Home for Christmas by RJ Scott
Chapter 1Connor skidded to a stop.
The cold December wind whipped around his face, ice and snow knifing into his skin, and at first, he couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing.
Maybe he should have stopped, called 911, shouted for help, but it could’ve been too late, so he’d acted on instinct alone. He’d taken the four flights of stairs at a run, reaching the roof and throwing the door open. His lungs burned from the freezing air and his voice had gone. What now?
Why was River on the roof in nothing but jeans and a T-shirt, clearly drunk? Why was he standing on the ledge, his feet spread, his arms wide, and a bottle of vodka in his hand?
When the girl from his floor told him she’d seen River go up to the roof, he thought she’d meant something else. He often went up there to read or watch life go by. But not in a snow storm.
He didn’t expect to see River standing on the ledge in the snow.
Don’t scare him. He’ll stumble and fall. He might jump.
A gust of air slapped Connor. River swayed to the left but righted himself with the casual grace of a gymnast. River wouldn’t fall by accident. Hell, Connor had seen him balance on one hand on a diving board, perfectly still, before falling gracefully and accurately with spins and pikes into the water below. He’d never seen River falter.
“River?” Connor asked, only an inch from grabbing River’s shirt and holding him tight. He saw River tense, but he didn’t wobble in surprise or slip and fall to the ground.
“I canbalance. Look at me.” River sounded so damn proud of himself.
Connor took a small step forward, finally being able to hold River’s shirt, hoping to hell that would be enough to stop River from falling.
“Come down, buddy.”
River lifted the bottle over his head, sloshing alcohol over his hair, his tongue flicking out to catch any that ran over his face.
“Fuck,” he shouted.
Connor tugged at him, not knowing what else to do. “Come back,” he said, loud enough that River actually looked at him.
“Leave me alone,” he said.
“I’m not leaving you on the roof,” Connor snapped and got a better hold of River, hooking a finger into his belt. River wasn’t a big guy, a diver’s body, no more than five ten and a buck sixty soaking wet, but if he fell, would Connor be able to hold him long enough to save him?
River pulled against Connor’s grip, and for a second the world stopped turning as Connor had to use his entire body weight to keep him upright. Something about the action must have scared River. He cursed and rocked backward, but he still wouldn’t come down.
“Come down,” Connor pleaded. “You’re scaring me.”
“You think you gotta save me? Huh?” River threw his arms wide again, more alcohol sloshing over the top of the bottle. “I don’t need saving.”
“I want you to come down.” Connor tried for calm. What was he doing? He should have called the cops immediately when he spotted River. Or firefighters, negotiators? Or whoever the hell should’ve been here. He’d seen things like this on the television, the mediator knowing all the right things to say and do, standing by River and connecting him to his family or childhood or his faith. All Connor knew was that he needed to pull River down, use the only thing he had going for him; the fact that he was bigger and stronger.
“I like it up here!” River explained with another wide gesture. He wobbled a little but righted himself immediately.
“Come down, Riv.”
“Saint Connor tries to save everyone,” River shouted, ending with a hysterical laugh. He was clearly losing control of himself, and even if Connor did have the words to talk him down, he thought maybe he’d just yank River back onto the concrete roof of the building and worry about injuries later.
But River wasn’t finished. “Even if they don’t need saving!”
“River!”
“Who the hell cares if I can balance, huh?”
“I care,” Connor shouted back. This was so out of character.
“Yeah, right, telling me what Christmas and family is like for you, making me see it in my head, and then leaving me here alone.”
“River, please.” Connor tugged him, but River wouldn’t move back.
“Leaving me here, alone, because that’s all anyone ever does. They fuck off, leave me, and what happens when college is over, huh? What happens when I lose that?” He lifted one clenched fist to the sky. “Fuck you!”
Connor had never heard River curse like this, and he was done with holding on to him. So evaluating where they would end up if they fell backward and not caring how much it hurt, he yanked, hard. River tumbled with him, arms flailing and the vodka bottle slipping from his grasp and falling into the tub of snow-covered plants on the roof patio. The two of them fell onto the roof, Connor using his body to cushion River’s descent, getting his arms full of an icy cold man, the breath forced from his lungs when they hit the ground.
Connor enveloped him in his arms and locked his hands in place, fighting a frozen, wet, drunk River. He wouldn’t get free. Connor had his pappa’s height, a rancher’s build, and he was a solid anchor in the wind and snow. There was no point in River fighting, and somehow he must have realized he couldn’t get free and went still in Connor’s arms.
All Connor could think was that he’d wanted River back in his arms for a long time now, but he’d expected soft lighting and mood music, not driving winds and snow.
“What the hell are you doing?” Connor demanded.
“Let me the fuck go.”
“Jesus, are you trying to kill yourself?”
River attempted to wriggle free. Connor’s grip didn’t falter in his hold. With his arms securely around River, he shuffled them back so they were protected by the low wall. He wanted to get them back inside, but he wasn’t ready to let River go yet, and the door was at least ten feet away. What if River wriggled free and ran for the ledge? The idea of River on the ground, twisted in death, blood… Connor didn’t want to think about it. He opened his coat, one-handed, and then pulled River closer, trying to get as much of the material to go over him, attempting to keep them both warm. River’s skin was like ice. How long had he been standing up there?
“What were you doing?” he demanded, but River didn’t reply, only burrowed deeper into Connor’s hold. This was stupid. He needed to get them off the roof, or he needed help. His phone was in the car. The campus was emptying for Christmas. It was ten a.m., snowing. What the hell was he going to do now?
“I have no one,” River muttered, then laughed and buried his face deeper.
“What do you mean? Talk to me, River.”
“No.”
“We need to get inside.”
How the hell do I get River inside?
He imagined struggling with River’s weight, trying to get him down four flights of stairs and across to his room. Maybe if he could just get him to the car, with its heated seats and the warm air blower and the coffee in a flask that Connor had made for the start of his journey back to Dallas. Then he could call someone, the cops or a doctor? That seemed like a plan, a focus. He scrambled to his feet, bringing River with him, and stumbled inside. As soon as the door shut, warmth hit them, prickling at his exposed skin, and he moved toward the radiator, still gripping River’s belt. He let go of him long enough to remove his jacket and place it around the shivering man’s shoulders.
River buried himself in the coat, and Connor went into disaster assessment mode. He’d seen hypothermia back home at the D, and it wasn’t pretty. He remembered his pappa saying there were signs to look for, and when Jack spoke, Connor always listened. He pulled up the facts he could remember. Did River have hypothermia? His teeth weren’t chattering, and he wasn’t talking at all, so it wasn’t obvious if he was slurring. Then, even if he did talk and his speech was slurry, how could Connor tell how much vodka he’d drunk? Connor tried to remember the symptoms. The college hospital wasn’t far away. He could drive there, and they would help.
Why the hell did I leave my phone in the damned car?
“It’s okay. I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not.”
“You can go,” River said dully. He wriggled closer to the radiator.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“But you are,” River murmured. “You kissed me, you got me off, and now you’re leaving today.” Then he hid his face in his hands. “Shit, shit, shit.”
Wait. Was this about what happened at the thanksgiving party?
Is this my fault?
Connor didn’t usually drink that much, but he’d had one beer too many at the party, to the point where he had all the courage he needed to wait for River to come out of the bathroom.
“Can I kiss you?” he’d asked, and River had stared at him, stone-cold sober and narrow-eyed.
But then, holy shit, River had pushed him back into the nearest bedroom, shut the door, and the kiss had turned into something more, hands tangled in hair, the two of them kissing and rutting against each other until they were coming in their jeans. Really unromantic. Nothing more than getting off, and River had left before Connor could even get his breath back. Not the best of outcomes. Then River had ignored him. Not returning texts, no more study sessions in the library, and he’d even missed the last lecture of the semester.
All of that told Connor on thing: River wasn’t interested in anything more with him. But that didn’t mean they weren’t still friends. They sat in silence for a few minutes, River’s face still buried in his hands, and he was clearly crying.
What the hell should I do now?
Not Just for Christmas by Annabelle Jacobs
Ben tried not to look, but inevitably his gaze was drawn to Jason still sat on the sofa. He stood as Pete stepped back, and Ben got a proper look at him. Ben wasn’t the only one who’d changed a little over the past couple of years. The last time he’d seen Jason, his hair had been short, like an army cut, and he’d had a beard. He’d looked hot then, but now…. Ben had to forcibly shut his mouth so he didn’t gape.
Jason’s thick dark hair, still shaved at the sides, was now a good couple of inches longer on top. And he was clean shaven. Ben kind of missed the beard, but without it Jason looked much younger, and his strong jawline was a thing of beauty. He looked thinner, too. Ben frowned because Jason ate like a horse and had always been bulkier than his brothers. That thought somehow made its way out of Ben’s mouth.
“Have you lost weight?”
Jason laughed softly, one hand immediately going to his stomach. He patted his belly and sighed. “God don’t you start. Mum’s already been on at me about not eating properly.” He pulled Ben in for a quick hug. “It’s good to see you, even if you do put the rest of us to shame.”
Oh God, that voice. As smooth and deep as Ben remembered.
The Boyfriend Sweater Curse by Ari McKay
Six years ago –
Gabriel Sutton leaned forward in his chair, watching eagerly while Jack opened his present. They were celebrating together on Christmas Eve since Jack had plans with his family on Christmas day. Gabriel had set the mood by dimming the lights in the living room of his apartment so the white lights on his tree illuminated the room with a cozy glow. His tree was decorated with an array of ornaments that reflected his various fandom interests, and he loved it.
Jack tore off the shimmery red wrapping paper, opened the oblong white box, and peeled back the tissue paper to reveal the sweater Gabriel had knitted for him. They were both Star Wars fans, and Gabriel had spent almost six months knitting a sweater in fair isle colorwork using Star Wars images. The pattern consisted of five horizontal rows repeated on both the back and front; he’d used black yarn for the background so the images would pop, and he’d added a ribbed crew neck and cuffs.
The first row alternated with the Rebel Alliance symbol in white and the Empire symbol in red. The second row X-Wing and TIE fighters in charcoal gray. The third row was a line of AT-ATs in white. The fourth row was a line of R2D2s in white and blue, and the last row was a row of Death Stars in white and gray. In between each row was a thin border made of lightsabers with either a blue, green, or red blade. It was by far the most intricate colorwork project Gabriel had ever knitted, but he thought the hours he’d spent on it were worth it. Jack was worth it.
Jack held up the sweater, his eyes growing wide. “Wow, that’s really something!”
“Do you like it?” Gabriel scanned Jack’s face for signs of enthusiasm, but while Jack was smiling, he didn’t seem overwhelmed.
“Of course I do, babe.” Jack kissed him lightly, then put the sweater aside in favor of retrieving Gabriel’s present from under the tree.
Gabriel didn’t see Jack wearing the sweater over the next couple of weeks, but they didn’t spend every day together, so he assumed maybe he missed seeing Jack when he wore it. Then in late January, Gabriel stopped by Jack’s apartment to pick him up for a date. A new restaurant serving Ethiopian food had opened in downtown Asheville, and they both wanted to try it. Jack opened the hall closet to get his coat, and Gabriel saw the Star Wars sweater still in its box and half-obscured with tissue paper on the floor next to Jack’s hiking boots.
A heavy sandbag lodged in the pit of Gabriel’s stomach as he retrieved the sweater and held it out to Jack, who looked sheepish. “You haven’t worn it?”
“It’s a little busy. I prefer simpler designs,” Jack said, offering an apologetic smile. “Do you want it back?”
Gabriel ran his hand over the soft wool stitches, disappointed that he had misjudged what Jack would like. He didn’t like taking back gifts, but if Jack didn’t want it, fuck it. He’d wear it himself. In fact, he wore the sweater to his knitting group’s next meeting at the local independent yarn shop. They gathered each month in the cluster of comfortable secondhand chairs by the large picture window at the front of the shop, and they spent two or three hours knitting and chatting over sweet iced tea when it was warm and coffee when it was cold.
“Isn’t that the sweater you were knitting for Jack?” Miss Hilda May asked.
“He didn’t like it, so he gave it back,” Gabriel said, his lips twisting in a moue of annoyance, and the circle of ladies made sympathetic noises. They all knew how it felt when a handmade gift went unappreciated.
“Better be careful,” Miss Betty said. “You might have triggered the boyfriend sweater curse.”
“The what?” Gabriel put down the cabled hat he was knitting and turned to her.
“The boyfriend sweater curse,” Miss Oleta said, nodding sagely. “It’s real. I knitted my first boyfriend a sweater for his birthday. We broke up less than a month later. I didn’t knit my husband a thing until we were married, and we’ll celebrate fifty years together this summer.”
“Wait, what curse?” Gabriel frowned as he looked around the circle of older ladies.
“You haven’t heard of the boyfriend sweater curse?” Miss Betty’s penciled eyebrows climbed to the roots of her dyed blond hair. “Oh, shit, honey. I guess we should’ve told you when you started working on that sweater, but we thought you knew. Never knit a sweater for your boyfriend, or you’ll break up for sure.”
Gabriel shook his head and scoffed. “We’ve been together almost a year. I think we’re solid.”
Jack broke up with him by email the day before Valentine’s Day.
We Whisk You a Merry Christmas by Anna Martin
The walk from the train station to his mum’s house was normally about fifteen minutes, but tonight it took longer due to the amount of snow on the ground. A lot longer. But Brandon really didn’t want his mum driving out to pick him up, not in this weather.
Even if his shoes were wet and his toes were cold and the frosty wind kept getting stuck in his throat.
There was something very reassuring and very familiar about this trudge uphill through the village. Even though it was dark out—it got dark by four in the afternoon at the moment— Brandon was pretty sure he could make the journey with his eyes closed.
His mum still lived in the same house Brandon and his sisters had grown up in; a terraced house behind the High Street that almost backed on to the bakery. When they were kids, Brandon had thought of the alleyway that connected the shops to the houses a secret passage. Along with Saffron and Olive, he’d played many games of Super Secret Spies back here.
Brandon let himself in through the back door because that was just the way things were done. Knocking on the front door was for guests and the postman. And he already knew he’d find his mum in the kitchen, at the back of the house.
“Hi, Mum.”
He shut the door behind himself quickly to keep the cold out, then leaned down and hugged her close, not pulling away until she did.
“I’m so glad you’re home.”
“Me too.”
“Sit down,” she said, ushering him into a chair. He still took his shoes off first and left them by the door, and hung his coat up on the hook. His bag could wait until later. “Have you eaten?”
“Yes, but if you’ve got something you need me to get rid of…?”
That made her laugh. “You want a cup of tea and a bit of cake?”
“Mum,” he said seriously. “I really, really do.”
Letting himself be fussed over was easy. Brandon knew he didn’t come home as often as he should; partly because his mum came into London fairly regularly with her friends and she always took time to stop by and see him. But that meant coming home was always a treat, and despite being thirty four, Brandon didn’t mind the attention from his mum.
Within ten minutes of walking through the door Brandon had a cup of tea and a piece of yule log chocolate cake in front of him. His mum sat opposite him at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped around her own mug.
“How’s things?” she demanded. “How’s work?”
“Good. Busy,” he said. “Always busy. How are things here?”
She stilled, and Brandon was suddenly nervous. “Bran, there’s something important I need to talk to you about.”
“Okay,” he said around a mouthful of cake.
“We sold the bakery.”
Brandon swallowed hard. “You sold it?”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
His mum squirmed. “August. I’m sorry. I thought you were coming home in September, then you didn’t because of that big contract at work, and I didn’t want to tell you over the phone.”
“That’s okay.” He knew the bakery had been up for sale for a while, but he hadn’t thought to ask if anything had happened. That was probably self-preservation rather than self-interest. If he didn’t ask, he didn’t have to know. “Who has it now? Are they going to turn it into flats?”
“No,” his mum said emphatically. “A man bought it—he’s your age, actually. His name is Alex. He just picked it up and kept going.”
“So it’s open? Like it used to be?”
She nodded. “Yeah. People around here are really pleased, too. Alex is a good person, and a good baker. He’s been able to keep the tradition going.”
“I mean…” Brandon knew he needed to reassure her. Selling the bakery had been a huge deal and had caused plenty of arguments. But his mum didn’t want to keep it open on her own and neither Brandon nor his sisters wanted to move back to Newton Green to take it over. “We’ve known for a long time this was going to happen. I’m not upset,” he said, reaching out to give his mum’s hand a squeeze.
Later, when the cake was gone and his plate washed up, Brandon wandered through the house. He couldn’t help but appreciate that his mum had decorated for Christmas, like she did every year, even though there was no one but her to appreciate it.
Then again, that was probably not strictly true. Brandon knew his mum had a busier social life than he did; she was the treasurer for the PTA at the local primary school, having never given up her spot even after all three of her kids had left. She worked with a local children’s charity too, and volunteered at the food bank, and had been a member of the local Women’s Institute for donkey’s years.
That was part of the reason why Brandon didn’t feel quite so bad that neither he nor his sisters lived in Newton Green any more.
Bits and bobs had been rearranged on the mantlepiece above the fire to make room for two wicker reindeer sculptures that Brandon had bought for her a few years back. In the middle of the two reindeer were a hodge-podge of different school and graduation photos, and in Olive’s case, a picture from her wedding.
He picked up the frame and smiled.
Brandon looked more like Olive and their mum than Saffron and their dad. Both Brandon and Olive had thick, dark hair that got frizzy when it was humid out, and brown eyes that had hints of hazel. Saffron, on the other hand, wore her wavy, strawberry-blonde hair almost to her waist.
Olive was practical, a born scientist, and it made perfect sense that she now worked for the Scottish government advising on climate change. Brandon hoped that one day she’d move back down here, but she’d made a life in Edinburgh with her husband. Brandon set the photo back on the mantlepiece and made a mental note to book flights to go see them soon. Maybe by the time he got round to it, the baby would be born.
That was another thing that got his stomach all knotted up—Ollie getting married was one thing, but having a baby so soon after the wedding was another. Brandon had thought that she would want to wait, to dig further into her prospering career. But Thomas loved kids, and it seemed like he was going to be the stay at home parent when Olive’s maternity leave was over. It was all very 2020 of them.
Both his sisters had big, exciting things happening in their lives; Ollie with the baby, and Saff out exploring the world, and Brandon couldn’t help but feel jealous. When he’d moved to London it had been such a big thing in their family—he was the first to go to university, the first in the family to get a degree, and it had felt, at twenty-two, like the world was at his feet. Having a flat in Lambeth meant he could walk to his job in Soho, if he wanted to, and London life suited him.
Now, twelve years later, the city was exhausting. The past year had been a lot, and he couldn’t help but wonder if there was something else waiting for him. A new relationship, a chance to move abroad and live somewhere exciting, maybe. Just… something.
He got out of bed around three in the morning when he really couldn’t pretend to sleep any more. Everything about being in this house was so familiar, and so strange at the same time. This bed—the one he’d slept in for the last few years before he left for uni—was nowhere near as comfortable as his one back at his flat. Things were quieter here than the constant hum of traffic he was used to; any noise muffled more by the falling snow.
Very quietly, Brandon got up and got dressed in jeans and a hoodie, thick socks, and a knitted beanie hat that covered his ears. He knew how to sneak downstairs and avoid the stair that always creaked, and, leaving everything else behind, he snuck down the alleyway to the bakery.
He didn’t have a key, but there was one behind the loose brick next to the door, and the new owner either didn’t know about it or had kept the hiding place because the old key was still there.
Brandon let himself in and carefully shut the door.
And found himself standing in his dad’s kitchen.
Nothing much had changed, and that was confusing to a part of his brain that knew this place belonged to someone else now. Technically he was trespassing. Brandon wasn’t sure what he was expecting… just… not this. Maybe a new lick of paint, or the old cookbooks on the shelf to have been taken down, or even for the aprons hung on the flour-dusty hooks to be different.
But it was the same as he remembered, right down to the little details, and his heart suddenly ached for all the things that he’d never be able to do again.
His dad had died eighteen months ago, just weeks after his diagnosis with prostate cancer. Brandon sometimes thought it was a good thing that his dad had never really suffered or been in any pain, but losing his dad was one of the hardest things he’d ever experienced. Their family had owned the bakery—this bakery—going back generations.
Brandon had worked here ever since he was tall enough to reach the counters. After school he’d come back and help his mum clean down the shop area and then help his dad set up for the next day, earning his pocket money. His early life had been lived in these rooms, and the relief that someone hadn’t decided to rip it all out and start over sank deep into his bones.
He didn’t bother turning a light on; the moon was bright outside and he could move around in here with his eyes closed. There was a big island in the middle of the bakery that had a marble top—for making dough and pastry and cake decorating. The ovens lined one side of the room, all off now, and the racks for cooling and preparing were filled with the stock for tomorrow.
Brandon moseyed over and had a look. A lot of it was familiar and predictable: gingerbread biscuits, gingerbread cake, stollen, mince pies… no, two different types of mince pies, already filled with glistening, jammy fruit.
He wasn’t entirely sure why he was breaking and entering into the bakery in the middle of the night. There was nothing stopping him coming by in the morning, and if the new owner was as nice as his mum seemed to think he was, Brandon might even get an actually legal tour back here.
But that wasn’t really what he wanted.
When he was really little, and “helping” his dad mostly meant just getting in the way, Brandon would sit where two counters met in the corner of the room, right next to the window. It meant a huge waste of counter space, but it kept him out of the way and meant he had a good view of the tree outside and the birds that lived in it.
For very childish, heartsore reasons, Brandon toed off his shoes and hoisted himself up onto the counter. He closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around his knees, and tried very, very hard not to cry.
Alex often thought of this time of day as “ungodly o’clock” in the morning. And he was a morning person.
Sometimes, during the very peak of summer, he would walk to work when the sun was coming up, and that was a nice feeling. He liked the idea of starting his day when the world was stretching and yawning and coming to life with him. Those days were long gone though, and wouldn’t be back for a while yet.
There was something very satisfying about midwinter too. Just not when he started work at four in the morning and at this time of year, put in a solid twelve hour day.
He let himself into the bakery and stopped short.
Because there was a man sleeping on his counter.
There was a man, asleep, on his counter.
A few things flashed through Alex’s mind at the same time: stranger! Thief? Homeless person looking for shelter? Runaway? Stranger!
He froze, entirely unsure of what to do next. But he must have made some kind of noise, because the man looked up, and jumped out of his skin.
“Holy shit!”
“Woah.” Alex held his hands up and took a step back. “Are you okay? Do you need me to call anyone for you?”
“Shit,” the man said again, and pressed his hands to his face. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” Alex carefully took a step back, towards the door, just in case the guy turned violent and he had to run. “It’s okay.”
“I’m so embarrassed.” He slid off the counter and looked around for his shoes. “I really am sorry.”
Now Alex could see him better, the stranger didn’t seem so intimidating. He was tall, with thick dark hair, and very deliberate stubble on his jaw. He didn’t look like a homeless person. He was wearing nice clothes and a heavy hoodie.
“I should go,” he said.
“You want anything first?” Alex gestured to the stacks of food. “Help yourself.”
He ran his hand over his face. “Shit. I suppose I should explain.” He cleared his throat. “I’m Brandon. David’s son.”
Suddenly everything clicked into place. “You’re Brandon,” Alex echoed. “Oh.”
“Yeah. I won’t do this again, I promise. I suppose I just wanted to come in here one last time, before….”
“It’s fine.”
Alex really wasn’t awake enough to fully process everything that was trying to find space in his head. It was still so damn early.
“You want a coffee?” he said quickly.
Brandon froze. “Coffee?”
“Yeah. Hot bean juice. I need some.”
Christmas with Danny Fit by Amy Lane
KIT ALLEN moved out of his mother’s house one week after he started his new workout regimen, two months after he got his new personal assistant at work, and six weeks before Christmas. He was thirty years old, and these events had more in common than first meets the eye—all except the Christmas.
Jesse, his new assistant, was a beautiful man, with hair the color of dark honey and sloe brown eyes. He keyboarded like the wind, understood the internet like a prodigy, ran interference when Kit was getting work done, and prodded him to get up out of his seat and move around when he’d done too much work and had to force himself to remember to breathe. He was constantly trying to anticipate Kit’s needs, and since Kit didn’t seem to need much, he was constantly trying to bring Kit things—coffee, water, a funny YouTube.com video he’d never seen—that Kit hadn’t known he needed but apparently couldn’t live without.
Something about Jesse made Kit supremely aware of the fact that he was forty pounds heavy and had never gotten laid.
It wasn’t that Jesse tried to make Kit feel uncomfortable. In fact, just the opposite. Jesse went out of his way to be friendly, and since Kit had always been a shy, awkward sort of boy and then a reserved, awkward sort of man, overtures of friendship were foreign to him.
“Would you like me to get you coffee, Mr. Allen?”
“Uhm….” And suddenly another cup of coffee sounded both wonderful and frightening.
“How about some water? Water’s good for you, you know.”
“Uhm….” It was the first time in his life he’d ever felt that something good for him would actually seem good for him.
Jesse would offer to eat lunch with him when he worked at his desk, and Kit would freeze, absolutely stunned. Should he make conversation? Should he work on the tables and figures he’d stayed in his office to finish in the first place? Holy crap! How was he supposed to behave when Jesse sat and chatted to him about television and movies and….
Wait a minute.
“Yeah,” Kit said in bemusement, “I thought David Tennant was the best Doctor Who. How could you not? But I think Matt Smith has a lot of potential—he’s got this wise thing about him that makes him seem a little older, you know?”
Jesse’s face lit up, and he looked a little surprised as well. “Absolutely—and I think Amelia Pond is adorable. Donna Tate seemed like a lot of fun too—probably less likely to try to get into my pants, which would be more comfortable. So tell me, do you like Torchwood too?”
As it turned out, both of them shared a deep and abiding love of science fiction television, starting with Doctor Who and moving on to Torchwood, Being Human, Firefly, Dollhouse, Stargate (SG-1, Atlantis, and Universe!), Battlestar Galactica, Babylon 5, Warehouse 13, Eureka, and even that most holy of holies, Star Trek, all five incarnations, including the only spin-off not to make it seven seasons, Enterprise.
After that first week, lunch became less and less about doing work at his desk and more and more about talking about sci-fi with Jesse.
It was at the end of the second month that Kit saw Jesse with some of the other men from his building, playing basketball in the yard across the street from their accounting firm in the slanting November sun. He’d waved, and Jesse had waved back, but after a couple of months of working together—and eating lunch and yearning, at least on Kit’s part—Kit was not quite sure if he was comfortable enough to go up and say anything.
