Was Frantic

by moralesjudith07

...

Wesley was frantic. After rescuing Miss Chase from the vampire Willow, he'd ascertained that the vampire had been locked in the library's book cage, though not why she was there or how she'd been turned in the first place. He'd sent Miss Chase on her way, thinking it best to keep her out of danger, then tried to call Giles for help, but got only the answering machine. When he called Buffy's house, her mother informed him that Buffy had gone to the Bronze, so he set out for the club. Giles' flat was more or less on the way so he stopped by, just in case, but the Citroen was gone, his knock went unanswered, and a glance through the small window by the door revealed only darkness.

His niggling anxiety escalated into full-blown panic when he found the Bronze blockaded by police cars and learned that there had been a 'gang-related incident.' He went to Faith's apartment, hoping that she might know something, but she wasn't home either. He called Giles and Buffy's numbers again with the same results as before.

An hour later, he was still driving the streets of Sunnydale, looking for any sign of Giles, the Slayers, the vampire, or the other children, without success. Parked at a red light, he sighed and rested his forehead on the steering wheel, too tired to block out the scenarios that were dancing at the edges of his mind anymore. Buffy and Faith could both be dead or turned. It was an awful thought, but might not be the worst possibility because it would mean a properly trained Slayer, with a real Watcher, would be called. No, the worst possibility was that Giles and Buffy were dead, leaving him and Faith to defend the world, and wouldn't that be a good joke? He refused to acknowledge that the biggest reason his stomach had twisted itself into a pretzel wasn't concern for the fate of the world, but fear that Giles would never be there again, to hold him or fuck him or pick up the pieces from his inevitable mistakes. He'd spent six of the last ten nights in the older man's bed, and he had trouble sleeping the other four, wishing for the warm body beside him that made him feel like he could let go for a little while.

Someone honked at him and he popped the clutch in his haste to put the car in gear. The other car drove around him, and he dropped his forehead against the steering wheel again, taking a few deep breaths to calm himself. Restarting the car, he turned in the direction of Giles' flat. Assuming he wasn't dead, Giles would have to return there eventually.

When he spotted the little grey Citroen parked on one side of the street, his exhaustion evaporated instantly, leaving him quivering with a combination of relief and dread. He scrambled out of the car and charged down the steps to Giles' door, and when he saw the lamplight coming from the windows, he didn't even pause to knock.

"Rupert! Thank God! Something's happened-" he gasped, as Giles, who had been sitting in the recliner, shot to his feet.

Giles relaxed and rolled his eyes when he recognized Wesley. "Let me guess-this is about Willow."

"Then you know?" Wesley asked, wondering why Giles wasn't more alarmed.

"Yes," Giles said, sitting back down and picking up a glass of Scotch from beside the chair. "You're only the third person today to tell me. Willow's fine. The vampire was accidentally brought here from another reality, to which she's been returned."

"The scene at the Bronze...?"

"There was a fight, yes." Giles' brows knit in thought, and then Wesley took an involuntary step back as he found himself speared by an angry hazel stare. Giles hadn't looked at him quite like that since their first night together, and it still set his spine tingling, to say nothing of his cock.

"Were you the idiot who let her out of the book cage?" Giles demanded.

"No! No, Miss Chase released her." Wesley breathed a tiny sigh of relief as Giles' eyes lost their focus.

"Cornelia, of course." Giles smiled humorlessly and took a drink of his Scotch.

"Why did no one contact me?" Wesley ventured after a moment.

"There wasn't time."

Wesley nodded, understanding the implication that he also wasn't needed. He would never truly be needed here; for all that Giles was letting him go through the motions of being a Watcher. He'd known that already, of course, but it hadn't been demonstrated so blatantly since the incident with Balthazar.

"Wesley," Giles said, "I think you should go home. Get some sleep. I'll tell you everything tomorrow."

Wesley's jaw dropped open in outrage. He'd been searching Sunnydale for hours, mad with worry, and Giles was sending him away like it meant nothing? "I'm not completely useless, you know," he snapped, slapping the desk for emphasis. "I saved Miss Chase's life."

For a moment Giles' expression slid into a sneer. He opened his mouth as if to retort, then closed it again and looked apologetic. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm in a foul mood. Believing we'd lost Willow, even for a short while..." He shook his head.

"Can I help?" Wesley asked. He could make himself useful to Giles, even if it only meant letting the older man shag him. That was one thing he had to offer that the children didn't.

Giles' eyes narrowed briefly in speculation, but he shook his head. "No. Go home."

"I don't mind," Wesley insisted.

"Wesley," Giles growled, rising and stalking towards him, "I'm not in the mood to play nice tonight."

Wesley stood his ground, though he was quailing inside. "Then don't." When Giles' glare only increased in intensity, he forged ahead desperately. "Do you think I don't know you've been holding back? I want to give you what you need, Rupert, and you act like you're afraid you'll break me. I realize you don't have much respect for me, but at least have enough to-"

"To what? Sprain your wrist? Dislocate your shoulder? I'm quite capable of that, I assure you. The last time Ethan was here, I did both, and cracked a few of his ribs as well, to say nothing of internal injuries."

Wesley absorbed that information with a subdued, "Oh," then asked, "Is that normal for the two of you?"

Giles sat on the arm of the couch, his anger gone for the moment. "No. I've been known to play rough, but not to that extent. I was cursed; my impulse control was practically non-existent. Under any other circumstances... Still, you can see why I'm cautious. I would never want to hurt you like that."

Giles' tone verged on pleading, and the sheer desperation of it, the fact the older man felt so strongly, more than overcame the tendril of fear that had been twining it's way up Wesley's spine since Giles mentioned bodily injury. He nodded his understanding and took a step towards Giles, extended a hand, then let it drop.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean-"

"I know," Giles said. "But you're offering to let me use you, take my frustrations out on you. Is that really what you want?"

"Not as such, no," Wesley admitted. "But if it'll help..."

Giles folded his arms and dropped his chin to his chest, his forehead creased in thought. When he raised his head again, Wesley could see in the set of his jaw that he'd made a decision.

"Are you sure?" Giles asked. "I'm not going to make this easy for you. I can promise I won't injure you, but I may-no. I know I'll do things you won't enjoy."

"I'm sure." Wesley tried to match Giles' determination with his own.

"All right." Giles stood up with an air of finality. "Let's do this properly. Do you know what a safe word is?"

Wesley nodded, hating the way his muscles suddenly refused to function smoothly. Now that he was committed, his resolve of a few seconds earlier seemed flimsy.

"Do you have a word in mind, or shall I give you one?" Giles asked.

Wesley thought for a few seconds, and then meekly suggested, "Balthazar?"

That startled a laugh out of Giles. "Yes, that seems... appropriate. Unless this is your way of telling me you think of me as a demon?"

"No, of course not," Wesley protested, despite the fact he knew Giles was teasing him.

Giles shook his head dismissively, and then fixed Wesley with a serious look. "I promise you, nothing bad will happen to you if you choose to stop this."

Wesley nodded, though he knew it wasn't exactly true. If nothing else, he would destroy the last shred of respect Giles had for him. But Giles accepted his nod and disappeared into the hall with a curt, "Wait."

Wesley waited. He could hear Giles rummaging in the hall closet, punctuated by a thump and a mild curse. When Giles returned, he was carrying towels in one hand and a nondescript cardboard box in the other. He walked to the coffee table and put them down, and Wesley noticed that the box rattled ominously. Giles turned to him, arms crossed, and said, "Come here."

In the last two weeks, Wesley thought he had been the focus of every mood Giles could conceivably have, from anger and irritation to affection and lust, but this-a closed, brittle mask that Wesley most emphatically didn't want to break through, for fear of what lay underneath it-was new. Wesley shuffled across the floor, feeling like a bug about to be stepped on, and stopped just outside of Giles' reach. Giles raised one hand from the crook of his elbow and beckoned Wesley closer. Wesley inched forward until Giles extended his fingers in a gesture that said that's enough.

"Strip," Giles said aloud, in an inflectionless tone that perfectly matched his expression.

Shrugging out of his jacket and braces was easy, and though Wesley knew Giles could see his fingers trembling, he managed to pull his tie off before the need for even the illusion of privacy overwhelmed him. He turned away from Giles as he started to unbutton his shirt.

"Face me," Giles said immediately, so Wesley turned back. He was relieved that the older man didn't try to make him meet his eyes, as well.

It was painfully strange; undressing while Giles stood barely a foot away, fully clothed. Before this, they'd undressed each other, or undressed more or less simultaneously. There had never been any doubt which of them was in charge, but there had also never been this symbolic difference in status. And even though Wesley knew it was symbolic, that knowledge didn't lessen the impact. He hated it, hated feeling less, but his cock seemed to disagree. By the time he added his trousers to the pile of clothing and stood naked, shifting his weight uneasily, he was already half-erect, his breath coming in tense gasps.

Giles looked Wesley over perfunctorily, and Wesley was surprised when Giles' gaze didn't linger at his groin. He'd come to anticipate the older man's gentle teasing, and its absence only reinforced the new dynamic between them. Giles grasped Wesley by the shoulders and turned him towards the fireplace, then pushed him forward a few steps so that he was standing on bare floor instead of the rug. The cold of the concrete immediately started to leech into his legs, but he barely noticed because Giles was running a single finger down his back, from hairline to tailbone. The touch evoked a discordant descending scale in Wesley's head, as if the knobs of his spine were keys on a piano. He shivered and his cock stiffened further, but Giles stepped away, saying, "Don't move."

Wesley heard the rasp of cardboard behind him, and then more rattling that sounded like... chains? His fingers worried at his thighs as he fought the urge to turn and look. When Giles returned, grasping Wesley's wrists and pulling them behind his back, Wesley couldn't help glancing over his shoulder. Giles pushed his head back around as casually as he'd shelve a book in the library.

Suddenly Wesley's world narrowed to his wrists and his cock as he felt cool, stiff leather against his skin, chafing slightly as Giles buckled the cuffs in place and slid a finger under each one to check that it wasn't too tight. When Wesley heard the tiny snick that meant his wrists were locked together, it was like his blood was trying to rush to his head and his groin at the same time, and got stuck.

"Rupert?" he whimpered, needing some kind of reassurance, even though this had been his idea in the first place. There was a knot of tension in his chest that was almost physically painful.

All he got was the order, "Quiet. No words," and a sharp tug on the cuffs that sent another jolt to his groin.

Then Giles pressed in behind him, one arm locked around Wesley's shoulders, the other angled across his hip to grasp his cock. Wesley could feel the buttons on Giles' shirt digging into his back and the wool of Giles' trousers against his legs, but the knot in his chest loosened a bit. Letting Giles touch him, tease him-that was familiar.

As Giles began to caress him, Wesley realized one advantage to having his hands bound behind his back: they were positioned almost directly over Giles' erection. But the instant he extended his fingers to trace the bulge in Giles' trousers, Giles pinched the base of his cock, just hard enough to get his attention. The pain was gone before he even had a chance to react to it, but he understood the message and balled his hands into fists. He felt a flash of anger as Giles rocked his hips, rubbing his erection between Wesley's fists, taunting him with what he wasn't allowed to touch.

It was hard to stay angry when Giles was giving him a series of exquisite touches that never lingered in one place for long-massaging his scrotum just so, scraping a nail along the underside of his shaft, pulling back his foreskin and rubbing the frenulum ever-so-gently between thumb and forefinger-until Wesley understood why Giles had bound him, because he was struggling to break free so he could touch himself. Not being allowed to express his need was its own kind of torment, because trying to hold the words in only seemed to make it worse.

Eventually Giles settled on thumbing the head of Wesley's cock with the air of flipping through pages in a book, fingers curled loose and unmoving around Wesley's shaft. Wesley wasn't sure how long he existed in that purgatory of pleasure, needing more, needing relief, but in the end only the fact that he couldn't seem to get enough air into his lungs prevented him from disobeying Giles' order not to talk. His mouth formed the words-"please," "need," "God"-but none of them made it out as more than partial syllables. He'd exhausted himself struggling; only his hips were moving, twitching involuntarily against Giles' immovable arm.

It must have been his sudden stillness that alerted Giles to his impending orgasm. He just had time to be relieved that it was almost over before Giles' fingers locked around the base of his cock and balls, preventing his release. He choked back a wail and thrashed once in a final, futile attempt to free him, then sagged, trembling, in Giles' embrace. His safe word was on the tip of his tongue, because it felt like his balls were on fire and he didn't think he could stand it much longer.

Then Giles growled one word, "Mine," low in his ear, and Wesley discovered he could stand it after all. Hearing Giles claim him sent a ripple of relief up his spine that did nothing for his physical frustration, but unraveled the knot in his chest.

It took him by surprise when Giles released him at last, stepping back. Gooseflesh broke out on his back at the touch of cool air where the heat of Giles' body had been. His legs were so unsteady that it took just the slightest nudge of Giles' foot against his calf to send him to his knees, and only Giles' hand on his shoulder kept him from falling on his face. The pain of his knees grinding against the floor gave him the control he needed to stay upright as Giles let go again.

When Giles stepped in front of him, Wesley could see barely-contained desperation in the tightness of the older man's expression. He could feel it, too, in the hand that tangled in his hair, wrenching his head back so that he was forced to look up into wild eyes that seemed almost vampire gold in the lamplight.

"Mine," Giles repeated through clenched teeth. It wasn't a question, but Wesley nodded anyway.

Giles' free hand fumbled his trousers open and yanked his cock free with a violence that made Wesley wince. He stared wide-eyed at the crimson head, wet with presume, that bobbed inches in front of his eyes, until a sharp tug on his hair drew his gaze back to Giles' face. Giles just stared at him for the space of several ragged breaths, and Wesley realized the older man was giving him a chance to use his safe word. God knew it wasn't going to do him much good once Giles' cock was in his mouth. He might have said it, too, if not for the other word still echoing in his mind, reminding him that this was for Giles-he was for Giles. If the excruciating ache in his groin wasn't enough to make him back out, squeamishness wasn't either.

He gulped, pushing aside the fear that made his stomach clench, then deliberately licked his lips and let his jaw hang slack in invitation. Giles seemed to understand-really, how could he not? -Because he pushed the head of his cock against Wesley's lips until Wesley opened his mouth, then abruptly thrust all the way inside. Wesley gagged and tried to pull away, but Giles' grip on his head was unyielding. He had to fight not to bite down in an attempt to ease the tension of having his jaw stretched unnaturally wide, and for several interminable seconds he couldn't figure out how to breathe with Giles' cock pistoling in and out of his mouth. Finally his body seemed to work it out, and he could concentrate on resisting the gag reflex instead.

All things considered, he was glad for the discomfort of Giles' erection bumping the back of his throat because it dampened his arousal, and that made everything easier. For some time he managed to focus on Giles' cock to the exclusion of all else, matching his breathing to Giles' rhythm and finding that the urge to gag lessened with time. Then a hitch in the rhythm broke his concentration. Everything came crashing back in-the sharp taste of presume on his tongue, the wet noises of the cock in his mouth, the escalating pain in his knees, shoulders, and jaw-and he briefly forgot to breathe. When he tried, he found himself choking. Giles was moving faster, harder, and every time Wesley tried to take a breath it was cut off. He struggled to get his head free, but he had no leverage. His vision was starting to tunnel, and he had a long moment of terror because Giles didn't even seem to notice his distress. Then his mouth was suddenly, blessedly empty.

He hadn't even drawn a full breath before Giles was dragging him the few feet to the recliner, pushing him down so that his face pressed into the seat of the chair and his second breath was full of the scent of worn leather. A rough hand spread his buttocks, the other planted between his shoulders, holding him in place. Giles entered him with a single hard thrust.

He cried out more from shock than pain, though there was that, too: a stretch that bordered on tearing as his muscles instinctively fought the invasion. His body wasn't yet accustomed to penetration, and with only his saliva for lube there was more friction than was strictly comfortable. He groaned as Giles moved impatiently inside him, the initial burst of pain declining to a steady burn that set his teeth on edge at the same time that it revived his flagging erection.

Giles' fingers dug brutally into Wesley's shoulder and hip as he came, and then he collapsed on top of Wesley, his panting loud as a scream in Wesley's ear. Wesley found the older man's weight on his back oddly reassuring, or maybe it was just the fact that he could relax once Giles had stopped moving. His own cock was throbbing again, but for once he felt no need to do anything about it. When Giles pulled himself together and withdrew, Wesley felt a sense of loss, like someone had hollowed out his chest with an ice cream scoop.

* * *

Giles turned his back on Wesley while he cleaned himself up and fastened his trousers. Dominating Wesley had relieved the helpless panic that had been trying to claw its way out of his chest since Buffy and Dander had come to the library to report that Willow had been turned, but in retrospect he wasn't sure it had been worth it. His body was still tingling with adrenaline, but as that faded there was a cold, greasy feeling congealing in the pit of his stomach. It was the first symptom of what he'd come to think of as the emotional hangover from letting his more Rip perish urges have too free a rein, and like its alcohol-induced counterpart, this hangover always left him regretting his over-indulgence.

He turned around to find Wesley exactly where he'd left him, arise-up over the seat of the recliner. His first reaction was gratification that Wesley stayed down when you put him down. It was a nice change from Ethan, who would have been up and wisecracking by that point. Close on the heels of that feeling was the sharp, serrated edge of guilt, twisting in his gut at the knowledge that he'd wanted this. He'd craved even the illusion of power so badly that he'd used Wesley the way he would Ethan, when he knew perfectly well that Wesley didn't have the experience or emotional resilience necessary to play the scene without buying into it.

Inwardly calling himself names in several languages, he moved to the chair and unhooked Wesley's wrists, wincing in sympathy with the other man's moan as his arms fell to his sides. Giles hesitated, resting a hand on the back of Wesley's neck, partly to soothe him, but mostly to keep him from getting up while he fought an internal battle over what to do next. His first impulse was to retreat, to the bathroom, the loft, anywhere that he wouldn't have to look into Wesley's eyes and see the damage he'd inflicted. Maybe that would be best for both of them-they could get some distance, try to forget this had happened, go back to the way things were-but Giles was afraid if he abandoned Wesley like this it would only make things worse.

Instead, he sank to the floor next to Wesley, pulling the younger man into his lap as he settled. Wesley immediately twisted in his arms, turning sideways and nuzzling his shoulder in a way that reminded Giles of a kitten searching blindly for a nipple. Giles was suddenly thankful that his recuperative powers were not what they had once been, because the last thing he needed right then was another erection, and it was hard to ignore having a naked, squirming man in his lap. Part of him continued to revel in his power over Wesley, to have reduced him to this childlike state. The raw need in Wesley's behavior, though, was suffocating him.

"Wesley, stop," Giles ordered. He immediately regretted his harsh tone, but it had the desired effect; Wesley went still. "It's over," he continued, more gently. "I'm-"

He'd been going to say I'm sorry, but he snapped his mouth shut under an unexpected onslaught of anger. Why should he apologize when Wesley was the one who had suggested this? He could have stopped it at any time. He was an adult; was it asking too much for him to act like one? But Giles dismissed the anger as quickly as it had come. Wesley's badgering wouldn't have succeeded if Giles hadn't wanted it to, and he'd given Wesley the safe word as a legalistic bit of arise-covering, not out of any real expectation that the younger man would be able to enforce his limits. As for adult, well...

Shaking his head in self-disgust, Giles turned his attention to taking care of Wesley's physical distress. He'd intended to massage Wesley's shoulders, but one look at Wesley's still-erect cock changed his mind. That had to be beyond painful by now. As soon as Giles wrapped his hand around Wesley's shaft, Wesley stiffened and raised his head, eyes wide with fear.

"I'm not teasing," Giles said. Wesley nodded and let his head fall against Giles' shoulder with a sigh of relief.

Not wanting to betray Wesley's trust any further than he already had, Giles began to stoke him hard and fast. He didn't bother with finesse; he knew it was too late to worry about more than simple release. Wesley's hands were clenched in Giles' shirt and the only sounds he made were faint, tense grunts. Even as he came he gave only a strained moan, with no real pleasure in it. Giles felt sick.

He rubbed circles on Wesley's back while the younger man slumped against him and caught his breath, then gingerly pried Wesley's hands away from his shirt and removed the cuffs. There were red lines on Wesley's wrists from his struggles, but nothing, Giles was glad to see, that wouldn't fade within a day at the outside. He displaced Wesley from his lap with a promise that he'd be right back and went to collect the wool blanket off the couch, dropping the cuffs in the box of sex toys on the coffee table as he went.

He paused when he turned, hit by another wave of grim satisfaction at the sight of Wesley sitting with his arms wrapped around his drawn-up knees, watching Giles like his life depended on it. Giles was once again reminded of a small child, though the illusion was soured by the trails of semen on Wesley's arise and thighs. For an instant, Giles didn't want to give him the blanket, wanted to keep pushing, physically and mentally, until Wesley either broke or pushed back.

When that feeling passed, Giles was left bewildered by his response to Wesley. He didn't know what it was that made him want to lash out at the younger man. Only Ethan had ever had that particular effect on him. Certainly the children never had, or Jenny- Giles' thoughts screeched to a halt when he tried to imagine treating Jenny as he'd treated Wesley. It was, quite literally, unthinkable. He might have eventually gotten up the nerve to discuss bondage with her-no, she would have brought it up first, because she was so unashamed about everything. He could almost hear her teasing rebuke when she found out what he'd had in his closet all along, see the way her eyes would sparkle at his inevitable embarrassment. Then the analytical side of his brain stepped in to inform him that the anniversary of her death was less than a week away-why hadn't that occurred to him until now? -And he gasped with the shock of remembrance.

A concerned "Rupert?" snapped him back to reality. He realized he'd been staring at Wesley the entire time. Before Giles could absorb either the renewed pain of Jenny's loss or the guilt of daydreaming about Jenny while Wesley sat right in front of him, Wesley began to struggle to his feet with all the grace of a newborn foal. Giles stepped forward and caught him before he could fall, and they ended up in an awkward stagger, Giles' arms under Wesley's so that Wesley was leaning into him, their faces inches apart.

Without thinking, Giles tilted his head and captured Wesley's lips in a kiss that, for once, had nothing to do with lust or power. Wesley's mouth opened immediately and Giles tried to tease Wesley's tongue out, wanting it to be mutual. As Wesley responded eagerly, Giles lost himself in the feeling of Wesley's tongue sliding against his own, finding a reassurance in it that he hadn't known he craved. Then Wesley tried to shift them into a more comfortable stance and Giles realized what he was doing.

He tore himself away, gulping air like a drowning man, and paced towards the hall until he felt he could breathe again. His fists were clenched, and it took a conscious effort to relax them. He willed his heart to stop racing, too, but it seemed less inclined to cooperate. The faint rustle of Wesley picking up the blanket, which had ended up on the floor during their kiss, reached his ears. Then, nothing.

It was one thing to let Wesley cling to him at night, when he could pretend to be asleep, pretend he didn't know what Wesley really wanted from him, just like Wesley pretended during the day that he was happy with a relationship that consisted mostly of sexual gratification. The kiss had been something else, exactly the sort of thing he'd been trying to avoid, to keep either of them from getting too attached to the other. It terrified him. He knew he couldn't be what Wesley needed. He couldn't love Wesley; it simply wasn't an option. He'd failed in his duty as Buffy's Watcher because of his feelings for Jenny, and he couldn't afford to do so again.

The quiet padding of Wesley's feet towards him triggered another dizzying round of confliction in Giles' head. He was beginning to feel like he was the ball in a game of emotional roulette, and Wesley was the one spinning the wheel. He turned before Wesley could speak, and though he'd known more or less what he would find, actually seeing Wesley's hunched shoulders and the way he clutched the blanket around him like a suit of armor drove Giles to a decision. He pulled Wesley against him and just held him tightly for a few seconds, drinking in the newly familiar scent of Wesley's cologne, until Wesley got over his surprise and relaxed.

"Wesley. I can't tell you"-because I don't know myself, added a cynical voice in the back of his head-"how much I regret putting you through that. I should never have-"

He stopped when Wesley twisted his head back far enough to peer at Giles with a serious frown.

"Did it help?"

"What?" Giles shifted his arms to Wesley's waist so the younger man wouldn't have to crane his neck so sharply.

"You were upset about Willow. Did it make you feel better?"

"Well... on some level, yes, but that doesn't excuse-"

"It's fine," Wesley, said firmly.

"Wesley-" Giles couldn't comprehend how Wesley could be so unconcerned about what had happened. "I hurt you," he finished, because really there wasn't much else to say about it.

Wesley shook his head. "But you didn't. Well, I suppose I'll be a bit bruised, but..."

"No, you were-when I started to wink you, you were frightened."

A familiar flicker of shame crossed Wesley's face. "I just-I wasn't prepared for how intense it would be. Next time I will be."

"There won't be a next time. Wesley-"

Wesley pushed away from Giles abruptly, his face twisting in outrage. "How can you say that, after-after-" He struggled briefly for words, and then his shoulders fell into a dejected slump. "I shouldn't be surprised, I suppose."

Giles was struck speechless, as Wesley turned and began to gather up his clothes. An hour before, he would have said he'd come to understand Wesley fairly well, but now he wasn't even sure why Wesley was upset, let alone how to fix it.

"Would it be terribly rude of me to shower before I go?" Wesley asked after a moment, looking from himself to his trousers and back with distaste.

Giles could only stammer out, "Go? I don't understand."

They stared at each other in mutual incomprehension until Wesley sighed and said, "I don't want to be here if you won't even let me give you what you need."

"I don't need to hurt you, Wes." Giles reached for Wesley again, but gave up when the younger man stiffened forbiddingly. "I don't need you afraid of me."

"You didn't. I'm not." Wesley drew himself up to his full height, and when he continued his voice crackled like logs in a fire. "Why are you acting as if I didn't have a choice? You didn't force yourself on me. It was my idea, remember? I wanted to do this for you, and I thought-I thought you appreciated it."

Giles blinked, stunned, the effect of the speech not at all diminished by the fact Wesley was dressed only in a plaid blanket. His mind latched on to Wesley's last statement as something it could comprehend while it tried to process the rest. "I did. Do," he said. "That's not-"

"What if-what if I said I liked it? That I wanted you to do it again?"

Giles took a deep breath and dragged a hand through his hair while he tried to corral his thoughts, which were running in several directions at once. He was relieved in spite of himself, finally forced to believe that he hadn't damaged Wesley. But if he hadn't-if what Wesley was claiming were true-

"You want to be dominated?" he asked gruffly, forcing himself to complete the thought his mind was shying away from. He already knew the answer, really. It had been there the first night; Wesley quaking in his metaphorical boots while his metaphorical cock was half-hard in his jeans. It was what had drawn out the Ripper in the first place-recognition of the other, someone who wanted what he could give.

Wesley was stammering incoherently, so Giles decided to push the issue. He ignored the voice in his head that was still screaming in protest, telling him that even making his claim on Wesley official was more of a commitment than he could afford to make. It was a commitment he'd already made, to himself the moment he chose to come on to Wesley and to Wesley when he'd said it aloud less than an hour ago.

Not giving Wesley a chance to pull away again, Giles grabbed the younger man's head and bit down on the soft flesh over his cheekbone, gently at first, then with increasing pressure. Wesley permitted the bite, even relaxed against Giles for a moment, before stiffening and making a small noise of protest as Giles continued to dig his teeth in.

Giles let go at that resistance and peered into Wesley's face. The blue eyes blinked at him serenely, unwavering for once. After a moment, Giles raised his hand and brushed a thumb over the impression his teeth had left.

"Mine?" he asked seriously.

Wesley's eyes widened in surprise, and then he nodded slowly, a hesitant smile forming on his lips.

Giles smiled back encouragingly. He slid his hand into Wesley's hair again, pulled Wesley close and kissed him deeply, thoroughly, allowing himself to bask in Wesley's willing submission. He'd still have to be careful. Wesley's inexperience could be dangerous for both of them. He was afraid of what he could do to Wesley if he truly let loose the part of himself that had earned him the nickname Ripper, as he'd nearly done earlier. But fighting what they both wanted was only torturing them both.

He broke the kiss reluctantly, smiling at Wesley's faint moan of protest. Noting that Wesley was still swaddled in the blanket, Giles recalled his request.

"I think we could both use that shower," he said. "Why don't you join me."

It wasn't exactly a request, though it wasn't quite an order either. But Wesley nodded and followed Giles into the bathroom silently, calmer than Giles had ever seen him.