“They talk about you at the Academy, you know.”
Giles glanced across the library table at Wesley. The new Watcher -
well, heâd been around for several months and was as unofficial as
Giles now, but Giles suspected newness, like shyness, was something
Wesley would find hard to shed - sounded as pompous and insufferably
superior as ever, but there was a tinge of curiosity in his voice that
puzzled Giles.
“Really,” he said, keeping his voice neutral. “Iâm deeply honoured.”
Wesley smirked. “Oh, I donât think thatâs exactly the appropriate
reaction,” he said. “They werenât being terribly complimentary, you
know.”
Giles would have rolled his eyes, but Wesley provoked that response so
frequently that it left Giles with a headache if he allowed himself to
give into the urge. He rationed himself; a ten minute conversation
could have two eye rolls, one exasperated sigh and three subtle digs at
Wesleyâs complete lack of success with Buffy. If the conversation
extended beyond ten minutes, Giles reserved the right to walk off,
leaving Wesleyâs mouth hanging open foolishly. He glanced casually at
his watch and prepared to endure, still finding it difficult to
completely discard the polite conventions. Wesley was, after all, a
colleague, even if both of them had been sacked now.
“Iâd be astonished if they had been, Wesley, but as Iâm sure youâve
discovered for yourself, they have about as much grasp of the situation
out here, on the front lines, shall we say, as the banana you ate for
your lunch. That being so, Iâm inclined to dismiss their opinion of me
and I suggest, for the sake of our working relationship, you do the
same.”
The silence dragged on for thirty seconds as Wesley sat, silent, one
eyebrow lifted slightly, until Giles cracked and snapped, “Well? What
do the ungrateful, hidebound bastards say then?”
Wesley sighed faintly, as though the effort of keeping quiet had
exhausted him. “They say you became - fond - of your charge. That you
were willing to ally yourself with her.”
“Well, one would hope that the entire Council were allied with the
Slayer. And as for being fond of her, I donât deny it. Iâm attached to
all of them.” He paused. “In moderation.”
“No,” Wesley said. “Not in moderation. Thereâs not a one of them you
wouldnât die to save. Willow, Xander, Oz...” His voice faltered and he
swallowed audibly, “Miss Chase.”
“Cordelia,” Giles said tightly. “You may call her Cordelia, itâs quite
in order. Tell me, Wesley, did you have a point at all?”
Wesley stared down at the table, his folded hands resting upon it, the
fingers interleaved and relaxed, the nails perfectly manicured. Giles
looked at them too and wondered why it still seemed rather as if
Wesleyâs nails were chewed and ragged and the skin over his knuckles
taut and pale.
“What about me?”
Giles frowned. “What about you?”
Wesley looked up. “Would you save me, Giles?”
Giles looked at him. “Itâs not your place to be saved, Wesley,” he
said, more gently than heâd ever spoken to him. “Youâre a Watcher -
yes, still. Both of us are. You do the saving.”
Wesley refused to back down and let the conversation die. “I canât.”
Giles shook his head in exasperation. “Of course you can. Cordelia told
me how you faced up to Willowâs vampire self that time. I
was...impressed.”
“You mean you didnât think I had it in me,” Wesley said, his voice
tight. “I was bloody petrified. I didnât even know Cordelia was there
and I - God, I nearly ...”
Giles stood and walked round the table to Wesley. He looked down at him
for a moment and then leaned against the table, curling his fingers
around the wooden top. “You think Iâve not felt like that? Or that the
Slayer has never been scared, or her friends, who have every reason to
be terrified because they know exactly what the dark is hiding in this
town? Weâre human, Wesley. We get frightened. Youâll find yourself
better able to cope with it as time goes by, trust me.”
Wesley looked up at him, eyes dark and troubled. “But they have you,”
he said simply. “All of them. You wouldnât let anything happen to them
-”
“Tell that to Jenny!” Giles said harshly. “I kept her so very safe,
didnât I? Tell it to the children whoâve died in this school whilst
Iâve been here, or the teachers. Iâm not a shield, Iâm not armour,
Wesley. Iâm just - I do what I can. And itâs not enough. It never is.”
Wesley stood, getting to his feet in an awkward rush. “I donât agree
with that,” he said. “Iâve seen you. Iâve...watched you. I came here
expecting to find a failure, a pathetic rebel whoâd lost sight of what
was important -”
“They really donât like me back home, do they?” murmured Giles.
“And youâre not,” Wesley said quietly. “Youâre something I wish I could
be and youâve got something I fear Iâll never have.”
“And they would be?”
“Confidence and friends,” Wesley said.
Giles sighed. “Wesley -”
Wesley held up his hand in a sharp, abrupt gesture. “No. Iâm sorry. I
really donât know what brought this on.”
“The prospect of imminent death at the graduation ceremony?” Giles
suggested.
Wesley shrugged, turning to the papers strewn across the desk. “I am a
little concerned, of course,” he said, prim once more.
Giles watched Wesley try to rebuild what a few words had demolished
beyond repair and felt a small pang of sympathy.
“Iâm sure youâll live to fight another day, Wesley,” he said, striving
for a light tone of voice.
“With or without your help,” Wesley said sharply, his look daring Giles
to contradict him. “Donât think for a moment that I mean to hide behind
you.”
“Youâll be fighting beside me,” Giles said firmly. “Thatâs where you
belong.”
The rigid look vanished from Wesleyâs face leaving it achingly
vulnerable. “I -Iâll do my best.”
He continued to tidy up his papers and Giles watched him, a suspicion
beginning to flower. “Wesley? ‘Do your bestâ? What do you mean exactly?”
Wesley glanced around and bent his lips into a smile. “To fight well,
of course; what else could I mean? Really, you mustnât -”
“Wesley. You have work to do, despite the fact that, like me, youâre no
longer employed. If youâre planning on a heroic death, Iâll be obliged
if youâd change your plans.”
Wesley flinched as Gilesâ voice rose. “I wonât court death, but if it
happens - itâs what weâre trained to expect. Itâs not just the Slayer
whoâs at risk.”
Giles grabbed Wesley, his hands fisting the expensive jacket Wesley
refused to take off, creasing it, crumpling it. This close he could
smell Wesleyâs body, warm and clean and male. “Trained to expect death?
No, I donât think so, Wesley. Trained to fight it, to evade it, to
bloody well kick it where it hurts and dare it to come a step nearer.
Is that what you were planning to teach Buffy? Tell my Slayer her
deathâs inevitable and not to bother trying too hard to avoid it?”
Wesley shook his head slowly, his eyes wide, staring at Giles as if he
couldnât bear to look away.
Giles pushed Wesley away. “Fool,” he muttered.
Wesley hit him. His fist struck Gilesâ mouth squarely and Giles made no
attempt to dodge it. To say heâd seen it coming would have been as
redundant as saying Willow was fond of studying. Wesleyâs face
telegraphed every emotion and the punch had been too slow and from
entirely the wrong angle.
But it had hurt. Giles winced and reached up to run his fingers over a
swollen lip and brought them away wet.
Wesley stared at the blood on Gilesâ fingers, his mouth open, his eyes
wide with horror. “Iâm sorry - I didnât mean - oh God.”
Giles caught his arm as he turned away. “Stay,” he said. “Sit down,
Iâll get us both a drink and weâll talk this through.”
“No,” Wesley said, trying to tug his arm away from Giles. “We canât
waste time - more time - on my, my weakness. Thereâs too much to do.
Iâll take some books, go back to my room -”
Giles lost what little patience he had and gave Wesley a look that heâd
perfected in his time in Sunnydale. “Wesley. My lip is giving me
considerable pain. Donât make me repeat myself. Talking hurts Iâm going
into my office and Iâm coming out with a bottle and two cups. When I
return, I expect you to be sitting right here.”
“Cups?” Wesley said. “A cup of tea would be -”
“Theyâre for the whisky, Wesley,” Giles said with a sigh. “Snyder sees
me drinking alcohol and heâd leap on it as an excuse to chuck me out. A
china cup is exactly what he expects to see and I donât let him get
close enough to see the contents.”
“Do you drink a lot in the day, then?” Wesley asked anxiously. “Itâs
really not a good idea.”
“I never used to,” Giles said. “Recently, however...”
Wesley gave him a small, puzzled smile and Giles allowed himself an eye
roll and went into his office. He came back to find Wesley sitting as
heâd been told and passed him a cup, taking a swig from his own and
hissing as the alcohol stung and burned the cut.
Wesley eyed him and said tentatively. “Would you like me to bathe it? I
could -”
“Kiss it better?” Giles suggested, not smiling to save his lip from
stretching, but far from serious.
Wesley glanced at him, a sideways flash of blue eyes, before the light
above them reflected from his glasses and blanked them out. “I can do
that. If you like.”
Afterwards, Giles was to tell himself many times that heâd hesitated to
say the words to keep Wes in place out of shock, but it was a lie. He
waited, held in place by a flash of curiosity and a pang of arousal so
intense it hurt, waited to see for himself just what Wesley would do.
And what he did was stand, his chair scraping against the wooden floor,
the sound loud and yet irrelevant, fading away to nothing, because all
that Giles could hear was his heart thudding in his ears. Wesley was
looking at him with an anxious query that Giles could not, would not,
answer, and taking silence for assent. Wesley was coming close and
leaning forward, his hands loose at his side, his head tilting in a
slow, short arc so that when he leaned in, his body still inches away
from Giles, not touching at all, his mouth came to rest against Gilesâ
with none of the clumsy, nose bumping awkwardness Giles might have
expected.
Wesleyâs mouth was cool, deliciously so, like a dock leaf laid over a
nettle sting but when his lips brushed against the cut, they did so
with a deliberate pressure of teeth, followed by a flashing lick that
jolted Giles into a sound he hadnât thought heâd ever make outside a
bed, a small, sound, caught and trapped within a throat gone dry, a
sound of need, pure and primal.
It wasnât even a kiss. Gilesâs lips had not moved, not opened, not
pursed, not spread for a tongue nor trembled in response. Wesleyâs
mouth moved over the hurt again and again, ignoring the rest of Gilesâ
lips, face, throat...brush, scrape, lick, brush, scrape - until Gilesâ
fists were clenched and his eyes wide and staring forward, dark hair
hovering on the edge of his vision, but Giles could not move.
If Wesley had touched him, swayed forward enough for Giles to have more
than that single point of contact ... but he didnât.
And when, after endless moments, Wesley pulled back and swept the ball
of his thumb across moist, wet skin, Giles was still unable to move.
It took Wesley turning his back, shoulder slumping, to release him and
then Giles moved without thought and without volition, hands reaching
out, tugging Wesley to him and holding him close. Giles dropped one
hand, demanding and imperious and ran questing fingers over Wesleyâs
cock, hard enough to make his lips tighten in satisfaction. He let his
hand drift up to cup Wesleyâs face and then slid it down and back,
until Wesleyâs neck curved his palm and the heavy weight of Wesleyâs
head lay in his hand.
“Wesley...” he whispered. “You didnât hurt me there.”
If heâd had to push - but he didnât. Wesley sank to his knees before
Giles had chance to kiss him - and when he eventually did, Wesleyâs
mouth tasted familiar, tasted good.
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