A Holiday Tradition
Wesley stared into the empty glass in his hand then glanced at the bottle of scotch sitting next to him. He'd been drowning himself in drink for so many Christmases he'd lost count. This year should have been different. He had friends now, people who invited him to spend time with them, who gave him gifts, who enjoyed his company.
He looked over at the gifts he'd received that afternoon. From Cordelia there was a lovely scarf--cream colored, cashmere, clearly expensive. All her gifts had been top dollar. Wesley smiled, figuring she must have sacrificed a new pair of shoes to afford such extravagance.
From Gunn there was a basketball--a reminder of how long it had been since they'd shot some hoops. There were also two tickets to an upcoming Lakers game to which Wesley was clearly expected to take Gunn.
And from Angel there was the bottle of scotch. Wesley wondered if he knew that was how he usually spent the holiday--alone in a dark room, glass in one hand, bottle in the other. But maybe he'd just wanted to give Wesley something he'd appreciate. It was an incredibly good choice, the flavor rich and smoky, settling deep inside him, warming him.
He wrapped his fingers loosely around the bottle's neck. Holding without gripping, not yet ready to lift it from the table. He remembered touching Angel's arm earlier that day, he'd reached for him unthinkingly. His hand had gripped his forearm for a brief moment before he'd pulled back and apologized.
Wesley closed his eyes and breathed deep. He smelled the liquor and relaxed deeper into his chair. He smelled Angel, warm and inviting.
He opened his eyes, lifted the bottle, and poured a few fingers into his glass. He circled his hand, swirling the dark amber liquid, careful to keep it from sloshing over the rim while watching it climb close to the edge.
He was so close to that edge. Raising the glass, he let the liquid touch his lips. Wet, smooth. He thought again of Angel. He wanted to share the scotch with him. To taste the depth of his sorrow on Angel's lips. He wanted. He'd wanted for a very long time. He lifted the glass to his lips again and drained the glass in one swallow, then grabbed the bottle, rose from the chair, and walked to the door. He wasn't going to sit here alone and want anymore.
A half hour later, Wesley found himself standing outside Angel's door. He hesitated before raising his hand to knock and just before his hand hit the door it opened. His eyes met Angel's as he held up the bottle. Angel stepped aside silently, inviting him inside. Wesley crossed the room as Angel closed the door.
Wesley sat the bottle down on the kitchen table and moved to get glasses from the cupboard. As he reached for them, he felt Angel standing behind him and froze, but Angel simply brought his hand up next to Wesley's, opened the door, and took down the glasses. He stepped away and placed them on the table while Wesley remained facing the cupboard, listening to the blood pounding in his ears, trying to calm down. Angel hadn't touched him, but he'd been so close and Wesley had been so hyper-aware that he could feel Angel as if they'd been skin-to-skin.
Wesley pulled himself together and turned around to find Angel's stare. He smiled weakly and took up the scotch. He thought again of touching Angel and gripped the bottle tightly as he tipped it over the glasses, pouring a generous amount for each of them.
Angel lifted his glass so delicately. Wesley wanted to be touched, to be held, that softly by those gentle hands. Strong hands capable of inflicting so much pain and destruction, hands that were now carefully placing the glass in Wesley's own hand. Wesley took the glass and smiled as Angel lifted the other glass to his own lips.
Wesley watched Angel's throat as he swallowed and heard himself sigh. He flushed as he realized Angel had heard it too. Angel placed his glass on the table and then reached for Wesley's.
He wasn't really sure how it happened, but he soon found himself standing face-to-face with Angel, hands entwined. Angel's grip was firm, but easy. His skin smooth and cool; Wesley wondered how good they would feel caressing his flesh on a hot summer day. He wondered how they would feel on a cold winter's night in England. It was winter now. The solstice had been just a few days earlier. But he wasn't in England, and L.A. never really got cold.
The tender touch of Angel's lips against his own reminded Wesley that he wasn't just in L.A., but in Angel's apartment. In Angel's arms. He melted, leaning into Angel's touch, pressing his body against the one he'd been dreaming about just an hour earlier. A body he'd been dreaming about for months. For years. For longer than he'd even known Angel. His body had known this was what he'd wanted long before his mind had.
Angel's mouth was cool and soft and tasted of scotch. It was like drinking of the earth. And under the scotch, the metallic tinge of blood. It should have brought him back to his senses, reminded him of who he was--and what he was doing. Kissing a vampire hadn't exactly been on the Watcher's Council's list of approved extracurricular activities.
But Wesley hadn't been a Watcher for a long time. To hell with approved activities. He leaned still more into Angel, dropping his hands to bring them to Angel's hips. He let go and fell into the kiss, opening his mouth and accepting all that he could draw out of Angel. He pushed, and they stumbled until Wesley had Angel pressed against the refrigerator. Wesley was amazed at how Angel let him take the lead, take control. He dropped his mouth to Angel's throat and licked his Adam's apple, smiling as Angel swallowed, remembering the way it bobbed when he'd swallowed the scotch.
He was so beautiful. So perfect. And he was letting Wesley touch him, taste him, drink him down. Angel's kisses warmed him from his center. Soon he was burning, Angel's once cool skin now seared his fingers as Wesley pushed his shirt up to explore hard flesh. Angel arched into the touch and gasped for unneeded breath. Wesley brought his lips back to Angel's, breathing into him, sharing his life for one brief moment.
When Angel grabbed his hips and pulled Wesley tight to him, Wesley stilled. "Angel," he whispered. He wanted this. He wanted to stay. But he wanted to stay forever. He didn't want some consolation gift for Christmas, a one-night love affair never to be mentioned again. He'd had that the few times he'd spent the holiday in a bar. That's why he now stayed at home. Alone.
But he'd come to Angel and had been taken in. He'd come here seeking ... he wasn't sure what, really. It occurred to him that they'd barely spoken, though much had been said with eyes, with lips, with hands.
He looked into Angel's eyes and what he saw was acceptance, invitation, desire. He felt as though Angel was looking through him, seeing everything he'd ever been, everything he'd ever done, everything he'd ever needed. Wesley'd never felt wanted that way by anyone. The look in Angel's eyes was unfamiliar, but he felt sure he understood its meaning. What it was asking. "Angel," he whispered again as he drew away in an attempt to see more closely.
Angel's hand came up to cup his cheek. He slid his hand into Wesley's hair and pulled him back in, lips almost but not quite touching. "Stay," he breathed into Wesley's mouth. He nipped his lower lip and pulled Wesley tighter to him. "It's time for new traditions."