challenge on December 15th. Well, Logan was hardly going to argue with that. Like hell was he about to go on a televised game show where he had to answer really hard trivia in front of the entire United Kingdom.

No.

Absolutely not.

"Done," he said quickly.

"And secondly," Jack continued, looking determined, "you'll distract all of the guests at the Christmas party tomorrow while I speak to Chloe. Don't let anyone come out on the balcony. Especially Mum."

Logan blinked. Whatever he had expected his brother to ask for, it certainly hadn't been that. Expensive computer software, maybe. Or a date with the fit contestant from Love Island that Logan had just interviewed. But time with Chloe? Didn't Jack already spend most days with her, anyway?

Jack was tearing his chips into smaller and smaller pieces, drowning them morosely in a sea of vinegar. His ears were bright red. Logan took a sip of beer. He had worked as a journalist long enough to know when to ask questions, and when not to ask them.

Now was the latter.

"Okay," he said simply.

Jack's head snapped up. "Really?"

"Really."

"Okay, then," he said, sticking out a hand. "We have a deal."

Logan beamed as he took it. "You're an absolute star, Jackster."

"I'm an idiot," Jack muttered. "And a pushover."

Logan privately agreed. He wasn't about to vocalize that, however.

"We start tomorrow," Logan said, rising from the table. "At the Christmas party." He slapped Jack on the shoulder. "Make sure you're late; I always am."

And Logan left the pub cheerfully, feeling that — for the first time in ages — he was on to a damn good story.