Los Angeles. Giles put his mug down over the word and eased a finger under his glasses to rub one eye. Los Angeles, city of anonymity and opportunity and fashionable clothing, bright lights and concealing shadows. Where else would a young woman go to disappear? Why had he squandered days on inquiries at the docks and the train station, nights combing the papers from surrounding towns, rather than calling Los Angeles? Had he learned nothing from that long, fruitless search for Buffy?
The knock on the door was a welcome interruption to his thoughts. He picked up his crossbow from where it lay ready on the buffet and slid back the cover on the peephole.
On the doorstep Giles found the last person he’d expected to see tonight. "Wesley?"
“Sorry to bother you, Giles.”
It was typical that the first words out of Wesley’s mouth be an apology, although the tone was a bit odd. Their last meeting had begun in a coffee shop and ended in his bed. They’d parted on extremely amicable terms, and had since had several very enjoyable telephone conversations. As far as he was aware, all was well between them.
Giles unbolted the door and opened it, his finger still curled round the trigger. Never again would he be caught defenceless. And there was Wesley, a dark jacket and khakis in place of his customary grey suit. It was clear that Los Angeles was leaving its mark on him. And that wasn’t all. As Giles stood back to admit Wesley without verbal invitation, he took in the evidence of what clearly had been a hell of a beating. “Christ, what’s happened to you?”
Wesley’s expression did something unfathomable. “What’s happened… Faith is what’s happened to me, Giles! Some warning would have been appreciated before she turned up to assassinate Angel, injure Cordelia, and…” He left it there.
Giles blinked. “Faith assassinated Angel?” Should he appear to be sorry for Angel’s death? He wasn’t. For the loss of Wesley’s friend, then?
“No. Wolfram and Hart hired her as a mercenary. What they didn’t count on was the fact that the one Faith was really intent on destroying was herself.”
“And did she?”
“No. Angel’s… rehabilitating her.” Wesley didn’t even try to disguise the bitterness.
“But she’s secured?”
“No, she’s staying with him, free to come and go as she pleases.”
“Wesley…”
“I know," he snapped. You don’t have to tell me, Giles.”
“That’s not good enough. If Faith is psychotic, and now, as you say, suicidal, and Angel isn’t taking proper precautions, we’ll have to take it out of his hands. You’ll have to contact the Council.”
Wesley gave a short, despairing laugh. “I’ve been asked to resign. The Council dispatched operatives to take Faith in, but they were more interested in Angel. In either case, I buggered up their attempts to harm either of them - for Angel’s sake, not Faith’s,” he qualified. “You could say my bridges have been very thoroughly burnt.”
“Christ.” He wouldn’t have thought Wesley had it in him.
“Quite. So as we’re on our own dealing with Faith, and I no longer have access to her Council files, I was wondering if you might be able to…”
It took precisely one second for Giles to decide. “Yes. Whatever you need.” If they were dealing with Faith alone, they’d need all the help they could get.
Suddenly Wesley was pressing his back to the wall as though for support. He closed his eyes in apparent disgust, and swallowed convulsively. He was deathly pale now, his voice a whisper. “I’m afraid I’m going to…” He doubled over and was violently sick all over the carpet.
For a moment Giles could only stare, but when Wesley retched again he pushed the door shut, hastily put the crossbow down, and laid a cautious hand on Wesley's back. If the rest of Wesley looked anything like his face, the pain of a firmer touch would probably push him into unconsciousness. “Steady,” he said uneasily.
Wesley shuddered and pulled in a noisy breath. “...god...” he panted. “So sorry...” The back of his neck was ash-grey, and he swayed dangerously.
“Shh. Breathe deeply.” Giles carefully closed one hand around Wesley's forearm, keeping the other on the small of his back, and guided him the few steps to the desk chair. “Put your head down. On your knees, if you can.”
“I-I...”
He pushed the dustbin between Wesley's feet. “Be sick again if you need to, just don't faint.”
As he'd hoped, the mere suggestion stiffened Wesley's spine. “I'm not going to faint,” he said, more clearly.
“Excellent. Keep your head down.” He glanced at the bile on the floor, then took Wesley's hand and felt for the pulse in his thumb. It was fast but strong. “Have you had any medical attention since...”
“Since my Slayer demonstrated her expertise in systematic destruction?” Wesley's temper seemed to be rising with his blood pressure. “As I had neither eight hours to spend waiting in a casualty ward, nor any desire to involve the police in Faith's situation, I've made do with tape and Cordelia's internet research. If the numbness in my arm doesn't improve, I'm to see my 'personal physician' to arrange an MRI.”
“The personal physician you don't have.”
“Yes. Goes along with the insurance, savings, and communication from you that I also don't have.” Wesley pulled his hand out of Giles'. “May I sit up now?”
“Slowly.” Giles moved so he could see Wesley's face. His pallor had improved somewhat, but anger and pain still tightened his jaw and shadowed his eyes. “I'll get the first aid kit. Stay there.”
“I don't need...”
“So vomiting on my carpet was purely an expression of dissatisfaction with my conduct, not pain and clinical shock and God knows what else? Stay there,” Giles repeated. He waited until Wesley lowered his head slightly in acquiescence, then turned. He leaned into the kitchen to flip the switch on the electric kettle before fetching the kit, a basin, and a few clean towels from the bathroom.
Wesley glanced at the green box Giles put on the desk. “I see you’ve got the Council’s deluxe kit.”
Giles looked up from unpacking it. “Yes. Haven’t you?”
“Couldn’t afford it.”
“They gave me this one. I just replace the perishables from time to time.”
“They never offered me one.”
Giles had no reply. It seemed that the Council had been determined to send Wesley out into the world as comprehensively unprepared as possible. “Right, then. Let’s have a look at you, shall we?”
“Actually, Giles, I’d rather do it myself.”
“Hold up your hands,” said Giles. Wesley obeyed, flushing as they shook. “I believe my point is made.” He put his hands on Wesley’s collar, which prompted a violent flinch. “Sorry.” This was more than a simple beating, then. Very gently, he worked the jacket from Wesley’s shoulders, down, and off. He was careful not to remark on the amount of blood that had soaked the shirt beneath.
“I’m going to take your shirt off, Wesley, is that all right?” He remembered being asked the very same question by a surprisingly sensitive emergency room doctor after two days of utter helplessness last year. He’d been so grateful for even an illusion of control over what was done to him.
On Wesley’s nod, Giles went ahead in triage mode, as he always did when Buffy presented him with injuries sustained on patrol. Wesley’s face was badly bruised. There was a long, encrusted cut on his cheekbone, and a shallower one – thank God – on his neck. Working down, there were more cuts on his shoulders, chest, and stomach, too wide to be from a knife. He glanced up into Wesley’s eyes, noting a certain numbness in his expression. “Glass?”
A nod.
“You’ve been kicked in the stomach, yes?”
Wesley gave a sickly smile. “You can almost tell her shoe size.” Giles pressed a suspicious looking area over his ribs. Wesley made a sharp noise of pain, then flushed.
“Sorry.” Giles glanced up. “No need to be embarrassed.” Wesley turned white as Giles pressed harder, but he didn’t make a sound.
Progressing downwards, Giles hesitated. “What about below the belt?”
A pause long enough to raise suspicion, and a nod.
“Do you think it’s serious?”
“No,” Wesley said quickly.
Giles wasn’t convinced. “Any blood?” No response. “Was it internal or external, or both?” he questioned gently.
Wesley’s grimace indicated both pain at the memory, and intense embarrassment.
“Wesley…”
“No, Giles.”
Giles let it go for the moment. He stood up, and began examining Wesley’s right shoulder. Of what he’d seen so far, this looked to be the most serious injury. He rubbed his hands together, then pressed them to his own chest for a moment to warm them before touching Wesley's shoulders, moving his fingers lightly over the shoulder blades and the clavicle, then the shoulder joints themselves, looking for asymmetry. “What did she hit your shoulder with?”
“Her heel.” Wesley answered, his voice utterly flat. “Her range of motion was quite impressive, really. Even for a slayer it's no easy matter to bring your foot down on someone's shoulder, even someone seated.”
“How did she have your arms?”
Wesley started to move, then hissed.
Giles touched an unbruised patch of his back to still him. “Behind you?”
“Tied at the wrist.” Wesley moved his good arm to demonstrate.
Giles drew back so Wesley wouldn't feel him shiver when the position, and the sight of rope burns on the wrist, stirred his memory. He flexed his fingers and got back to his examination. “I don't think it's dislocated. Probably a first or second degree separation, though the numbness suggests there's been some damage to the blood vessels, and possibly the nerves.” He moved around the chair and held out his hands. “Squeeze my fingers. Good, no one-sided weakness. Close your eyes.”
Wesley looked at him sharply.
“I'm going to see where, if anywhere, you're lacking sensation in your arm.”
He gave a tiny nod and closed his eyes, answering in monosyllables as Giles probed as gently as possible.
“I don't think there's any nerve damage,” Giles said at length. “The tingling here,” he touched Wesley's bicep, “is most likely from the broken blood vessels. I'll put some ice on that while I take care of the cuts.”
The kettle howled, and Wesley flinched. Giles touched his knee, then picked up the basin and went to the kitchen. He made a mug of hot, sweet tea and put hot water in the basin, then got an ice pack from the freezer and carried everything back to where Wesley sat at the desk. “Here.” He offered the mug, keeping hold of it until Wesley had it in both hands and showed no sign of dropping it. “Drink that.” He wrapped the ice bag in a towel, then laid it carefully over the purple-black bruising on Wesley's right shoulder. He wrung out a flannel in the hot water and held it against one of the long cuts on Wesley's stomach. “Sorry,” he said, when Wesley shivered. “The ice can come off in ten minutes.”
“You're very competent,” Wesley said dully.
“Just the Council medical course. They did let you take that, I presume?”
Wesley went on as if he hadn't heard. “She even said so. None of it would have happened if you'd been her Watcher, and I'd had Buffy.”
Giles looked up at Wesley's blank face. “That's not true.” He dabbed carefully at the edges of the cut. “Faith was troubled long before either of us met her.”
“She wasn't a murderer.”
“Not that I know of.” Giles put the damp cloth aside and opened an antiseptic wipe. “This may sting.”
Wesley hissed once at the touch of the alcohol, then was quiet. “She wasn't a murderer,” he said again. “Before she met me.”
“She wasn't on a Hellmouth before she met you. Us.” Giles frowned and checked Wesley's pulse again. “Drink your tea.”
Wesley stared at the mug for a moment, then sipped. His color wasn't getting any better, and he was breathing too fast, still too close to shock. He needed to be lying down and warm, Giles thought, but for that at least either his back or his chest would have to be properly bandaged. “Do you think you can make it upstairs? You’ll need to be lying down for the next bit.”
Giles was gratified to see something approaching amusement in Wesley’s eyes, though he made no comment. Giles bent and put Wesley’s good arm across his shoulders, and helped him up. The stairs were slow work, but a necessary evil. When at last they reached the loft, Wesley leaned against a chair for support while Giles turned the covers down. He straightened up and suggested, as clinically as possible, that Wesley would probably be more comfortable if he took his trousers off. Without waiting for a reply, he went back downstairs to gather up the supplies he’d need, and put the kettle on again to make Wesley a hot water bottle.
When he returned to the bedroom, Wesley was sitting on the bed in his boxers, and Giles could see the bruises down his legs – Christ, it looked as though she’d even given his shins a good kicking – and the rope burns on his ankles. Immediately, he was engulfed by a colossal wave of guilt. His reluctance to help Angel had contributed to this. He should have thought to… No, if he was honest, he had thought of calling Angel, and had rejected the idea. He’d acted unprofessionally, and he was lucky that Wesley hadn’t paid for it with his life.
As Wesley was sitting up, Giles took the opportunity to clean the raw contusions on Wesley’s ankles and wrists, smooth in some salve, and bandage them. He worked arnica into the bruises on his legs. When he reached the hem of Wesley’s boxers, he asked once again if anything needed to be done there. Wesley closed his eyes and shook his head. Giles accepted it, again, for now, and moved on to wash and dress the cuts on his back. He concentrated very hard on the job at hand, and did his very best not to recall the burning chafe of ropes about his own wrists and ankles, the bite of jagged glass in his skin.
Wesley dug the heel of his hand into his eyes and rubbed. He wouldn’t last much longer.
“Back to the ribs,” said Giles. “How’s your breathing?”
Wesley focused on it for a moment. “Fine.”
“Have you coughed up any blood?”
“No.”
Giles took the stethoscope from the kit and warmed the earpiece in his hand before pressing it gently to Wesley’s back. “Take a deep breath and hold it.” Wesley complied, several times, as Giles moved the instrument over him, listening for any indication of damage to his lungs or heart. He took the stethoscope off. “Your lungs are fine,” he said. “Lie down for me.” Interestingly, Wesley flushed at this, but he obeyed, slowly. It was painful to watch. When he was down, Giles pulled the duvet up a bit, so that he was covered from the waist down. To give them both a short break, he went back downstairs to make Wesley’s hot water bottle.
When he returned with it, wrestling it into its cover, Wesley smiled at the pattern. “Flying sheep.”
Giles grinned, relieved at the attempt at lightness. “Flying sheep. Robson sent it. He said it was either that, or ‘Barbie’.”
“Ah. Good choice, then.”
“Indeed. I already have the ‘Barbie’ one.” Giles put the bottle down by Wesley’s feet, and moved to sit beside him on the bed, hoping that the laughter had relaxed him a little. He handed Wesley a glass of water and some painkillers, which he gulped down gratefully. “I’m just going to check your ribs again. It might hurt a bit. Or a lot,” he admitted. “I’ll try to be quick.” He examined the injuries as thoroughly as he could, trying to ignore Wesley’s occasional shift and gasp as he probed deeply, feeling for misalignments or lumps.
“Right. Well, as far as I can tell, there are two definitely cracked, quite possibly broken ribs on the right side. More may be cracked, I can’t tell, but the rather spectacular bruising suggests that may be the case. Strapping them isn’t done anymore; current thinking is, you’re better off with rest and some bloody strong painkillers, which you’ve just had. The medication will also help to relieve the inflammation in your shoulder. We’ll get you a sling for that tomorrow, and it should be all right in a couple of weeks.”
Wesley blinked glassily, and Giles wasn’t sure how much he was taking in anymore. “I’ll just finish dealing with these cuts, and then you can get some sleep.”
Wesley nodded. “Thank you. Didn’t sleep last night,” he admitted with some reluctance.
Wesley’s pathetic self-recriminations were an all too recognizable mirror of his own, from that time. Watchers were well-trained to resist interrogation and torture, but nothing in their training prepared them to deal with the aftermath. One was expected to simply get on with it, or else contact a Council counselor – which would have resulted in being recalled from active duty, at the very least. After a moment, Giles offered, “I didn’t sleep either, after I was tortured. Not for a long time.” He’d wandered the house in an exhausted, numb fog, taking too many painkillers in an effort to keep the fog from lifting. When it had, finally, lifted, the violence of his mood swings had frightened the life out of Willow and Xander as they took turns babysitting him under the auspices of trying to locate Buffy.
Wesley turned bleary eyes on him. “I’m so sorry, Giles.”
“What for? It wasn’t your fault.”
“What you’d been through. Should’ve been more sensitive to it… I did read about it in your files, before I was sent to Sunnydale, but I was afraid to… I-I didn’t know how to…” he frowned, fighting his own awkwardness and guilt on top of the medication.
“I wouldn’t have known how to bring it up either, had I been in your place, and there was no reason you should have,” Giles offered. He packed up the kit and threw the bloodsoaked wipes into the bin. “Try to relax and get some sleep now, Wesley. We can talk in the morning.”
“But where will you sleep? I’m in your bed.”
“I’ll sleep in my bed too. Too old for the chair, I’m afraid. Is that all right with you?”
“Yes. Yes, that would be… yes. Thank you.”
Giles tried and failed to come up with a definitive interpretation of Wesley’s response. "I'll put your glasses on the bedside table, all right?" He reached to take them off.
Wesley turned his head away, then slowly back. "Right." He blinked up at Giles for a moment before letting his eyes close. "Lost one pair already this week..."
"The lights will be on," Giles told him, so he wouldn't have to ask.
"Hm-mm."
He sat, watching Wesley's face relax bit by almost-imperceptible bit as the drug and the exhaustion had their way. Guilt and regret stabbed him again. He'd so blithely assured himself that all his own nightmares of torture were in the past, but the fact that he'd so quickly and thoughtlessly dismissed the idea of speaking to Angel - and even to Wesley, because of his association with Angel - suggested otherwise.
"Giles?"
He swallowed. "Yes?"
Wesley moved his head slightly. "Nm-hm..."
Giles watched him carefully for half an hour, until he didn't stir at the sound of his name or a touch to his hand, until his breathing slowed and his lips parted slightly in heavy slumber. Giles drew the sheet up to Wesley's chest, but left the duvet folded down to his waist so as little weight as possible would rest on the injured shoulder. Then, moving slowly and quietly, he eased up off the bed and made his way down the stairs.
Cleaning the partially-dried vomit from the carpet was unpleasant but something of a relief - it distracted him from the problem of what to do next. When Giles had finished, he checked on Wesley again, then sat down at the desk and paged through his address book to find the tiny slip of paper with a Los Angeles number written in Buffy's looping hand, in her favourite purple ink.
The phone rang for so long that he began to relax, but at last there came a click at the other end.
"Angel."
His left hand shook where it lay on the desk; he balled it into a fist. "Giles here."
"Hey."
"Wesley's here with me. He may stay a few days. Faith left him in rather poor shape." The words felt like blocks of wood in his mouth. "Which brings me to the question of where is Faith?"
"Not in Sunnydale. Not your problem." Angel's words were ice. "How's Wes?"
"Not collapsing on your doorstep, not your problem."
"He said he was all right," Angel murmured, after a long moment.
"I would imagine that you could have smelled through that from the next county."
Silence. "Faith's in jail."
"Oh, that's sure to be a success."
"She turned herself in. We... she wants to change."
"A night trading torture tips with you brought her to that conclusion, did it?"
"If you wanted to be partners on this, you could have called me. You could have tracked her to LA. Hell, you could have come up today with Buffy. But don't sit there behind your books and pretend you've got the answers."
Giles’s jaw clenched. “How ironic, that you should be claiming the moral high ground.”
There was a pause. “Giles, I don’t expect you to be my pal, but you could at least have considered Wesley and Cordelia. I don’t think I’m the only person you’re mad at, do you?”
“Good night, Angel.” Giles put the phone down without waiting for a reply, and moved quietly into the kitchen. He’d been so deep in his book that evening, he’d not bothered to stop for dinner. All that research in aid of helping people he didn’t know, who wouldn’t even know they’d been helped, and when he’d really needed to put the sodding book down and make a call, he’d failed. He was a coward, and his cowardice could have got Wesley killed.
With a deep sigh, he took out a tin of beans and a can opener. He put a saucepan on, dumped in the beans, some Lea and Perrins, and a bit of rosemary. He stuck two pieces of bread in the toaster, and waited for it all to heat up. He resisted the urge for scotch. He was too angry to drink, and he needed to be sober for Wesley.
He faffed about in the kitchen, tidying up, until the food was done. He put the plate on the counter, looked up, and saw Wesley sitting on the stairs.
“Wesley, are you all right?”
Wesley smiled ruefully. “I just wanted a bit of company. Pathetic, I know.”
“Not at all. I’ve just made beans on toast. Would you like some? You haven’t had anything in your stomach for a while; a bit of this might help to stabilize you.”
On Wesley’s hesitant nod, Giles transferred half the food to another plate. “Eat it slowly.” Wesley walked unsteadily to the counter, and they ate in silence. Wesley’s pupils were blown; his mind was probably blessedly foggy, thanks to the drugs.
“I told her she’d never hear me scream.”
Giles stopped eating. He nodded, but didn’t push for more information than Wesley was prepared to give. “I’ve spoken to Angel, let him know you’re here. Apparently Faith’s turned herself in. She’s going to prison.”
“I did scream, though.”
“Wesley…”
“I tried not to.”
Giles nodded.
“All that training.” Wesley gave a mirthless smile.
“Nothing could have prepared you for that.” He’d certainly found it to be so.
“And you know, up to the moment she began cutting, I actually believed she could change.” He shook his head disgustedly. “Can you imagine how naive I must have been to still have that kind of…” he smiled. “Faith?”
“These were exceptional circumstances. There are certain things we must hold onto, no matter what, and belief in basic human goodness is one of them.” He thought, but did not add, ‘otherwise, what’s it all for?’ Neither of them were up to answering that question just now.
“I screamed,” Wesley repeated, as though still attempting to process what had happened.
“So did I,” said Giles.
Wesley blinked up at him. “You did?”
He nodded. “And a good deal afterwards, as well.”
“I didn’t know.”
“It wasn’t something I advertised. The Council would have had me retired on the spot. Only Willow and Xander, poor things, ever saw me like that, and then only once. Even Buffy doesn’t know. In fact, we’ve never discussed what happened to me.”
“Have you discussed it with anyone?”
“Not until now.”
Wesley nodded. “Thank you.”
The meal finished, as it had begun, in silence. Giles washed up, waving off Wesley’s game but impossible offers of help. “Back to bed with you.”
“Are you coming this time?”
“Yes, I’m coming, Wes.”
Again, progress up the stairs was slow, but Wesley made it more or less under his own power. Giles helped him in, then got ready for bed himself. Sharing his bed was a rare experience these days, and he couldn’t help but think of the last time he and Wesley had done so. That time, he’d been the one in need. It hadn’t been the first time they’d taken comfort in one another, but even then he’d detected a new steel in the man. He’d been more confident, more demanding, more in control, and when Giles had tried to shock him with a bit of a show of force, Wesley had surprised him by becoming rock hard. Giles had played along, gladly, though whether Wesley was trying to prove something to himself, or to Giles, he wasn’t sure. The two of them had spent their lives trying to prove themselves, so it could have been anything.
“You can turn out the light,” said Wesley.
Giles complied. He turned on his side, facing Wesley, and covered his hand with his own, whispering, “I’m here, Wes. Sleep well.”
Still under the influence of the painkillers, Wesley seemed to drop off to sleep almost immediately. Giles lay awake for some time, trying to move as little as possible to avoid jostling Wesley, but sooner than he expected he found himself dozing, and he fell asleep to Wesley’s quiet breathing.
***
When Giles woke early the next morning, he was pleased to find Wesley still sleeping soundly. He slipped carefully out of bed and went downstairs to make tea and retrieve his copy of Fifth Business. He brought the pot and the book back upstairs and slid back under the covers, unable to suppress a small sigh of pleasure at feeling the warmth of another body there.
He read and drank his tea quietly for half an hour before Wesley lurched awake with a strangled gasp that turned into a grunt of pain. Giles caught him by his uninjured arm and urged him back against the pillows.
"It’s all right. You’re safe."
Wesley nodded, his eyes closed, his breath coming fast. "Sorry."
"It’s all right." Giles moved back, but Wesley grabbed his hand.
"Sorry," he said again, looking up at Giles.
He shook his head. "Don’t. I should be apologizing to you."
"No…" Wesley was still holding his hand tightly. "No." He pulled Giles’ hand against his chest, still looking at him with the same dazed hunger.
"You’re safe," Giles repeated. "She’s not here." He guessed, based on his own experience, that Wesley most needed that reassurance. The first time Giles had slept deeply enough to dream, he’d seen Jenny and Buffy dead on the floor of the mansion, heard Angel laughing, and woken choking on a scream that burst out when Xander came stumbling to help him. In the half-light, with his glasses off, one pale dark-haired masculine form was too much like another. He’d reopened two cuts and bruised his bad hand trying to get away, before Willow got the light on and he understood that it was over. "The dreams do get better," he said.
Wesley looked at Giles’ hand and very carefully traced one of the long, narrow white scars where a surgeon had repaired the splintered bone. "I understand," he said, looking up. "You couldn’t call him."
"I should have. It…"
"Giles," Wesley whispered.
"I should have thought that given her behaviour towards us she might…" he subsided at the touch of Wesley’s lips against his own. "Wesley?"
"Rupert." Wesley kissed him again, then drew back far enough to meet Giles’ eyes.
"You’re… I should…"
"Please," Wesley kept a tight hold on his hand. He slowly shifted his bad arm until he could touch Giles’ side, then his thigh. "Please?" He kissed Giles again, softly but deeply.
Giles stilled him with a light touch. “Wesley… Wesley. I’m not sure that now is the moment.”
“Oh, God, have I misread you?”
“No. No, quite the opposite – ”
“Then please, take me out of myself for a bit.”
Giles studied him, and examined his own, admittedly rather base at this moment, motives. His underlying fear was that this could do Wesley more harm than good. Given the psychological and physical trauma, and Wesley’s reaction when questioned about possible injury to his genitals, it was quite possible that he wouldn’t be able to perform, which would in turn open a Pandora’s box Wesley was certainly not prepared to cope with just yet.
As Wesley’s expression grew ever more anxious, Giles couldn’t bear it. He pushed his fingers into Wesley’s rumpled hair and drew him into a kiss. He would do everything he could to make this easy for him. Now, what worked for Wesley? He let his voice become a little rougher, a little lower, and a lot more authoritative. “Lie down.”
It had the desired effect. Wesley obeyed, his breathing a little quicker. It was a turn-on, certainly, but there were other benefits as well. On his back, he’d not be looking at his injuries, and there would be a limit to the amount of damage he could do himself. Additionally, the burden of performance rested more on Giles.
Giles took his time becoming reacquainted with Wesley’s body, allowing Wesley to do the same, seeking and finding one another again.
One final, firm kiss, and Giles began to work his way down, his mouth and hands exploring Wesley’s neck, collarbone, shoulders, arms, chest, stomach, and hips. The bandages were a hindrance, but Giles was careful, and Wesley didn’t seem bothered.
Finally, Giles could go no further without assistance. Slowly, he ran a hand over the bulge in Wesley’s boxers, cupped him, and gently squeezed.
Wesley gave a gasping little laugh, and his cock stirred under Giles’s hand. This was a considerable relief, but he didn’t let his mask drop. “Strip.”
It didn’t matter that Wesley was wearing only one item of clothing; the word, the tone, and the effect were the important thing. Wesley pulled his boxers down as far as he could, and Giles stood up to help with the rest. While he was up, he took the opportunity to retrieve the lube from the bedside table. “Legs wide open,” he said, a bit more gently.
After a moment’s hesitation, and a light squeeze of his knee from Giles, Wesley complied. Now that he could see the bruising Wesley had been reluctant to show, Giles wanted to be sure Wesley really was all right to be doing this. Distracted, his touches must have become more clinical.
“Why do I feel as though I’m at the doctor’s?” Wesley managed around Giles’s careful manipulations.
Giles raised his eyebrows. He reached into the medical kit by the bed, pulled out the thermometer, and held it up. “Perhaps I should take your temperature, then.” Wesley’d no time to do anything but stare in disbelief before the lubricated instrument was inserted.
Wesley’s face was red as a beetroot, but his cock was hardening by the second. When Giles withdrew the thermometer and then reinserted it, twisting gently, Wesley was making all the right noises. It was clear he wouldn’t last long, and a good indication that Faith hadn’t damaged him there.
When Wesley began to thrust, gently but firmly, Giles held him down. “Let me this time. All right?”
On Wesley’s nod, Giles bent his head and took him in his mouth. Wesley let out a loud groan, bucking insofar as Giles would allow, which wasn’t nearly as far as he would have liked, but would have to do for now.
Giles indulged himself, suckling and sucking, swirling his tongue over and under, drawing Wesley in as deeply as he could. He took his time, trying to make it last, bringing Wesley to the edge, but not quite tipping him over.
He glanced up. Wesley’s head was flung back as he lay helpless, red faced, straining for release. He was nearly there, and it was vital that this time be a success. Giles quickly withdrew the thermometer, replacing it with one, then two careful, slippery fingers. He pushed them in as far as he could, his insistence prompting a desperate keening from Wesley. Encouraged, Giles stroked and pressed without mercy, and then Wesley was crying out and trying not to, filling his mouth in long, warm spurts.
Giles kept up the pressure until Wesley subsided. He released Wesley’s cock with some reluctance, and sat up to take a better look at him. He looked utterly dazed.
“You all right?”
Wesley nodded. “Bloody hell, Rupert,” he whispered.
“And do you want the good news?” Giles grinned. “No fever.”
Wesley began to laugh.
Still grinning, Giles stretched out on the bed beside Wesley, pulling the sheet up to cover them both, then kissed the corner of Wesley’s mouth.
“Not so sure about that,” Wesley murmured. He slipped his good arm under and around Giles, pulling him close, and eased a hand under Giles’ t-shirt to stroke the small of his back. “I feel quite hot…”
“Really… that can’t be healthy…” Mindful of Wesley’s ribs, Giles laid one arm across his stomach. “I’ll have to keep an eye on you,” he said in Wesley’s ear.
“Hm… too kind.” Wesley's fingers moved lower, under the band of pants and over the curve of his buttock. He smiled when Giles caught his breath. "You’re quite hot as well,” he said, his voice husky as he moved to kiss Rupert again. Then he stiffened. "And oh god, am I bowling you over with morning breath?"
Giles managed, just barely, to not laugh directly in Wesley's face. "I suck you off and you worry about your breath?"
Wesley flushed. "Er." He shifted slightly.
"Keep your hand there," Giles ordered. He grabbed Wesley's wrist to ensure that he did, letting it go just as quickly when his fingers closed on gauze and Wesley's jaw tightened. "Sorry. Are..."
"Yes. Fine. Sorry."
"Shh." Giles kissed him, firmly, until the nervous tension was replaced with eagerness, and the light, shiver-inducing touch of Wesley's other hand on his chest.
Wesley made a soft, interested noise at the shiver and traced a spiral out from Rupert's nipple. "Much too hot for this." He pinched the cloth of Rupert's shirt, not so incidentally pinching the skin beneath.
Giles gasped as the pressure sent a jolt to his groin, raising the warm haze of arousal to something stronger. Apparently he was as needy as Wesley, and with far less reason. Well, perhaps not so very little reason. It had been months since Olivia, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd touched another person beyond a handshake. Not that he could remember much at all when Wesley pulled him closer and began to kiss the side of his neck, alternating lighter and firmer touches. The whisper of stubble against stubble was electrifying; the tickle of Wesley's breath over his damp skin made his breath come fast. He almost whimpered when Wesley pulled away.
"Take off your shirt, Rupert," Wesley ordered. "No," he went on, when Rupert moved to comply. "Properly. Get up." He leaned back on the pillows. "You've been staring at me; now it's my turn."
Reluctantly, Giles stood to peel off his t-shirt, then touched the drawstring of his pajamas and looked to Wesley for permission. At the nod, he loosened the string and pushed down shorts and trousers at once.
"Turn around. Yes, just like that. Isn't that better?" Wesley asked softly, when Giles faced him again.
Giles flushed slightly and looked down. The expression Wesley wore seemed at odds with his own unremarkable middle-aged body. "Uhm. Well." Giles took a hesitant half-step closer to the bed. "Chilly..." he mumbled.
"All right." Wesley turned down the sheet. He rolled onto his good side and edged closer when Giles got back in bed, close enough to rest his free hand on Giles' hip and brush his lips with a kiss.
Giles responded eagerly, returning the kiss, easing one knee between Wesley's knees, pressing his cold toes to Wesley's warm feet. When Wesley flinched and shivered, Giles smiled against his lips and pressed closer, deepening the kiss.
"Naughty," Wesley murmured, nipping gently at Giles' jaw. His hand slid over the curve of Giles' arse, then glided up his side.
"'S cold," Giles breathed. "You're not.... Oh." He caught his breath when Wesley's lips found a sensitive spot below his ear.
"No..." Wesley pressed a little closer, his lips and fingers waking every nerve under Giles' skin. "You made sure of that." He kissed down the carotid artery, then drew his tongue along Giles' collarbone, laughing softly in satisfaction when Giles gasped louder and almost bucked against him.
"Sorry..." Giles forced his hands to relax where they'd gripped Wesley too hard, tried to take his own increasingly insistent erection in hand, but Wesley was there before him, light, teasing fingers playing with the curling hair at the base of his cock.
"Shh," Wesley scolded, with another little nip that made Giles harder still. "My turn." His fingers tightened around Giles' length, and he lightly traced a line up the underside with his thumbnail before circling the sensitive head with the pad of his thumb.
Giles' lips were suddenly dry, and his breath turned harsh in his throat as he squirmed under Wesley's touch. His hips jerked of their own accord. "H-hurt you?"
"I'll take care of you," Wesley answered. He pressed closer with unexpected force, rolling Giles onto his back, kissing him fiercely while teasing his cock again.
Unable to hold back any longer, Giles thrust against Wesley's hand and his hip, heedless of anything beyond the hot ache inside and the sweet warm pressure of Wesley's body against his, Wesley's lips on his skin, the sound of his own rarely-spoken name in his ears. He thrust again, and again, and came with a breathless cry.
Wesley lay close beside him, kissing him softly over and over while the trembling passed and his breathing settled. “All right?” he asked, when Giles opened his eyes.
“Bloody marvelous.” Giles kissed him again. “Are you? I mean, did I...?”
“Fine. I mean...” Wesley wriggled sticky fingers against Giles' abdomen. “Some of the bandages are rather damp, but no damage done.” He grinned. They lay in companionable silence for some time, until Wesley said, “Sticky,” in a voice that was not entirely happy.
“Bath,” said Giles.
“Bath,” agreed Wesley, not moving.
With extreme reluctance, Giles stood up and pulled on a pair of joggers. He went downstairs and ran the bath, then called to Wesley, who appeared in Giles’s robe, insisting he could manage the stairs by himself.
***
Once in the bathroom, Giles eased the heavy robe from Wesley’s shoulders and, one by one, slowly and painfully removed each of the dressings he’d applied the night before. It was clearly an ordeal for Wesley, and Giles was nearly as relieved as he was when at last it was done and he could help Wesley into the bath.
Very carefully, Giles worked the dried blood from Wesley’s cuts and began to wash him with the softest sponge he could find.
Wesley shifted. “I’m not sure whether to enjoy this or to feel intensely ashamed.”
“Oh, I should enjoy it, if I were you,” said Giles. Then he let Wesley hear his concern. “Why should you feel ashamed?” And was it for the same reason he had, when Xander had had to help him with his first bath? He considered moving round in front of Wesley, but decided to give him what privacy he could, so continued to wash him from behind, working shampoo into his wet hair.
“Just… weak. With Faith, with you. Running to you for help. I shouldn’t… I should be able to cope with this.”
Giles did move round in front of him now. “Wesley, you are coping with this, and you’re letting me help you, which you didn’t want to do; which is why you waited a whole day to come here, yes?”
Wesley nodded.
“Well then. That was a pretty bloody strong thing to do.”
Wesley smiled his acknowledgment and allowed Giles to work on in silence, granting him absolution with the water and his hands.
“It’s getting a bit chilly now,” said Giles. “You ready to get out of there?”
Wesley looked uncomfortable.
Giles, scanned him for signs of fresh bleeding. His eyes swept down Wesley’s chest to his stomach, and on down to where he displayed a healthy new erection.
“I’m sorry,” Wesley said helplessly, clearly embarrassed.
Giles grinned. “Don’t be; it’s the sincerest form of flattery.” At least he wasn’t suffering from sexual dysfunction on top of everything else. Clearly, Wesley had been craving contact and release for some time, just as he had. “Stand up and dry yourself. We’ll get the wounds dressed, and then it’s back to bed.” He stopped. “That is, if you want to.”
Wesley flushed. “I want to.”
A few minutes later Wesley lay on the bed, still enveloped in Giles’s robe. Giles stood over him, pleased to see that one stern look produced a very promising flicker in Wesley’s eyes. He perched on the bed beside Wesley, leaned down, and kissed him. As he allowed the kiss to grow more demanding, and his own arousal became more insistent, he slid one hand into the robe to gently stroke Wesley’s chest, teasing a nipple. Wesley smiled into the kiss, and Giles let his hand wander further down to play with Wesley’s cock, suddenly very aware of the urgency between his own legs.
He pulled back, wondering how to do this without killing the moment. “Wesley, I’m going to open this robe now. I want you completely exposed, and I’m going to make you come harder than you ever thought possible.”
Wesley’s eyes were losing their focus.
“However, some concession must be made to practicality. You’ve just had a bath, and I don’t think it would be a good idea to agitate the wounds that way again for a bit, so we need to keep the mess to a minimum. Agreed?”
Wesley nodded, though Giles suspected he’d have consented to anything at this point. He opened the bedside table drawer and took out two condoms, letting his voice drop into the authoritative register that had worked so well before. “You’re going to lie quite still while I put a condom on you.”
Wesley gave a quiet exhale of want, squirming a little as Giles unclothed him. A promising trickle of precome ran down his penis. Giles gripped the base and rolled the latex down. Wesley groaned, bucking involuntarily.
“Giles, for God’s sake!”
Giles shoved his joggers down and kicked them off. Wesley stared with open hunger, lips parted, barely blinking as Giles stroked himself to full hardness and rolled the condom down. He slicked his penis, and considered. Wesley should be fairly well prepared from their earlier efforts, but still, he was determined that Wesley would feel no unnecessary pain.
He knelt between Wesley’s legs and slid his middle finger deeply into his arse, feeling his body tighten around it, watching his chest rise and fall with quick, shallow breaths. Christ, the sight of him abandoned on the bed, half in and half out of his own robe, fingers delicately skimming his latex-covered cock while Giles finger-fucked him, was nearly enough to make him come right there. Giles pushed another finger in, a bit less gently, feeling for the spot.
Wesley gasped, trying hard to fuck himself on Giles’s hand. “Are you ever going to…”
He withdrew his fingers, and cupped Wesley’s balls firmly, squeezing a little, watching as fists balled up into sheets. “I am. Is that all right?”
“God, yes, just do it now!”
Giles watched closely for signs of pain as he grabbed a pillow and worked it under Wesley’s hips. “See if you can rest your legs on my shoulders without hurting… That all right? Good.” A quick adjustment, and ever so slowly, Giles pushed forward and felt Wesley’s body open to him.
They both groaned. Christ, he couldn’t come yet, he had to make this last. Wesley gripped Giles’s upper arms, clearly trying to relax, to take all of Giles in, to not disappoint him. Giles smiled and dropped a kiss on his forehead. “Easy. Let me do the work.” He pulled out a little, and slid in again so slowly, inch by inch until Wesley had accepted him completely. Beneath him, Wesley’s face was a picture of abandon.
"Rupert…" Wesley murmured. He raised his hips ever so slightly to change the angle as Giles pressed into him again, then gave a low moan. "God, Rupert, so good…"
"Good…" Giles echoed breathlessly. He thrust again, slowly, watching Wesley’s mouth open around a wordless moan as he took Giles deep inside. He forced himself to go slowly, to bring Wesley to ever higher peaks of excitement – higher, but not quite high enough.
When the tip of his cock found Wesley’s prostate, they gasped in unison, Wesley from the touch itself and Giles from the dizzying pressure as Wesley’s muscles rippled in response. When he thrust again, Wesley pressed up to meet him, and they stayed pressed together for an endless, almost-painful moment before Wesley’s back arched, his head went back, and his fingers dug bruisingly into Giles’ arms as he came with a cry.
Giles could feel the shudders of Wesley’s orgasm all through his own body, and it took only a few more hard strokes before he, too, was shaking with the power of his climax. He buried his face in Wesley’s good shoulder, then eased his weight down beside him as their breathing steadied.
"God, Rupert," Wesley mumbled into his hair. "Thought you were being hyperbolic."
"Nothing but truth in advertising." Giles kissed the nearest bit of skin. "We aim to please."
Wesley chuckled softly. "Oh, you quite hit the bulls-eye." He laughed again, a laugh that ended with an odd gulp.
"Wes?" Concerned, Giles tried to sit up to look at him, but found himself caught in the most crushing embrace Wesley could manage.
"Sorry…" Wesley whispered against Giles’ shoulder, his breath hitching. "Sorry…"
"Shh." Giles felt for the right places to hold him, then hugged him close. "Shh, it’s all right, it’s all right."
The storm only lasted a few moments; Giles couldn’t even tell if there had been tears. Presently Wesley’s desperate grip eased, his breathing steadied, and he sank back on the pillows. "Sorry," he said again, shamefaced.
"Don’t." Giles kissed him lightly on the lips. "Hungry?"
They tidied themselves as best they could, with tissues and a few of the wet wipes from the first-aid kit, and then Giles reclaimed his robe and left Wesley to dress while he went downstairs to start breakfast. He didn’t have any tomatoes to grill, but he made quite a respectable English breakfast of fried eggs, sausages, mushrooms, and toast.
Wesley reluctantly had to call for assistance with his shirt, and ended up accepting the loan of one of Giles’ jumpers, as his shirt was so bloodstained as to be unwearable. "I’ll send it back to you," he promised.
"It’s hardly worth it. Feel free to cut it off, if it’s too hard to get over your head. Now, come on, the kettle’s going."
Wesley suffered Giles’ assistance getting down the stairs and up onto a stool at the buffet. He held himself stiffly, but ate with good appetite, and reasonably good humour, though Giles could tell from the tightness of his jaw and the shadows around his eyes that the pain was back with a vengeance.
Despite Wesley’s discomfort, they shared a pleasant breakfast, full of innocuous talk about incunabula, and demonic calendars, and the difficulty of getting decent tea in America. They were laughing in commiseration over the prevalence of sickly-sweet iced concoctions when the phone rang. Giles went to the desk to get it.
"Hello?"
"Giles?"
He felt his smile stiffen at the sound of Angel’s voice. "Yes."
"Is Wes still there?"
"I’ll see if he’s available." Giles looked to Wesley, who was watching him anxiously, teacup hovering halfway to his lips.
"Who is it?" Wesley asked softly.
"Angel," Giles mouthed. He held out the phone with a slight lift of his eyebrows, inquiring.
Wesley pushed his stool back and hurried to take the receiver. Giles handed it over with a sinking heart and went to clear the dishes.
"Yes?" Wesley sounded so earnest when he spoke to Angel. Earnest, and eager, and young. "Fine. Better. Really quite well. Ru- ah, Mr. Giles was most helpful."
Giles scraped the plates meticulously and ran hot water into the sink.
"…indeed so," Wesley was saying, when Giles shut off the faucet. "Yes. Yes, absolutely… a few hours… thank you. Yes."
He heard Wesley hang up, then come to the kitchen doorway, but he kept washing the dishes and did not look up.
“I… ah….”
Giles took the tea towel off his shoulder and put it down. “Wesley, you need more time.” He watched as denial and rebellion flashed across Wesley’s face. “Take it from me.”
“I’ll be all right. I’m much better today.”
“In some ways, yes, but it’s early days – ”
“You didn’t seem to think I was that fragile just now, when you were buggering me senseless!” he snapped.
Stung, Giles leaned against the counter and folded his arms.
“Christ, I’m sorry.” Wesley reached up to rub his eyes, forgetting his bad shoulder. He winced, cradling his right arm. “I didn’t mean it. I’m just…” he shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“I do,” Giles said gently. “It will get better, Wesley. But not if you try to pretend nothing’s happened.”
“I’m not. What do you think I’m doing here?”
“At the moment, defeating the purpose of being here.”
“Which is?”
“To be with someone who understands, who genuinely cares for you.”
“Angel cares about me.”
“I’m not saying he doesn’t, in his fashion. But he’s never been tortured.” He couldn’t resist. “Quite the opposite, in fact.”
“I’m sorry. I-I don’t know what to say. There is goodness in him, Giles. I have faith in him, but I understand why you don’t. I’m truly sorry for what happened to you. God knows I know how hard it is to forgive.”
“Do you think you can forgive Faith?”
“No.”
Giles nodded.
“I’m sorry,” Wesley said again. “You must have had even less support than I did, during your recovery.”
“I’m still recovering, Wesley.” Giles put his hands on the counter. “My hands still ache sometimes. I get horrendous headaches. I suspect there’s a bit of memory loss, or perhaps it’s simply repression. I don’t know. I just feel as though I’ve… lost something.” He carried on, unable to stop the admissions now he’d started. “I still get panic attacks, and when I hear Angel’s voice, I’m right back in that chair.” He waved off Wesley’s sympathy. “Not your fault.” It had been his own fault, letting his guard down, letting himself be captured so easily… No. He had to smile at himself. “I’m doing the same as you, blaming myself for something over which I had absolutely no control. It’s our instinct to do that, you and I, and we should fight it.”
Wesley’s rueful smile mirrored Giles’s own. “I will fight it. And thanks; I can’t say I’m looking forward to my own recovery process, but it’s a bit less frightening now I know some of the things I can expect.”
Giles nodded. “You’ll get through it, and I’ll help you however I can. Are you sure you can’t stay a couple more days?”
He shook his head. “They need me. For the first time in my life, I’m truly needed.”
After a moment, Giles nodded. “Understood.”
“Thank you.” Wesley smiled slightly. “I am sorry about what I said before. I thoroughly enjoyed the buggering, and fully intend to darken your door again, when I’m not quite so sore.” He smiled. “If you’ll have me.”
Giles flashed a wicked grin. “Oh, I’ll have you.”
Wesley gave him a look of mock-exasperation. “I didn’t mean like that.”
Giles laughed. “I know what you meant.” He went into the bathroom and retrieved a sling and two brown bottles from the cupboard under the sink. He took them back out to the kitchen and set them in front of Wesley. He put a finger on the bottle on the left. “Top notch painkiller. Lifted by Xander from a hospital pharmacy. Very strong. Don’t take more than two a day, and don’t take them for more than five days; they’re addictive.” He moved his finger to the one on the right. “Tranquiliser. It’s herbal. Non-addictive, and it won’t knock you out, but it’ll help if you have panic attacks, especially in the night.” Wesley was eyeing them with skepticism. “Together, they got me through the first couple of weeks,” he admitted.
Wesley frowned. “I thought you said not to take the painkillers for more than five days?”
Giles looked at him levelly. “I did.”
Wesley processed this. “Right… Well, thank you.”
“And if you have any problems, if you think the wounds are becoming infected, come back, and I’ll sort them out, yes?”
“I will. Thank you.”
“S’all right. Now this,” he said, picking up the sling, “is one of Buffy’s leftovers, but I’m sure I can get another before she needs it again. I’d help you with it, but you won’t be able to drive with it...” The look on Wesley’s face silenced him.
Wesley stepped forward and kissed him. Giles relaxed into it, enjoying this one last time before Wesley left, and he was on his own again. He deepened the kiss, wanting Wesley to remember it, remember, when he was alone, that he was cared for.
“Be careful,” he said quietly, against Wesley's lips.
Wesley smiled. “I'll be all right.” He stroked Giles' arm with his good hand as he drew away. “You've seen to that.” He held Giles' eyes for a moment, then turned to search for his jacket. “I really do need to be going...”
Giles retrieved the jacket from where it hung on the back of the desk chair and tucked the pills into the left-hand pocket. “It won't happen all at once.” He helped Wesley into his coat, then handed him the sling. “There's no shame in leaving your lights on. Or in instant meals and take-away, until you can do for yourself properly. What?” he demanded, when Wesley chuckled.
“I never imagined you could mother hen so... completely. It's rather charming,” he added, before Giles had a chance to become indignant. “And appreciated.”
“I'm glad you came,” Giles told him.
“So am I.”
In silence they went out into the sunny courtyard, then down the street to Wesley's car. At the curb they faced each other awkwardly for a moment before settling on a firm handclasp instead of another kiss. When Wesley was settled behind the wheel, Giles closed the door for him as gently as possible. Wesley turned the key, then rolled down the window.
“Thank you,” he said again. “I'll call you when I get home, if I may.”
“See that you do,” Giles answered. They shared another smile before Wesley put the car in gear.
He watched Wesley drive off, and went in to make a cup of tea, missing the warm presence of a friend, trying not to let imagined or remembered fears run away with him, turning his mind to planning their next meeting.