Chapter Eleven #2
Damon hadn’t had any intention of doing so, even though it had never really felt like his parents’ room, but he found himself nodding anyway.
He’d never imagined that some things were better with the right person beside you, and just having Xander here helped.
It hurt too, but Damon was beginning to believe it was the sort of catharsis he needed to grow.
Even after therapy, he’d dragged all this baggage around with him—every inch of this house and the others he’d grown up in—but it was impossible to really move past it without ever looking at it.
“Are you sure?”
Damon sighed. “I don’t talk about this stuff, because part of how I’ve been sober is by pretending it didn’t happen. But it happened, and I can’t keep ignoring it forever.”
Reaching up, Xander’s hands cupped his cheeks, staring right into his eyes.
“If you didn’t ever want to talk about it, that’s your prerogative.
I don’t know everything you’ve been through, but figuring out how to stay sober makes you the bravest person I know.
So yeah, you can ignore it as long as you fucking want to. ”
It was impossible not to laugh at Xander’s indignant tone. He wasn’t going to let anyone judge Damon—even himself.
Damon pulled him close, hugging him tight. “You’re so great. How did I get this lucky?” he murmured into Xander’s shoulder. He wasn’t sure he wanted him to hear how he felt just yet, but it was also impossible not to say anything.
The honesty in Xander’s dark eyes was stark and bright. “I think that all the time.”
“You want to go to the Wharf? Stop by Ghirardelli?” Damon asked after a long moment where they just held each other.
He’d never expected to have anyone again, not with his emotional baggage and his alcoholism, and Xander was so miraculous, he just wanted to bask in him.
But they’d come to the city for a reason.
“Tomorrow we’ve got some appointments to look at equipment. ”
Xander slid away, right out of Damon’s grip. They weren’t perfect. Sometimes he still pulled away when Damon held him too tight. Another reason why he hadn’t confessed all his feelings yet.
“Appointments?” Xander lifted an eyebrow questioningly.
“The family name has a reputation people see coming from a long way off. I might not be my father, but being a Hess carries weight.”
“Right.” Xander, while really enjoying this house, didn’t seem to know how to accept that there were a lot of different facets of being a Hess. This house was definitely a benefit, but the expectations and strings attached could be a real bitch.
“The Wharf sounds great,” Xander said after a long pause. “We could swing by Boudin for lunch.”
Xander didn’t know why he’d suggested such a godawful tourist trap for lunch, but he’d sort of been feeling out this new Damon who’d emerged since they had arrived in San Francisco.
He was a Hess no matter where he was geographically, but standing in that elegant, insanely expensive townhouse, looking like he belonged even with his worn blue button-up and jeans, still bits of mud on the heel of his boots, had thrown Xander for a loop.
He wanted the Damon he knew back—this newer, richer, darker Damon wasn’t someone he quite recognized and he definitely didn’t know how to deal with him.
It was even harder to convince himself that this Damon would happily publicly date someone like Xander. Someone who up until a few weeks ago had gotten his hands dirty on the regular in a kitchen. Someone who worked for an hourly wage.
Damon acted like it didn’t matter, but it mattered. At least to Xander. In his experience, only rich people thought money didn’t matter.
“Wow, it’s packed in here,” Damon said in a dismayed voice as he surveyed the packed Boudin café.
“It’s right by the Wharf,” Xander scoffed. “What were you expecting?”
“I don’t know,” Damon said, as they shuffled in the available next few feet, adding themselves to the winding line that went up to the bank of order stations. “It’s been years since I’ve been here.”
“Packed, but good bread,” Xander said. “Ready to carb load?”
Damon grinned, a spark of the man Xander had started falling for emerging. “Would I ever turn a good carb down?”
Xander had never seen him hesitate over anything he ate, but he also worked hard, and there were lots of instances where Damon mentioned hitting the weights.
And Xander had definitely seen evidence that he didn’t need to worry about carbs.
Not with Damon’s flat, muscular stomach, and rippling biceps and thighs.
A spike of arousal echoed through Xander as he thought of what they were probably going to do in that gigantic raft of a bed later tonight.
He’d wanted them to go slow at first, but now that they’d started, Xander had discovered he wasn’t just hungry, he was starving.
“I’m going to get the chowder bread bowl and the roast beef sandwich,” Xander announced, making his position on carbs very clear.
Damon nodded, and as they finally got up to the ordering counter, he listed off a similar order, and after Xander ordered, whipped out his credit card.
When Xander shot him a look, Damon shrugged and mouthed, “tax deduction,” in his direction.
Xander didn’t think the IRS was going to necessarily approve of a tax-deductible trip in which they hopefully took advantage of that incredible townhouse to have sex on every single surface available. But he guessed if they produced enough receipts for the restaurant it wouldn’t matter.
Besides, a Hess would have a skilled and aggressive accountant on their payroll, Xander told himself as he went to find a table.
He finally located one in the faraway corner of the busy café, and they ate quickly without much conversation.
“You want to do the Wharf or Ghirardelli?” Damon asked as they walked back outside.
“You pick,” Xander said. He was full from lunch, but he could always make room for chocolate.
“I haven’t ever really done all this tourist stuff,” Damon confessed. “My father would have hated it.”
“Wharf it is,” Xander said. It hadn’t escaped his notice that Damon had mentioned his father more in the last twelve hours than he had during the whole time they’d known each other.
He considered bringing it up, but he also didn’t want to push Damon.
He was trying to open up, and he didn’t need to be pried open, all his bloody, dark insides spilling out. He’d tell Xander when he was ready.
Damon reached out and gripped his hand, nearly stopping Xander in his tracks and definitely vetoing any questions about his dad. “Is this okay?” he asked, a little self-consciously.
“Of course it’s okay,” Xander said. He didn’t ask if it was okay for Damon, because he’d been the one to reach out. But then Xander had made it very damn clear that he wasn’t into dating someone who he couldn’t take out in public.
He’d done that once before, and gotten burned, and he wasn’t into repeating the experience. Especially not with someone he could really care about like Damon.
“I know we’re not the most traditional of couples,” Damon said, and he still sounded nervous. His palm was warm and a little damp. Nerves? Xander wasn’t sure. “But I think this is nice sometimes.”
Xander spent a lot of time trying to pretend he didn’t need this sort of wooing—hand-holding, extravagant trips to the city, fancy dinners, expensive kitchen equipment—but that was a total lie. He liked it. He liked the certainty it gave him that he was who Damon wanted.
“I like it,” he admitted to Damon.
“So I shouldn’t stop?” he teased back. “You’re not gonna get sick of me?”
Never. But that was too soon to say, much too serious much too soon. “I’ll make sure to let you know if I do,” Xander retorted lightly.
But he felt all sorts of light and bright as they walked down along the bay to the Wharf.
He bought an ugly nautical-themed magnet, claiming he was going to stick it on one of the industrial-sized fridges they were buying this weekend.
Even when Damon let go of his hand in one of the more crowded touristy stores, his hand lingered on the small of his back, leading him without being asshole-ish or obtrusive about it.
And Xander couldn’t help it. He kept seeing the future, laid out before them like a beautifully varied Persian carpet, dotted with milestones and the good and a little bit of the bad, but with love woven through it consistently and constantly.
The more he imagined it, the more real it became, and the harder he continued to fall.
By the time they returned to the townhouse, a little sunburned and stuffed full of Ghirardelli’s ice cream sundaes, Xander was searching for some balance. Something to prevent the other shoe from dropping quite so hard.
It made perfect sense to drop their bags in the master bedroom, and for Xander to tackle Damon, somewhat successfully, to the bed.
“What are you doing?” Damon asked with a laugh as Xander settled over his big, muscular thighs. Thighs he definitely intended to get between very, very soon. Like right now soon.
“What,” Xander said, dipping down to plant a kiss on Damon’s lips, “do,” he repeated the action, feeling Damon smile under his mouth, “you think I’m doing?”
“I have a few theories,” Damon drawled as Xander propped himself back up with a palm to his lover’s chest.
“Oh?” Xander used that hand to start popping open the buttons on Damon’s shirt, slowly revealing the worn, thin white tank that he was wearing underneath.
“Jesus,” he exclaimed in a hushed tone, reverently stroking up and down the fabric that left very little to the imagination.
Shirtless Damon was a revelation—there was no question of that—but with the dips and shadows outlined in the tight, nearly transparent cotton, he left Xander’s mouth dry.