Forgiveness
Gunn is the only one of them who hasn�t come around to threaten him or express his sense of the unforgivable, and somehow that feels like the worst sting of all. Angel had tried to kill him, true, but really, Wes had been expecting that, in his own dim, morphine-dampened way he�d expected the pillow, the rage, the utter lack of forgiveness in spite of the soul, perhaps because of the soul. If Angel had been Angelus he wouldn�t have felt the betrayal so sharply, now would he.
And Fred�s sense of betrayal he could understand, her broken faith in his abilities as an expert, his fallen professionalism as though no one had ever been fooled by a forged prophecy before. It hurt, but he understood.
Gunn, though. The one face he�d expected to see when he emerged from the endless black in a world of hospital sheets and humming machinery, the one person who�s forgiveness he�d never questioned his right to, had never visited. Neither to berate nor to show support. Nothing. Having to take a taxi back to his empty flat, lacking any name to give to the well-meaning fool of a doctor, knowing in his blackened soul that his mistaken attempt at heroics had left him with no one. Gunn had called him one of his own, had said I�ve got your back in a way that Wesley had assumed wouldn�t end. He�d seen the betrayals excused by Gunn, seen his former gang turn against him and Gunn reacting with a regretful frown not because he hated them but because a part of him wished he could go back. It was like instant forgiveness, because Gunn had fought with these people, trained them, defended them, loved them.
And somewhere along the line Wesley had come to believe he shared the same bond with the younger man, had come to believe that his any action would be forgiven because hadn�t Gunn forgiven so much more in the others? That hatred hurt worst of all, burned in him when Fred�s recriminations only stung and Cordelia�s continued silence remained expected and understood. Gunn�s hatred burrowed into the growing lonely places that seemed almost eager to fill him in the dark nights, in the space of days after his release from the hospital, perhaps not too soon if he�d anyone at home to care for him, a stretch of empty time in which he barely moved and hardly bothered eating, every action a burden because really, he�d never had anyone but these people, and he�d never had a closer friendship, and he�d been doing the right thing.
He thought he�d been doing the right thing.
Justine�s knife beneath his skin didn�t hurt worse than the knowledge of his own failure, couldn�t possibly hurt worse than knowing it had all been a lie. It filled him, as he grew harder, and leaner, and tried his damnedest to stop caring about it all, to stop caring that even in the end, when he�d thought he was dying and thought that were he to survive they would understand, that in what he�d thought was his lowest point his only concern had been for Connor, and Angel, and his only need had been the need to explain his actions.
In this lonelier place he could admit his arrogance, his hubris, his na�ve self-assurance that of course forgiveness would come, that they would understand. That Gunn would still hold him a brother, and defend him as such. He could see the lies inherent in his earlier assumptions. Everything was so much clearer now, with the protestations of friendship lying in the metaphorical dust at his feet. But then Gunn came to him. Not for himself, or for the team, not to renew a friendship or offer forgiveness, but for Fred. And he thought that might hurt worst of all.