Jingle Bells.

It wasn't that the man had a bad voice, no, quite the opposite.

And in the normal circumastances Wesley would be happy to hear him sing...

But the circumstances were far from normal, and after fourteenth rendition of 'Jingle Bells' Wesley's brain threatened to shut down if Giles wouldn't shut up.

"You should go to bed," he suggested carefully, and one hopeful glint in emerald eyes later he was rolling his own. "To sleep," he clarified. "You're drunk."

"I most certainly am not," came the dignified reply, which would be much more convincing if the man wasn't starting to sway and didn't pout. "See, I'm not drunk, because I didn't drink anything," he pointed out happily.

Wesley sighed. He should know better than to reason with him now. He didn't.

"That may be true, Rupert, but you've encountered a Shled demon, and it infected you with its venom..." he let that sink in.

Giles seemed to ponder it for a moment, frowning in a manner Wes thought was cute but knew better than comment on that.

"I don't remember that," he announced finally.

"I shouldn't wonder, you were knocked out."

"Bugger," Giles expressed his feelings about the situation, concussion, state of drunkiness and life in general. Wesley wholeheartedly agreed with that eloquent assesment.

"Yes, much. Because of that you missed how we poured the whole bottle of whiskey inot you, to neutralize the toxins," Wesley continued, recalling Buffy's efforts to keep Giles' head immobile to allow Xander pour the liquid into Watcher's mouth... efforts that resulted in half of the bottle creating an interstingly smelling puddle on the carpet, and Giles getting four brand new bumps on his head.

"Bugger," Giles summarised his feelings about drinking a whole bottle and not remembering the fun that came with it. Then he thought that he was still drunk and he should make the most of it.

Wesley grimaced. Fifteenth rendition. He was beginning to really hate this song...

"Rupert, could you please stop?" he pleaded. "I love your singing but... could you please stop?"

"Oh?" Giles raised his eyebrow, coming to a sudden halt and gracefully, or at least in what would be graceful if it wasn't a little bit shaky, coming down to his knees in front of Wes. "Want to engage my mouth in a different manner?" he suggested politely, his eyes fixed on the level of Wes' crotch.

Wesley swallowed and closed his eyes. "I... uhm... you should go to bed," he repeated. "To sleep," he again added hastily. "Because you're drunk."

Now the previously seen pout was obviously only a teaser, because now Wesley was facing it's full blown version, complete with quivering lip and widely open eyes that would make any last puppy in the hound really proud. Giles' moved back to the couch, his shoulders slumpering, his head low. "I'm sorry..." he muttered. "Am spoling your Christmas..." he started, eyes fixed on the whiskey puddle on the carpet.

From giddy to horny to guilty in thirty seconds, surely a record. Wes moved to sit beside him, putting his arm around the other man's waist. "Don't, darling. It's most certainly not your fault, it's just that..." he stopped, partly to yell at himself for forgetting how sneaky Rupert could be if he put his mind into it, and partly because his speech ability was impaired when Giles' hand wandered up his thigh. "Ru..." he never finished, his mouth already occupied with kissing Rupert back.

He wondered briefly which one of them was drunk here, because the room started to spin for him, and Giles' hands and mouth were still devilishly accurate in their exploring... But he didn't mind, even when he found himself on still slightly wet carpet, his back arching, his moans swallowed by Rupert, who still tasted wonderfully, even with lingering taste od whiskey... it was a good whiskey after all.

And the bells jingled, all night long.