Buffy: No. I don't wanna bug Giles. He's still kinda twitchy when it comes to the subject of Angel.
Xander: Well, it must be that whole Angel-killed-his-girlfriend-and-tortured-him thing. Hey, Giles is pretty petty when it comes to stuff like that.
-“Amends”

Buffy had left abruptly and he’d not heard a thing from her. He’d called Joyce, awkwardly asked after his Slayer and been told just as awkwardly that she wasn’t there. He thought he should go after her. He thought he ought to be helping her fight The First, or the manifestations of The First. There had to be a reason that something so horrific was targeting Angel, and it probably had to do with the great help that Angel had given them time and time again. The great help….Angel…help…

His thoughts stuttered off into a shivering memory, this one not of Jenny Calandar, draped artfully and quite mortally across his bed, but of Angel’s face, millimeters from his own, smiling at his pain. Smiling, and then not hurting, just touching…touching.

“Happy Christmas my arse,” he muttered.

He could have gone to find his Slayer. Or Angel. Or the dead and dusty remains of both.

He could have gone to that new place that has just opened—some coffee shop with a petrol station motif; more proof, as if he needed any, of the sheer folly that was American consumerism. He had seen the adverts for it, and something about an open mike night. Now there was a thought—he still had his guitar and--

No. Never.

He could have just stayed home, drank tea and pretended there were no ghosts in his house, no specters haunting his soul. No Jenny, no Diedre, no Kendra…

He could have skipped the tea and gone straight for the scotch—he kept quite a nice cabinet of rare blends—and that would have easily dismissed his phantoms. Of course, he suspected that would only lead to some first class wallowing in his own self loathing, hosting a whole new cadre of invisible guests: Ethan, Quentin, Oz, Angel, Xander…

He could have even made his way to Willy’s. Donned his metaphorical “Friend-of-the-Slayer-Don’t-Eat-Me” suit and toasted in the Christmas season along with his reawakening sexuality with a stout glass of eggnog and yak urine…

So what in God’s name was he doing at The Bronze?

Porn Stars.

Buffy: What about Giles? I mean, he doesn't have any fam...
Joyce: No, I'm sure he's fine.
Buffy: We could at least ask him and see...
Joyce: He doesn't wanna spend Christmas Eve with a bunch of girls.
-“Amends"

Porn Stars were on sale.

Damn Diedre anyway. No, not damn her. Bless her. It was she who had introduced a young Rupert “Ripper” Giles to his first Porn Star back in days best forgotten (he always thought of them that way—“days best forgotten”—and then usually glanced at the crisp shirt sleeve that covered the tattoo that kept those days anything but forgotten).

Okay, to be truthful, his first actual porn star had been introduced to him by Quentin Travers, at the time several years his senior; he’d been the one to sneak an even younger Rupert Giles into the local cinema to see Deep Throat, the American film sensation at the time.

He preferred Diedre’s version.

It had been on a trip into London in his post-Ripper, pre-Eyghon days. He, Diedre and Ethan had wound up in King’s Cross, looking for a pub and a bit of trouble. What they found was a poof bar and a crowd of flamboyant new chums who thought they were the cat’s ass.

And they found Porn Stars, as well.

Something cherry, sour and alcoholic, mixed with something blue, sweet and just as intoxicating, frothed with clear soda and topped with grenadine and cherries; the glasses were oversized martini glasses (“To make our hands look small”, a seven foot cross-dressing black man had told him), and Ethan managed to sweet talk the bartender (a nasty-looking woman with a crew cut and a nose ring) into popping little paper umbrellas into their glasses.

No one had commented several rounds later when Ethan gave him a huge, sweet and intoxicating kiss on the dance floor while Sylvester wailed in the background, although after that night, Diedre was forever hinting at threesome possibilities.

And then had come Eyghon, and all that went along with that particular road to hell. Not something he was going to think about now. No, now was a time for a more positive type of reminiscing, and he sternly lectured his brain to keep all that demony rubbish down in the basement of his subconscious for sorting on another day, thank you very much.

So when his aimless driving brought him past the Bronze and a sandwich board out front proclaimed Porn Stars were on special along with a band with the unusual name of “Method To Madness”, he knew where he wanted to be.

They even had the little paper umbrellas.

Xander: Yeah, I like to look at the stars, you know? Feel the whole nature vibe.
Cordelia: I thought you slept outside to avoid your family's drunken Christmas fights.
-“Amends”

Xander Harris was pissed. Not in the ‘I hate Angel and he must die’ way. Not even in the ‘School sucks’ way or the ‘Cordelia Chase is a bitter bitter woman’ way. It was more of a mellow anger, this one directed at the elements.

Snow? What was that all about?

Suffice to say, backyard campouts and snow, definitely not mixable, so he had explored his options.

Option one, back into the house, where the lights were blazing, and if the noise was any indication, so were the tempers.

Option two, Willow’s place, where he could learn all about Santa Hanukkah, maybe…or maybe get them back into that bad touching place that they were both so desperate to avoid. Okay, option two was definitely out.

Which brought him to option three and the Bronze. Warmth, shelter, okay the occasional cockroach, but also a band playing all through the night, something warm to drink, and a night out without his best friends, whom he adored through and through, but who also occasionally interfered with his people-watching. His man watching…

Since the debacle with Larry, Xander had realized that it wasn’t just Oz who had a hairy secret that might freak people out.

Including himself.

Xander was not a fellow prone to great bouts of introspection. Most of his thoughts were of the food-shelter-sex variety, with odd forays into math (rare), history (even rarer) and slaying (although vampire slaying often made him hungry, or want to hide in his bedroom, or have a fling with Buffy, so he supposed that wasn’t such a big step up). But when Larry had thought he was gay, and he’d acted out badly to end his most recent excursion into girlfriendland, he had decided to take a look at himself. A hard look.

What he found was Xander Harris, ex-boyfriend of Cordelia, best friend to Willow and Buffy, sekrit coveter of Amy Yip at the waterslide park and all round Zeppo in the Duck Soup of life. And adding the surreptitious glances he gave to the man on the street once in a while, or the late night fantasies that starred football players rather than cheerleaders didn’t seem to change any of that. Even when the football players got a little more mature in his dreams, he was still just Xander.

So he chose to mostly ignore it, figuring if it was important, it would find him eventually, just like the demons did.

He paid the low cover charge, checked the dance floor to see if anyone he knew was out there (they weren’t) and then made his way to the bar, his mind on nothing more than whether he would have the caramel macchiato or the mocha latte.

“Oh, Xander. What are you doing here?”

The voice was recognizable, even if the words were a bit slurred, and he didn’t take his eyes off the menu as he replied:

“Hey, Giles; I couldn’t sleep for all the snow, so thought I’d get a warm up.” He started to turn then, realizing that the bartender was still three punks and an accountant away from him. He was still talking while his brain tried to point out that Giles was actually in the Bronze, apparently on purpose. “They do this thing here with hot chocolate and mini-marshmallows and Sweet Valley High! What the heck are you drinking?”

Giles had lifted the latest glass to his lips, nearly putting his eye out with the umbrella.

“Porn Star,” was the mumbled reply. Then, a bit sharper, “Snow?”

“Porn Star?” Xander suddenly gave Giles a sharp look. “You haven’t been eating funny chocolate bars, have you?”

“It can’t snow here; it’s imposh—improp—not bloody likely!” Some small tweedy part of Giles was screeching at his lack of decorum, loss of the English language, and public drunkenness while the rest of him gave the young man in front of him a speculative look. He thought that Xander might have been working out. Or maybe it was just seeing him in a bulky sweater instead of the tacky bowling shirts or plain t-shirts he usually favored. The thought of Xander working out found an inebriated friend and then he was imagining Xander working out in nothing but gym shorts and a smile. Those thoughts were ready to take over when they ran into that screechy bit and the resulting collision caused him to hiccup, grin stupidly and knock the umbrella out of his glass.

“Snow?” he asked again.

Xander caught the tiny blue parasol as it tumbled from Giles’ cocktail, thought to himself that he could never be that dexterous if anyone else was watching, and tried to decide if he was being checked out. When he came to the realization that he was, he found himself giving Giles the same sort of look he’d just received. “Yeah, who knew? Must be a Hellmouth thing.” He tucked the umbrella back into the corner of the glass. “I hate to rain on your good time here, but since you brought an umbrella anyway, are you drunk?”

Giles thought about that. Then he thought some more. He finished his drink, signaled the bartender for another, and discovered that Xander had his own mug of something steaming and chocolaty and he still hadn’t answered him. He thought about the question.

“Green. Yours are hazel.”

That was all the answer Xander needed, and far more information than he was prepared to process. But it appeared, just as he knew it would, that this particular demon had found him, and—shocker--he wasn’t ready.

“All right,” he said, holding an imaginary envelope to his head and trying to play it cool. “What are your favorite eye colors? Thank you, Amazing Carnac.” He set his café mocha down on the bar, briefly regretted the five bucks he’d just spent on it, and tried to take Giles’ drink from him. “And now that we’ve established something I’m going to ignore and you’re not likely to remember, I think it’s time to take this show on the road. Tell me you didn’t drive.”

Giles looked abashed for a moment, then offended. He danced his cocktail around in the air, trying to avoid Xander’s reach. “Of course I did. Can’t be out walking at night. Vampires.” He didn’t think he was getting loud, but Xander was making shushing noises now and still trying to get his drink from him. Couldn’t he just order his own? Maybe he should buy one for him.

Xander finally got his fingers wrapped around the oversized martini glass (it made his hand look small, he decided) just as Giles reached for his wallet so he could get Xander a Porn Star of his own, and between the two of them, they managed to pour the entire contents of the glass down the front of Xander’s sweater.

“Oops,” Giles giggled, then turned to scan the dance floor, hoping to convince Xander that it wasn’t him giggling like a schoolgirl.

“Or like the Slayer,” he told Xander, giving him a conspiratorial wink. “Except when she’s with Angel.” That thought made him frown, and he let his earlier lecherous thoughts enjoy looking Xander over again so he could forget about the vampire with a soul who had done so much damage when he was without it.

“Sure, we’ll go with that. Come on, mighty Watcher, let’s go before you fall down or I do something completely ridiculous.”

The walk out to Giles’ car was almost completely without incident. They left the bar without so much as tripping over anything, and were half way through the parking lot before Giles realized that the snow that was so bloody unlikely was in fact completely likely and it obviously needed to be danced in.

Xander kept an eye out for anything that might be bumping in the Christmas night, since Giles was doing a terrific time-step that just screamed, “Eat me!” to any vampire in the area, but no one seemed to be lurking. After a couple of minutes he discovered that he was getting a healthy dose of “Eat me!” himself, and he tugged on Rupert Astair’s arm, pulling him to the car.

Bracing himself on several levels, he asked, “Keys?”

“Yes.” A sly grin was all the aid that accompanied the single word.

“Demons; always when you least expect them.” Xander muttered. Another bracing of his everything with a stern internal warning to those bits enjoying the way Giles was staring at the snow, enchanted, humming under his breath and swaying to some internal Christmas carol, and then he was plunging a hand into Giles pants pocket like it was the deep fryer at McDonalds.

The keys were in his grasp too soon.

Giles didn’t put up any argument as Xander moved him around the car and into the passenger seat. The Watcher in him, along with the stuffy librarian, had apparently made a baby, and that internal creature was advising him that he had definitely had too much to drink, that there was no way he should be driving, and it was fortuitous that Xander had come along when he did.

Still, he wondered what Xander’s eyelashes would taste like frosted with snowflakes.

The ride home was short, Sunnydale not exactly a sprawling Mecca, and both men kept their silences.

Xander thought about his sudden attraction to Giles, and realized it wasn’t all that sudden. He wondered briefly if this was a daddy thing, a Watcher thing, maybe some sort of Slayer envy. Then he easily shrugged off the deep thoughts and played Anywhere But Here, letting Giles caper in the waterslide park with him.

Giles found himself growing sleepy in the warm confines of the car and was still contemplating nodding off in Xander’s lap when they pulled up to his apartment.

“Last stop, Watchertown.” Xander announced.

Giles debated inviting Xander in, wasn’t sure if that would be too pushy, decided it would be, and opened the car door. A brief struggle with the seatbelt, and then he was putting one foot out of the door, followed by the other one.

And then he was on his ass on the snow slick ground as both feet (shod in his second best Florsheims—he hadn’t been expecting snow) shot out from under him. He felt a little foolish but mostly sore, although he also was dimly grateful for once not to have taken one to the head, which seemed to be his M.O most nights.

“No concussion,” he told Xander, as the younger man appeared next to him and held out a hand.

“Always a bonus,” Xander replied, enjoying the warm strength in Giles’ grip as he pulled him to his feet.

If pressed, both of them would have said they had to keep their arms around one another for balance.

Xander still had the keys, and it only took three tries to get the front door open. He silently congratulated himself, and then wondered how many attempts would have to be made to get Giles up the stairs to his bedroom. His mind skittered over the word bedroom, gave him a sample of pornographic images too quick for him to even process, and then Giles took the decision out of his hands by pushing away and stumbling towards the sofa.

There was nothing graceful about it as he sat down, and Giles knew it. He took back all of the blessings he had heaped upon St. Diedre, Her Lady of Perpetual Porn Stars earlier, and wished he could sober up. This would all make more sense then, he was sure of it. And Xander wouldn’t be looking at him like that. Like he was a doddering old fool, a tetchy old queen, a—a—

He looked up at Xander, who had moved into the room from the front door and was now just standing a few feet from the couch. He didn’t look disgusted, or amused in a mean way, or repulsed. He didn’t seem to be feeling anything that Giles had just attributed to him. He looked, well, almost happy; sort of excited. And definitely kind.

“Xander, I just wanted to tell you—“ Giles wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. The liquor in his system, which had been such a brilliant idea earlier this evening now felt heavy and sickening and unwanted. But he thought there was something important here. Something that would help clear away all the phantoms, demons and puzzles that had been dogging his every move for months now. Something that only Xander might be able to help him understand.

Xander realized he was looming a little, knew he should just leave now, and then sat down on the sofa next to Giles. Once again, he refused to let a little mature second-guessing have its way with his adolescent roll-with-the-punches self. Plus, Giles did have those great green eyes…

Giles tried to remember what he was going to tell Xander. Xander tried to remember why sitting down had been a bad idea.

The kiss was awkward at first, hesitant, with both men turning their heads and trying to decide just how they were going to do this without appearing too eager, too drunk, too desperate, too everything. Just when it looked like it might not happen at all, Giles put a hand into Xander’s soft brown hair, Xander found a way to grip Giles’s shoulder just so, and their lips met.

Met, discovered mutual interests and went on an extended holiday of suddenly open mouths, tiny sips of air interspersed with occasional forays with tongue and teeth that turned the chance meeting into something like a relationship.

Xander leaned into the kiss, pressing his weight against the older man and finding a body strong enough to hold him.

Giles leaned into the kiss, discovered Xander doing the same and brought a hand firmly down the young man’s chest and stomach.

When he felt a hand on his belt buckle, Xander pulled back abruptly, breathing hard, eyes wide. He stood up from the couch so quickly he nearly stumbled, and Giles fell face first into the space he’d just vacated.

“Oh, man. Giles, that was—I’m not—I mean, I am, but, uh—“

Giles didn’t appear to be paying attention; his focus was mainly the sofa cushions. His lack of response seemed to help Xander calm himself. He knew exactly where this could go, and while it appeared to be someplace they both wanted to be, he couldn’t honestly say that today was the day they should be taking that trip.

“I gotta go.”

“You could stay.” Words muffled by the sofa.

“Let’s have this conversation again sometime, when you’re less drunk, and I’m less jailbaity—whaddya say?” Xander waited for a reply, and thought he might not get it when several minutes passed. He turned towards the door and actually had his hand on the knob when more words floated up from the cushions.

“I shan’t forget.” Sounding far more lucid than either man expected.

“Neither will I…Rupert.”

A soft snore was the only response.

A last glance back at the man already asleep on the sofa, a soft smile, and then Xander made his way back into the snow.