Christmas Eve and Twelve of the Clock
DISCLAIMER: These characters are not mine, but I haven't hurt them, just given them some emotional issues.
RATING: PG
PAIRING: Wesley/Connor
SPOILERS: None
DISTRIBUTION: Ask me first - but I’m going to say yes.
FEEDBACK: Yes, please - [email protected]
“What is it?”
Wesley stared distrustfully at the scruffy shopping bag plonked in front of him. Christmas Eve in the Hyperion Hotel had not exactly been full of cheer so far. Connor had been gone all day, probably off killing things as usual; Angel was upstairs brooding, no doubt on the ghosts of Christmas crimes past; Cordelia had dragged a terrified Fred out into the maelstrom of last minute shoppers, ignoring her piteous protests; and Gunn had disappeared into the night, parcels in hand, leaving him all alone here to mind the office, with a cup of truly terrible mulled wine that Fred had prepared over her Bunsen burner, and a large tin of Werthers toffees. He hated toffees.
And now Connor was back, with a mystery object. Wesley looked at it gloomily. It was bound to be trouble. He cocked his head, considering. At first sight it seemed a very ordinary looking bag, if a bit slimier than most. Half obscured under a number of brown streaks he could make out the name of Wal-Mart, and the familiar logo. He let his eyes slide away to the walls around the office, and he sighed. Well, the bag fitted right in with the overall decor anyway, which consisted of a few dusty and misguided streamers, a scattering of Christmas cards from local businesses, and a lopsided mistletoe wreath over the door, which had slipped and now dangled below the frame, getting increasingly squashed every time the door opened and shut. When Connor had thrown the door open a moment ago, several white berries had fallen on his head, making him duck, and flatten himself against the wall. And then he had given the lopsided garland an irritable look, stared accusingly at Wesley, like it was somehow his fault, and plonked his burden down on the desk.
Wesley glared at the bag, and then at Connor, who glared right back. “What is it?” he asked again.
Connor shrugged, and Wesley thought he detected a tinge of embarrassment through the glare.
“Just a thing.”
“A thing?” Wesley poked the bag with a doubtful finger. It rustled, and he jumped back, a blade appearing reflexively from his right sleeve.
“Whoa!” Connor snatched the bag back to his chest. “Careful, Wolverine!” He patted the bag and looked reprovingly at Wesley. "It’s fragile.”
Wesley narrowed his eyes and looked hard at the bag. Had something inside it just moved, or was that just Connor, squeezing it? He wrinkled his nose. There was a smell....
“Been visiting the sewers again, Connor?”
Connor looked defensive. “It’s a very practical short cut to the mall, cuts at least a quarter mile off the distance.”
Wesley nodded absently, his eyes still on the bag. True of course - although you had to set off the corresponding rise in dry cleaning bills and use of hot water against the time savings involved in sewer travel. His mind mapped out a tidy little graph with ‘x’ and ‘y’ co-ordinates, threw in a random multiplier equating to ‘hostile demon activity’ - and drew a pretty little bell curve through mental space. Then he shook his head impatiently. He was spending too much time with Fred.
“Does it bite?” he asked, returning to the matter in hand.
“No!”
Connor sounded offended. Wesley moved his eyes from the bag to Connor’s face. A pout was beginning to form there, and a frown. Connor was feeling ill-used. Wesley tried to make his expression less suspicious.
“Well in that case, can I eat it?” He cast a bitter glance at the Werther’s toffees.
“No you can’t!” Connor clutched the bag more tightly against him. His face took on a reproving look. “You know Wesley, not everything is about eating or being eaten.” He paused, and his face went tomato red as he heard what he’d said.
“Well,” said Wesley, oblivious to double meanings, “actually, when you come right down to it ...”
“It’s not edible!” yelled Connor, his face getting even redder. “And please spare me the ‘world according to Holtz’ schtick. I’ve heard it all before, and I don’t believe it. Not any more.” Wesley had absently withdrawn his blade back into its arm harness as he spoke, and Connor warily put the bag down on the desk again.
Wesley got up and leaned in a gingerish fashion over the bag, testing for any faint trace of magic. Nothing. He reached out a tentative hand, and lifted it from the desk. It was remarkably light. So, it was non-hostile, non-edible, non-magical, non-throwable. “Well, if it doesn’t need defusing, or neutralising, or decoding, or disposing of, what is it?” he said plaintively, “and why are you handing it over to me?”
“It’s a present!” yelled Connor, flushing alarmingly. “Geez, Wes, you are so dense sometimes!” He stormed out of the office and into the corridor, slamming the door behind him. Another couple of white berries fell to the ground, as the grandfather clock in the hall began to chime the hours of midnight.
Wesley stood stock still, feeling the vibrations of the slammed door through the soles of his feet. A present? The boy had bought him a present? How ... how unexpected. He eyed the parcel nervously. What sort of thing would Connor think was a good present? A shrunken demon’s head on a string? A bandolier made of monster’s fingerbones? But he’d said it was fragile. Wesley swallowed - could it be a dried bat? He hated bats, even more than toffees. Filthy little fluttery, shivery, squeaky, creepy flying rats. And you couldn’t even tell where they were going to fly next, they kept veering around so, and tangling in your hair. He twitched involuntarily. It was a good thing no one here knew about him and bats. The boys at boarding school had known, and he still had nightmares about the day they‘d dangled that rubber bat on a piece of elastic over his sleeping face, then stuck his hand in a bowl of water.
He shuddered again, then straightened his shoulders. There was no reason to think it was a bat. That was paranoia talking. It could be socks, or handkerchiefs, or a tie. He brightened. A tie from Wal-Mart - not the most stylish piece of apparel, of course. But nothing sinister about it. That was really much more likely; he was being silly.
He opened the bag and rustled through the tissue paper to see what was inside. And he saw. His hands froze, and he let out a little squeak of guilty shock. How did Connor know about his secret? And then he read the gift tag. His eyes bulged. After a frozen moment, he swivelled to look at the closed door into the corridor, then he tiptoed very gently up to it, and threw the door open. Connor tumbled into the room, his hand still cupped against his ear.
Wes stood above him, tapping the object in his right hand nervously with his fingers. “I think we’re going to have to discuss this,” he said quietly.
Connor blushed hotly, “I just think their loveissopure,” he said in a rush, staring at Wesley’s feet.
Wesley gazed down on Connor’s lowered head, and then up again, to the *Queer As Folk, Season 1 DVD* in his hand, with its gift tag, labelled ‘To Wes, with love from your ‘Justin’. He swallowed as he remembered Season 1, episode 1, and that incident in the shower.
“You think ...” His voice had gone squeaky. He tried again. “You think I’m like Brian? I'm really no ...”
Connor looked up at him devotedly. “Like Brian, but better,” he said, rising to his feet. “And hotter,” he continued, taking a step forward, and standing toe to toe with Wesley.
“Hotter? I really don’t think ...” said Wesley, running a finger around his suddenly very tight collar, and feeling very hot indeed.
“Much,” said Connor. And then he hauled Wesley under the battered mistletoe with his super demon strength and kissed him until he was breathless.
The End
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