White Christmas

By Tiriel

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Ed/Bud

Warnings: language, general grinchyness, nothing more to see here, folks, move along.

Disclaimer: The characters of this story don't belong to me...they came from the mind of James Ellroy, then got some modifications for the film from the minds of Curtis Hanson and Brian Helgeland...I promise to take care of them and put them back when I'm done. Please don't sue me, all I have are student loans.

Spoilers: Takes place post-film, but no major spoilers.

Summary: uhhhhh...it's Christmas in the City of Angels...oh, wait, that's been done. Let's see. Christmas, Bud and Ed, and sex. Do you really need to know anything more?

Thanks to Zoe Rayne and Meg for the lovely images on the way back from Friscon, which gave me inspiration for bits of this. Thanks to Aithine and to Ellie for telling me to keep going.

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White Christmas

by Tiriel

"Fuck Bing Crosby."

And merry goddamn Christmas. As a rule, Christmas was just an excuse for every son of a bitch on Bud's list to get liquored up and beat his wife. Bud hated Christmas. The tinsel and lights, the ribbons and wrapping paper, the pervert in the red suit, the goose, the pudding, all of it. And he hated the music most of all. Christmas music as a whole was a bunch of sentimental bullshit as far as he was concerned, and for Bing Crosby he held a special kind of loathing. Not because of his films or the personal faults attributed to him in Hollywood scuttlebutt, hell, he'd never even laid eyes on the man, but because of the music.

And the music was everywhere. White fuckin' Christmas. Like there was any such thing in L.A.. Mele Kalikimaka. That one had been playing when he'd first laid eyes on Lynn. She probably wouldn't have even remembered that, he didn't know, he'd never asked, but he remembered. One whole Christmas together, that's all they'd managed in Bisbee, and then Bud had hightailed it back to L.A., Lynn had moved on to San Francisco, both of them better off, neither of them able to settle after the things they'd seen and done.

What the hell kind of a name for a Christmas song was Mele Kalikimaka anyway? All Bud knew about Hawaii, other than Pearl Harbor, was that they had a lot of beaches there, and that filled his head with an image from the last movie he'd taken Lynn to see before they'd gone their separate ways. From Here to Eternity. That couple, rolling around on the beach, damned if he could remember their names.

But in his head the picture wasn't the people from the movie. It was him and Ed Exley. An image he would have laughed at if it didn't make him so damn hot. And that *did* make him laugh, a dark, dry, chuckle that echoed in the car. Who would have ever figured--Bud White, turned queer. He didn't want it, didn't like it--well, except for *that*, *that* he wanted *and* liked--and, hell, half of the time he didn't even like Ed.

They just kept doing it all the same. And it always *was* the same. The beginning, at least. An invitation to stop by for a drink. Ed had invited him the first time, when he'd been back in town just a few days. They'd taken turns with the invitation ever since, once or twice a week. But they'd never finished a drink together. Not one. Perfectly good Scotch spilled on the floor when one of them couldn't take it any more and lunged at the other. Whenever they were alone they wound up fucking. And all in all that was a fine state of affairs. Best lay he'd ever had, and whether that said something about him or Ed or the two of them together, Bud couldn't say and wasn't going to try to figure out.

When it's Christmas, though, do you buy a gift for the man who sucks your cock? The man who's a much better kisser than you ever would have thought a man could be? The man you once looked down on as a by-the-book pussy and a snitch who had no business being a cop, but who has somehow turned into an equal? And if you do, what do you get him?

That was how Bud White came to be sitting in his car outside of Ed Exley's place, a full case of Scotch in the passenger seat his way of saying that he wanted this to keep going for a while. Wanted them to keep fucking and sucking--and yeah, kissing and talking, too, because after they'd gotten off Ed would always smile in a way Bud liked, liked a lot, and they'd talk for a while. They'd even given up on threatening to kill or ruin each other, and they were maybe getting to know each other in a normal way, not just the strange nonverbal way they'd understood each other ever since they'd worked together on the Nite Owl. And that was good, but also, to be honest, frightening in a way Bud couldn't explain.

So he sat in the car for a few minutes, looking at the Scotch, fiddling with the radio, trying to find one goddamn station that wasn't playing Bing fucking Crosby. With a snort of disgust, he turned off the radio, grabbed the case, stuffed his keys into his pocket, and went to the door.

There was no response to his knock, so he tried the knob. To his surprise, it turned. Left unlocked for his benefit, he supposed, because Ed had been expecting him, had asked him to "stop by for a drink." He walked in, put the Scotch down on the table, locked the door, and then he heard it. The sound of the shower, and as he walked closer he could hear Ed whistling. He dropped his jacket on the floor and took off his shoes. Loosening his tie, he walked into the bathroom just as Ed switched from whistling to singing.

"I'm dreaming of a White Christmas..." Careful emphasis on the "White."

Bud laughed, a sound that was rich to his own ears, and began to unbutton his shirt. Ed pulled back the shower curtain and beckoned.

"I brought some Scotch." Bud took off his shirt while Ed stood and watched.

Ed looked Bud up and down, then said slowly, deliberately, "Don't need it. Do you?"

A pause as his breath caught, then Bud answered, "Not really." His pants dropped to the floor.

"Then get in here before the water gets cold."

Bud stripped off the rest of his clothes and moved closer. Doing it like this, with intent, with no spilled tumblers of booze between them to let them pretend that they'd really just met for a drink, was strange. Different. Looked like Ed was sending the same message Bud had been trying to send by bringing the case of Scotch. Except Bud's plan had been to maintain the illusion. Ed's was to beat the shit out of it and drop it from a fourth floor window. At least it seemed that way to Bud, the lust hitting him like an uppercut to the jaw as he stepped into the shower.

He put both hands on Ed's shoulders, pushing him back toward the tiled wall, but Ed stood his ground, leaning forward to capture Bud's mouth in a hungry kiss. Bud pushed again, with his whole body this time, working one leg between Ed's and pressing him firmly against the wall. Ed rubbed against him, a sort of head-to-toe slither that made Bud's skin hot.

"Merry Christmas," Ed said as he pushed Bud back and turned around to face the wall.

"Fuckin' hate Christmas," Bud panted, his breathing louder in his own ears than the sound of the shower. He put a hand on the middle of Ed's back and pushed him down.

"Me, too." Ed took Bud's hint and got down on all fours. "But I like this."

"Yeah." Bud grabbed the soap and knelt behind him, the spray from the shower hitting his shoulders. "Me, too." He bit down hard on his lip to stay in control. A quick press with slick fingers, and he couldn't wait any longer. Yeah, this he wanted and liked.

He drove hard into the heat of Ed's body, the water around them almost cool by comparison. Bracing a hand on the wall, Bud reached to run his fingers over Ed's stomach and down to his cock.

"Oh, God, Bud," Ed gasped. "More."

Bud pulled Ed up and rocked back onto his heels. He closed his eyes, let his head fall back, and felt the water beating against his face. Ed groaned and fell forward, his cock throbbing in Bud's hand. Bud came just after, his straining muscles going liquid as he slumped against Ed.

They stayed there for a moment, catching their breath, then Bud moved back and stood up. Ed followed, and they rinsed off silently. Then Ed stepped closer and pulled Bud into an embrace.

"So how much Scotch did you bring?" His hand at the back of Bud's neck, Ed spoke directly into his ear.

Bud had the feeling that Ed already knew the answer to the question, but he responded anyway. "A case."

"That'll take us a while to work our way through."

"Yeah."

"Especially if we don't drink every time one of us stops by for a drink." Ed placed his other hand on Bud's lower back and pulled him even closer.

"Yeah," Bud breathed, their wet bodies pressed together.

"Might last all year." Ed leaned back to look him in the eye and smiled that big, toothy, post-fuck smile. Press-conference bright, that smile, but it was all for Bud.

"Yeah." Bud swallowed hard and glanced away quickly, meeting Ed's eyes again before adding, "If we're lucky."

"If it does, I'll buy the next case. Deal?" Ed looked intently at him.

Bud nodded, Ed reached behind him to turn off the shower, and they stepped out onto the rug. There was no snow, no tree, no wrapping paper, no tinsel, no ribbons, no lights, no goose, no pudding, no pervert in a red suit. No Christmas music either, thank God, and a case of liquor was the only present in the house. But maybe, just maybe, Bud realized as he took the towel Ed offered and followed him down the hall to the bedroom, maybe it was a merry Christmas after all.

The End.

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