The zip slides down. Wesley's mouth opens for a reason it's never had before, expectant and curious.

"Don't move."

His mouth shapes an 'O' and he freezes, a palm curved tightly against his skull, a thumb stroking a strip of skin to life behind his ear.

Panic rises when his mouth is filled, twice-filled, no air, but it ebbs. He takes the silently proffered handkerchief and wipes streaming eyes, spit-wet mouth and running nose, in that order.

The zip slides up, and it's just Wesley taking a book off the shelf and handing it up to a waiting Giles again.


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