TITLE: Revisited
AUTHOR: RayneDancer
RATING: NC-17
PAIRING: Giles/Wesley.
FEEDBACK: is always nice.
SUMMARY: Sequel to First; After everything that's happened since Faith
returned, Wesley really needs to talk to someone.
SPOILERS: Who Are You to To Shanshu in L.A. Bits and pieces.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I know it's a little different from First, but I hope no one will
mind, since its all about *someone* finally looking after Wesley.
DEDICATION: To Brenda, who's fault it all is. <g>
Wesley brought the rental car to a halt. It was small and serviceable, but there times when he truly missed his motorcycle. Right at that moment he'd have given anything to be on his way to somewhere, anywhere...free and unfettered, without anything to think about but just...going. With a sigh he extracted his long frame stiffly from the tiny two-door, mentally thanking Cordelia for her thoughtfulness in her choice of model, and locked it up.
It was very late, but when he reached the familiar door he was surprised to hear music. On closer attention he realised it was live music. Rupert was accompanying himself on an acoustic guitar. He knocked tentatively. The music stopped immediately.
A moment later the door was unlocked and Rupert was standing there in black jeans and a black V-necked knitted shirt. Wesley swallowed. He was wearing a silver hoop earring and his hair was different.
"H-Hello," he said quietly.
The green eyes stared at him for a long moment, then the older man's expression softened. "Hello," he said softly. "Long time, no see."
Wesley looked down. "Y-Yes, well, there have been things...I have responsibilities now and-"
"Wesley," Giles interrupted. "Come in."
The apartment hadn't changed much.
"You sing beautifully, if I may say so," he offered, looking down at the guitar propped against the armchair Giles had flopped in once again.
He grinned, his cheeks reddening. "It's just something to do," he said self-depreciatingly. "So to what do I owe the honour of this visit?"
Wesley struggled to hold the gentle green eyes he'd grown to love so much, so quickly, but his gaze slid away again.
Giles frowned, but said nothing.
"I...I told Angel I was going to brief you...about Faith."
"Oh," Giles said quietly. "I'm truly sorry you weren't warned earlier. Buffy told me most of it, Cordelia the rest. From the sound of it Angel wasn't quite as impartial as he liked to think he was. I know Buffy isn't exactly level-headed when it comes to Faith, but it's not easy for her. She tried so hard to help the girl, only to be constantly slapped down, as you know. Angel knows what she did to Buffy; that she tried to kill Xander, Willow, to torture Buffy herself to death and tried to turn, and later kill him, even. The spectre of Angelus obviously still weighs heavily for him to have been that blind."
Wesley nodded. "I know. I remember how difficult it was for Buffy, for all of us. I was never so ashamed of the Council. And in hindsight I now understand what drove her to so foolishly pursue Faith to the extent that she did," he added through his teeth. "I believe now I would have done the same thing myself, in her place..."
Giles rose and went to pick up a tray with his whisky decanter and four glasses on. When he came back and slid it on the coffee table he poured two fingers of scotch into two of the glasses and handed one to the younger man.
Wesley looked at it then looked up. "I don't..." He stopped when he saw Giles' expression and took a sip, and then another, his cheeks immediately flushing crimson. "My word..."
"It'll help," Giles said softly, without elaborating. "Have you eaten?"
Wesley shook his head. "Haven't been very hungry lately. Had a good run up, though, pleasant, not too much traffic."
"How is Cordelia? I haven't spoken to her since she called to warn us that Faith was still at large and that she was making herself absent until such time as Angel rectified that situation."
Wesley looked up. "Oh, well, thank you. At least she is now. The last few weeks have been very hard on her, what with...Faith...and the visions."
"Visions?"
"Oh, yes...you know of course, that Doyle passed his gift of prophetic visions to Cordelia-?"
Giles nodded.
"Well, for a time she couldn't turn them off. They almost drove her mad before Angel found a cure. We've had rather a hectic time lately, what with Wolfram and Hart trying to kill Angel and raising demons from hell and such."
"From hell?" Giles demanded, alarmed.
"Well, yes. It all has to do with the prophecy...the one which says Angel will become human again, one day."
Wesley was alarmed to see the colour drain from Giles' face. "I say are you-?"
Giles finished his drink in one gulp and put the glass down. "Fine," he said roughly and poured another two fingers.
"Is there something I should know?" Wesley asked almost timidly.
The older man looked up slowly. "Nothing I want to discuss," he said roughly, regret immediately softening his scowling features. "Sorry. That was uncalled for," he said quietly. "I'm fine, Wesley. Let's leave it at that. Why don't I find you something for dinner?"
"I could help..."
Giles looked at him inquisitively.
He shrugged sheepishly. "Cordelia expects me to make myself useful. I've become quite adept at the odd salad, slicing and dicing...putting the pate on the canapés..." he finished feebly.
Giles chuckled. "I think I can handle club sandwiches. I'm afraid I don't have much else in the place. The others were here researching a couple of nights back."
"Xander," Wesley guessed.
"Xander," Giles confirmed dryly, heading for the kitchen.
Wesley sat alone only for the briefest moment before moving to the stools at the breakfast counter and sitting on one.
For several long moments he watched the older man move around the kitchen, putting on the kettle, finding knives, bread. The long legs, the wide shoulders...the long back moving under the uncharacteristically clinging shirt.
Wesley swallowed. The new jeans were tight. He'd never seen Rupert in anything tight before. And their last...their only...night together was little more than a blur...a blur of warmth and joy and delight...but a blur none the less. It had been inevitable that Giles would be called away, and he was, cutting short any continuation of that encounter.
He wanted so much to feel that way again, to be...
He sighed. He hadn't exactly been welcomed with open arms this time. To be expected, really. He was, as a rule, fairly much a disappointment to everyone who ever meant anything to him.
Oh, my...
Giles had bent over to retrieve salad vegetables from the crisper drawer at the bottom of the refrigerator, the curve of his backside pressing against the fabric of his jeans. It was patently obvious that he wore no underwear, and the tautness of the curves taunted Wesley. He shifted uncomfortably, remembering the shower they'd once shared, the feel of those hands on his skin, the way...he shifted again on the stool, wishing he'd kept a tighter rein on his imagination and his libido.
"A-Are you sure there's nothing I can do-?"
Giles turned, a tomato in each hand, saw the flush in the smooth cheeks and grinned lopsidedly.
"Yes," he said affably and turned back to find a cutting board. "Just sit there and relax. Perhaps you could tell me what brings you all the way to Sunnydale?"
Wesley's spirits sank and with them the momentary tightness in his jeans. If he had to ask, then it was patently obvious that Rupert wasn't interested in reverting to their previous footing. He looked down at the counter. "As I said, I... wanted... I came to give you a report on Faith's status, and to fill you in on the developments of late regarding Angel's destiny and the powers that are being meddled with currently by Wolfram and Hart," he said in a pompous rush, his voice cracking a little on the girl's name.
Giles stopped for a brief moment, then resumed his slicing. "Tell me about Faith," he said eventually.
Wesley's hands clenched. "She is currently being held on remand until a trial date is set. She has been charged with a number of offences, including the murder of that archaeologist, but fortunately... or... otherwise, they still don't know about the Mayor's Assistant. Probably for the best; there are far too many awkward details there, anyway."
"You've seen her?"
"N-Not since she was taken into custody, no. I believe Angel has been visiting her at least once a week."
"But not you?"
"No."
Giles finished tearing cress and began to assemble his sandwiches. "Do you believe that the girl is redeemable?" he asked quietly.
Wesley didn't answer.
Giles finished arranging the ham, cheese, cress, tomato and cucumber, and closed the sandwiches before cutting them diagonally with a large knife. He turned slowly with the plates and pushed one across to the younger man.
"Faith?" he prompted quietly.
"I believe that she is at best an unmitigated sociopath and at worst a homicidal psychopath who needs professional help. A lot of help, which she is un...unlikely to get in a penitentiary. And I still believe that Angel is no more objective than Buffy or I when it comes to Faith. We see what she has become...what she's...what she's done to...others whereas he seems only to be able to see a similar dichotomy in her to the one he recognises in himself." His expression grew haunted. "He's a fool. He thought he was saving her soul. He doesn't realise that her soul is as tainted as the rest of her. He just can't seem to grasp that just because his soul is not, because he, Angel, is untainted by the evil that is Angelus, doesn't mean that hers is also." Wesley didn't see the bitter expression that passed momentarily over the older man's handsome features. "Faith has a soul...has always had a soul...and yet chose to be what she is in spite of it...she willingly laid down her humanity to b-become wh-what she is. Angel w-wasn't given a choice. H-He doesn't u-understand..."
Wesley slid off the stool and strode across to the fireplace, annoyed with himself. He took off his glasses on the pretext of wiping them and surreptitiously tried to wipe the moisture from his face. He could see her face; hear her taunting voice ringing in his ears, the memory of her nauseating perfume mixed with sweat and the metallic taste of blood, cloying at his nostrils.
His mouth had gone dry and his palms sweaty and his heart was racing. He despised himself for his weakness, as he was certain Rupert would despise him even more.
Behind the counter Giles watched the slightly hunched figure in silence, his hands clenched and his mouth pressed into a flat line.
Wesley finally cleared his throat. "Any...any chance you might have some coffee, there? I've grown rather...fond of the stuff...of late," he managed almost calmly.
A look of something, perhaps pity, flickered in the green eyes, then Giles' expression softened.
"I'm sure I can find some," he said gently, turned and went to pull his espresso machine from the dusty recesses of his pots and pans cupboard. He hadn't bothered with it in over a year, perhaps longer. Visitors weren't exactly an occurrence of note at casa Giles, and neither Olivia nor any of the gang liked anything but the sweetest, sickliest versions of 'coffee' known to man.
By the time he'd hunted down a crumpled, almost empty packet of grounds, tucked in the back of the refrigerator behind the extremely suspect looking, unused eggplant, and produced two mugs of the fragrant brew, Wesley was sitting on the sofa idly fingering the frets on his guitar.
The younger man's eyes were a million miles away.
Giles slid the tray, complete with Wesley's uneaten sandwich, onto the table and sat down at the other end of the couch.
"A fine instrument."
"Not really," Giles said mildly. "I've had it forever, but it's junk, really. Just can't bear to part with it."
"Have you...do you ever have trouble playing...with your fingers, I mean?" Wesley stammered, still not looking up from the guitar.
"Rarely." Giles sipped at his coffee, his eyes flashing. "Sometimes, in unusually cold conditions. Fortunately this is California..."
Wesley shifted uncomfortably and picked up his own cup. "Ah, yes," he said uncomfortably. "And how I detest it in all its dry, gaudy, common glory."
Giles saw the involuntary tremor in the long arm as the younger man brought the cup to his lips, and frowned again.
"It took a long time to regain more or less full use of them," he went on quietly. "Drove me insane, but I managed to conceal it for the most part. And I was lucky. For all the damage, there was very little impairment of the nerves."
Wesley finally looked at the older man, his deep blue eyes searching for something. "A-And the rest...?" he whispered.
Giles' face lost all expression. "The rest...?"
The blue eyes wavered, but didn't pull away this time. "You were tortured by an expert, I by an amateur. Please don't patronize me," he said through his teeth.
"I rather thought I was telling you to mind your own business," Giles pointed out acerbically.
Wesley banged his coffee mug down hard on the table, rose and strode toward the door.
Giles was there in moments. "She isn't worth it," he said softly.
The younger man's shoulders hunched but he didn't turn. "I was her Watcher. I failed and as a-always, I was punished for it. I don't expect pity. One doesn't these days, when one piteous cry from someone of Faith's ilk, a few words about their terrible childhood, and the whole world forgets all the victims, the terror, the pain, the scars…in their headlong rush to save the lost sheep. It seems to be lost on them that sheep don't carry eight inch knives or torture people relentlessly for fun, nor do they systematically attempt to dismantle other people's lives out of little more than vengeful spite…!"
By the time he was done, Wesley was trembling violently, undirected rage surging in him. He tried to cover the last few paces to the door, only to be caught by two large hands sliding onto his shoulders and holding them.
"Let me go! You don't really want me here. Nobody ever really wants me… nobody ever has!" he shouted and dragged himself free, only to be caught a few paces later and held, despite his struggles.
"It isn't just about her, is it?" Giles asked softly.
Wesley shuddered and closed his eyes. He swallowed. "N-No," he admitted finally, when he could breathe again.
Giles felt the vulnerable form tense. He had heard the cry of betrayal, of hurt beyond hurt in the younger man's voice. It made him remember things he didn't want to remember, about hurt, abandonment, deception…
"It's all right," he said gently, letting his hands fall away. "Wesley…?"
Wesley stumbled a little and Giles caught his arms again.
"Would you like to stay the night…?"
The younger man turned very slowly. His beautiful blue eyes stared deeply into the green ones, searching, asking; looking for answers. He drew a long breath, looked away and nodded.
"Good," Giles said softly and turned, spying the uneaten sandwich still on the table. "Now if we could just get some nourishment into you…"
When the older man guided him, unresisting, back to the sofa, Wes obligingly snagged half the meal off the plate. He didn't really have any appetite, but he didn't want to disappoint Rupert any more and he did want to get rid of the sick feeling in his stomach. Most of all he didn't want to remember any more…
Giles disposed of the tray and brought Wesley another scotch, this time with ice.
"I-I don't think…" He began as his now empty plate was taken and the glass put in his hand.
"Trust me," Rupert said softly, the past echoing in his voice.
In reply Wesley found and held the concerned gaze with his own intense one, brought the glass slowly to his lips and swallowed. His cheeks grew even redder and his eyes took on a sheen as the fiery liquid slid down his throat, though they didn't waver. When it was gone he handed the glass back.
"Thank you," he said softly, feeling the warmth spread through his entire body, the gradual settling of his jittering insides and the slight dulling of his over-wrought senses. He exhaled slowly. "A rather fine single malt."
Giles nodded, watching him closely, and sat down. "And the last. I'm afraid my budget doesn't run to top shelf stuff any more."
Wesley smiled tentatively. "Neither does mine. I'm afraid the redundancy package from the Watcher's Council is rather…lacking."
The older man sat back. "But you get by…working for Angel?"
"Get by? Yes, I suppose I do. There is some money coming in these days, and they are…good friends."
Giles nodded, still watching the handsome profile. "And you're comfortable…working with…?"
"A vampire?" Wesley said softly. "Oh, yes. Angel is…exceptional. I've never known anyone so unmistakeably…good. He cares so deeply about people, about what he does…about u…about Cordelia."
Giles frowned at the slight but obvious correction. "And you care about him?"
Wesley looked up quickly, too quickly, before looking away again. "I like to think we're…close," he said uneasily. "The three of us. We've become something… something of a team."
The older man sighed soundlessly. "He is not…allowed…to be happy," he pointed out gently.
A frowned creased the smooth brow. "I know that. Some of us were never meant to be. At least now he has a chance…"
"And you don't?" Giles asked softly.
Wesley closed his eyes and swayed a little, weariness and the whisky, catching up with him. "No…I mean yes…I mean don't we all?" he stammered.
The older watcher rose. "Indeed we do. It's late, and you're exhausted. Why don't you go upstairs? I'll be right behind you. I need to lock up, make a phone call, then I'll be right up."
"Buffy?" Wesley asked before he could stop himself.
Giles' face went very blank. "I have to call a friend in London and confirm the purchase of a particular reference volume," he said flatly.
Wesley cleared his throat and rose. "Oh, well…upstairs then. I'll get my bag out of the car."
He was across the floor and out the door before Giles could say another word.
By the time Giles had locked the back door, tidied the bathroom and the kitchen and turned off all the lights there was a light on in the loft. He smiled to himself, but there was tinge of sadness in it as he climbed the stairs. At least neither of them would be alone tonight…
*****
Wesley woke squinting at the early morning light pouring through the window. It took a moment to realise he wasn't in his own tiny, lonely apartment, and a few more to remember the previous night, colour creeping up to his hairline, and the striking blue eyes darkening as shadows played across them.
Giles was laying peacefully on his back, his mouth slightly open in a gentle snore.
Wesley looked longingly at the wide shoulders, the chest hair just visible above the quilt and the face that looked so much younger, so much more at peace in sleep.
Giles had arrived in the loft the night before not long after he'd changed, and wordlessly removed his as-yet unbuttoned pyjama jacket, then his pants before dropping his own clothes and leading him to the big bed.
And then, unexpectedly, in the half light of the bed lamp, Rupert had gently discovered and caressed every scar, every ache in his long, slender body, with his fingertips, his lips, his breath. Wesley shivered at the memory. It had been so tender, so gentle, and yet he'd felt the other man's anger with each new discovery, especially when he couldn't help but flinch as the gentle fingers traced the bruises that ran from his right nipple to the huge bloom at his groin, faded to yellow and green shadings and almost healed now, though still clearly visible.
One of Faith's games: blunt, she'd said, beginning with his head and culminating in that blow. It had knocked him out for several minutes from the sheer exquisite, unbelievable agony of the impact. And then, when he was awake again and she was bored, she'd deliberately jumped onto his lap, presumably to see if he would pass out again…
When the fingers reached the soft flesh of his groin, any semblance of an erection had vanished. Giles hadn't seemed concerned, either about that, or the trembling he hadn't been able to control.
Instead, when he'd tried to turn away, ashamed, Giles had caught and held him hard against his own body, not letting go even when he'd finally succumbed to his own weakness and sobbed like a child until his throat was raw and he couldn't keep his eyes open any longer.
It was the last thing he remembered, amid the misery: the soft sound of Rupert's voice telling him to go to sleep, that he wasn't alone, the warmth, the rise and fall of his hard chest…the strength of the hands, the arms, holding him so close, so safe…
The morning light, however, brought a different perspective and a different hue to their small corner of the universe.
Wesley watched Giles stir, his eyes flickering and opening, his arms reaching up to stretch like a waking bear.
"Good morning," Wes said softly, hesitantly, his tentative erection twitching as he found himself looking into the sleepy, sensual sea-green eyes.
They focused a little more. "Hello," Rupert said softly. "Sleep well?"
Wesley almost smiled. "Better than I had any right to. Better than I have in a long time."
Giles did smile then. "Good. Would you like some breakfast?"
Wesley's expression changed and his eyes flashed, his fingers disappearing under the covers.
"Not yet…" he replied, a question in the words, the touch. A few moments later he found his answer, Giles arching as he took the warm, rigid shaft in his hand and stroked it slowly. A few moments after that he ripped back the covers to expose the beauty of the older man's form.
Wesley loved that body: the wide shoulders, the deceptive muscling beneath the much smoother exterior and the golden brown hair, mixed now with a scattering of grey, that covered the still-firm chest and tapered all the way down the long body.
He leaned forward to half kiss, half mouth the exposed throat as he continued to stroke slowly and heard the sudden gasp, felt Giles shudder and groan as his teeth grazed along it. Then he was exploring the length of the sensual frame, diverting to spend time on each hardened nipple, before making his way all the way down past Rupert's navel to rest just out of reach of his goal.
Giles twitched in his hand, straining toward the warm breath that caressed his tip so tormentingly while the long fingers continued to pleasure him. He gasped a moment later, then groaned a long, low, rumbling groan, when Wesley's hot, velvety, mouth finally sheathed him. For long minutes he enjoyed the younger man's attentions until his throbbing cock demanded more.
Almost effortlessly he shifted so that Wesley was in his arms. The younger man sighed a long, blissful sigh as they moved against each other and Giles chuckled, despite the heat growing in his groin. Wesley smiled back sheepishly even as he strained to his lover, his grin changing to a shuddering moan as two slick, probing fingers asked a question in the most sensual way possible.
In response he slid down and raised his hips, allowed them full access and whimpered with pleasure as they did their work. By the time Giles' heavy shaft began to push into him, he was panting and gasping at the level of arousal the older man had stirred in him again.
He pushed back and felt the shudder of pleasure that reverberated through his tight passage as the big shaft filled him again, his erection swelling even more rigidly as Giles began to move, slowly at first, long lazy strokes designed for maximum stimulation and minimum discomfort.
Wesley grasped the older man's hips and tilted his own even more, wanting more, demanding more.
Giles lifted his head and looked at him for a moment, saw the smouldering desire in his eyes and moved to his demands, holding the slim hips as he started to pound into him.
Aroused beyond measure, Wesley rose to him, pushing back harder and harder, willing the powerful shaft deeper as Giles let go of his left buttock and began to pump the younger man's own steel hard cock with a clenched fist.
The dual stimulation made him cry out and grind even harder against the pounding hips, the older man's urgent groans and gasps sending thrills through him. Then he cried out, a jagged, shuddering moan of pleasure as his own orgasm spiralled up from deep within, to consume him.
Giles felt the huge twist and buck and heard the younger man's moan, then roar of ecstasy, and thrust one more time before he too roared in exploding bliss, his orgasm pumping through him in waves as Wesley continued to spasm, the long, slender shaft still pulsing out its load onto the smooth stomach.
When they were done they looked at each other breathlessly, both flushed, both glowing. They smiled slowly, almost self consciously, as though it were still a new thing, which of course it was, then Wesley reached up and touched the older man's face.
"I…" he began, but couldn't finish, overwhelmed by the moment, the intensity of his gaze speaking the unspoken words.
Giles' eyes grew very gentle and he nodded before grinning again, this time very sheepishly. "I think I enjoyed that a little too much," he observed as he began to withdraw. "We'll have to change the sheets." And when the inevitable happened as he rolled away, his voice as cheeky as it ever got:
"I don't suppose I could interest you in a shower?"
Wesley laughed, the tension broken, remembering that previous shower together, with a sudden, surging warmth in certain regions, despite the soggy discomfort from their recent efforts.
The sound was so rare, so natural and so sweet that Giles stopped midway between snatching a handkerchief from the drawer in his side table and turning back, to watch and to smile.
"Most definitely," the younger man agreed, grinning widely before making a face and taking the cloth.
"…Only this time I'm going to wash your back."
END