about: 3x01 episode tag; a look into the summer months with Wes and Annalise (also on ao3 and tumblr)
.
.
May.
.
.
Wes's hands shake when he reaches for the door handle. It's less to do with the chill of the night and more to do with the adrenaline. It's kind of weird to be in this position, to try to reclaim something normal after screaming his brains out in the woods with Annalise. He's got to say, though, his chest feels a little lighter. His jaw less tense.
He circles his jaw a few times just to be sure and holds onto the handle until his pulse stops racing so much.
Annalise doesn't seem to have that problem. She slips into the car with a lot more ease. She settles herself into the drivers' seat. Pulls down the overhead mirror so she can check how she looks. She never quite looks as ruffled as she could, not since the Hapstalls and the shooting.
They don't talk about it much, and he's not quite sure that now's the right time to do it. So he sits and buckles up. His phone buzzes in his pocket. It's probably Laurel. Annalise's lips pinch in the corner, so she's noticed the buzzing too. She doesn't comment on it though. Just turns the key in the ignition.
"This what you do?" He asks, then adds more to clarify, "You scream when you want to let go?"
She quirks up an eyebrow as if that shouldn't even be a question. "You can't drink away everything," she says.
"You could try."
She chuckles. "Believe me, I have."
He knows she has. Sometimes, he checks the trash bags when he gets to the house in the morning. It normally fills up every few days, and slower when she doesn't let them eat in the house. Even then, it's emptied in the middle of the day, right when they get in from classes. So, if it's empty in the morning, it's her or Bonnie taking it out to hide the vodka bottles and occasional broken glasses.
On pick up days, the trash bin sounds like a wind chime, all clinks and not enough other mess to soften the sound. Annalise doesn't seem too embarrassed on those days, but maybe it's because they all know by now that she solves her problems with a few heavy handed shots and a chaser of secrets.
His dad had been a secret. His mom too. But what Wes doesn't understand is what exactly his dad could've done to hurt Annalise. Or how Frank was involved. Or why Frank would bring him all the way over here just to make sure that Annalise knew the deed was done.
"I can hear you thinking," she says. Her eyes stay on the road, but he can feel the tension in her brow. The weight of her latent attention.
He says, "Whatever Frank did had to be big. It had to have really hurt you."
Her fingers twist a bit on the steering wheel. "It did."
"What did — could you —" He gulps the questions back down. She responds better to statements, leading probes that give off a semblance of conversation. "I just don't understand why he would've done this today."
She seems to turn her response over in her mouth a few times, parting and unparting her lips. Finally, she says, "People like Frank don't offer up explanations. And it does us no good to try and figure them out. Leave it in the woods, Wes."
He hears her — he does — but didn't they leave Sam in the woods all those months ago? Look where that got them.
.
.
June.
.
.
He stops by the house somewhere between officially ignoring Laurel's messages and officially dating his next replacement.
(He'd never actually call Meggy a replacement, of course. She's not. She's the first person not wrapped up in all of this that holds his attention. He sees her hair first, this big poof of unrestrained freedom bobbing near the bike next to his on the rack. He follows the curls down to her face and definitely watches her a little too long. She eventually peers back at him, which jolts him enough to get him over to his own bike, and their eyes meet again through the spaces between bars and front wheels.
He can't think of much to say, so he just says, "Nice bike."
And she practically beams at him. "Yours too." Her hands still on the lock. "I've seen you around actually. You go to Middleton?"
He nods, brain already whirring to try and find her in his memories, but it's hard to remember anyone else these days. Hard to allow himself to focus on the mundane and ordinary when there's a murderer in the wind and a whole slew of crimes on his conscience.
"I'm sorry, I don't recognize you."
"It's all good." She returns to her lock. "Maybe you'll see me next time. I'm Meggy."
The name gets him to smile. He almost reaches through the bikes but figures they can save the first shake for whenever they can run into each other again. "Wes. Unless you already knew that."
She pops up now that her lock's off. "Nope. Until next time, Wes." Then she's off.)
Meggy really isn't a replacement. He and Laurel were never anything more than quick comfort, and Rebecca…. All of them are different, three distinct personalities that really don't need to be compared.
Besides, if anything, Meggy's the outlier. All of the other women in his life have this aura of mystery, like they've all got secrets. It matches him in a way, but maybe it's time for a change. Time to go for something easy and fun rather than stressful and complicated.
He's still got Annalise around if he wants to get all flustered. No, not flustered — frustrated, worked up, er, overworked by someone else's drama. Though, it's been a little quiet since school ended.
He knocks again at Annalise's door. Maybe he should've called before coming over. Or texted. She doesn't always respond to texts, but she reads them sometimes.
"Hold on!" calls a voice, but it's definitely not Annalise. Too deep, which could really only mean —
"Nate." Wes tries not to let the surprise into his voice when the door opens. Because it shouldn't be surprising. Annalise and Nate have been a near constant since he met them both. His first after-hours interaction with Annalise came with Nate attached, so why shouldn't this one? Why wouldn't Nate hang around?
(The framing; the perjury; the fact that Annalise's other ex defended him in court; the pretty much never ending chaos that is having her around.)
Nate's brow furrows at the sight of Wes. "Isn't a little too late to ask about grades?"
"This isn't about—" Wes shakes his head and starts over. "Is Annalise here?"
Nate shifts, though Wes hesitates to wonder why. Yes, Wes used her first name, but they've been through a lot by this point. You shoot someone, and you should be able to call them by their first name.
"She went out."
That's helpful. Wes gives a bit of a pinched grin in response. "Any idea when she's coming back?" It can't be long if Nate's still in the house. Unless Nate's moved in. That's certainly one way for Annalise to prove that she's moved forward.
"Nope. Want to leave a message?"
Wes mulls it over as his grin thins out further. He doesn't really have much to say. It's been weeks since Frank took off, and Wes hasn't bothered her for more information, or much of anything. He's been patient and understanding, and he's only googled his father a half dozen times since the police talked to him.
Last break, he barely talked to Annalise, which was fine. He'd shot her (ruined her), and they'd both needed space. And winter break had been a blur of playing house with Rebecca and praying that no one put together what happened to Sam. This summer is the beginning of the rest of their lives. He just thought…. They're not friends, but Wes wouldn't mind actually talking to her this time around.
Nate sighs from in the house. He says, "She's got her phone if you want to message her. She's always sending 'em out to you all so, send one back." Then he makes sure to meet Wes' eye. "That all?"
Wes nods. "Yeah, sure. I'll, uh, send her a text."
"Sure. Good to see you again."
The door shutting says otherwise, but Wes turns anyway. Fishes his phone out of his pocket and twists it a few times in his hand before opening a new conversation.
He hasn't texted Annalise since their last case, and he can't quite figure out what more to say than hello. He could lead with a pretense, some easy message that won't go ignored and maybe figure something out from there.
Wes Gibbins (2:14p) / Any word from Frank?
Not the best conversation starter, but it's something. She doesn't even take long to respond.
Annalise Keating (2:15p) / No
(2:15p) / Any word from Laurel?
Naturally Laurel leads to Frank. Or is that he's now also related to Laurel in her mind?
Wes Gibbins (2:16p) / Last I heard, she's in Mexico. We're not really talking right now.
Annalise Keating (2:17p) / Trouble in paradise?
He leans back a little against the door frame.
Wes Gibbins (2:18p) / Middleton's never really been much of a paradise
Annalise Keating (2:20p) / No need to short sight your early days. We called you the puppy for a reason — all wide eyes and full of hope.
He chuckles.
Wes Gibbins (2:21p) / I thought I was the puppy because girls liked me.
He hesitates before sending, but hits it anyway.
There's a bit of a lull before she replies.
Annalise Keating (2:23p) / That's more of a side effect than a cause.
He's not quite sure how to respond to that one. Not quite sure how to keep a conversation going based on so little with a person who he doesn't exactly have casual conversations with. So he pockets the phone and pushes off of the wall.
There's got to be something else he could say. Like, maybe, does the side effect work on everyone? But that sounds flirty, doesn't it? He doesn't need to sound flirty to her. She's got Nate right inside.
Not that Nate's the only reason he's not flirty. He's not flirty because he doesn't need to be doing that with Annalise. He doesn't need more stress, or more drama, or more… anything really. She might be magnetic, but he's not sticking.
His hands stall on the handlebars. "Magnetic?" He tries to shake it off.
The phone buzzes. From her.
Annalise Keating (2:25p) / You came by the house?
Nate works fast.
Wes Gibbins (2:26p) / Yeah, but don't worry about it
Annalise Keating (2:26p) / Is something wrong?
He drums his thumbs on the edges of his phone.
Wes Gibbins (2:27p) / No, I just thought it was a little quiet out here over the summer.
Annalise Keating (2:28p) / Hmm, are you looking for work or looking for company?
This one's easier to respond to.
Wes Gibbins (2:29p) / Both, if possible.
He waits, staring down at the phone.
Annalise Keating (2:32p) / Come back tomorrow. I'm sure I can muster something up to keep you busy.
Wes Gibbins (2:33p) / Thank you.
He types in her name at the end of the message, reads it back, and deletes it off before he hits send.
Annalise Keating (2:34p) / Don't mention it.
Who'd he tell? All his friends are hiding out for the summer. Except her.
.
.
July.
.
.
He talks to Meggy a lot more than he ever did with Rebecca, which probably says something about one of these relationships. Meggy asks a lot of questions, but she only ever asks what she's willing to answer herself. She smiles a lot, and after a while with her, his smiles come a lot easier too.
Even Annalise notices.
She nearly snorts while fixing him a plate of leftovers from her latest barbecue. "Meggy again?"
He places the phone down on the counter beside him, digs his elbows down into the surface. "She's happy to be headed back now that the fourth's over. Apparently, her family's not all as nice as she is."
"Very few people are."
Annalise puts down the spoon for potato salad and reaches for the aluminum foil. It's one of the days when Nate isn't hovering around the house, which is honestly part of why Wes is here to begin with. His smiles might come easier with Meggy, but his shoulders hang a little lower around Annalise, eyes rest and lungs remember how to actually go on without needing a reminder of normal times to breathe and how much oxygen is too much for the present moment.
Annalise had invited him over by asking if he was eating. He'd spent his fourth of July in his apartment, eating pizza from the Dominoes a block over while everyone else in the world seemed to know how to work a grill and enjoyed doing it. He doesn't have to ask to know that Nate did most of the cooking over here, but he appreciates the food nonetheless. It's a bit like their destructive days, when she'd drop things off at his door because he wouldn't answer her and he'd, well, one day he'll return the favor.
For now, though, he just keeps on accepting.
"It's just you and your mom?" he checks.
Annalise rips off a square of foil while shaking her head. "I've got a sister, but she's got her own life, and I've got mine."
Wes nods. "I've got an aunt." He knows she knows, but it feels nice to say it. "She invited me, but I'm over being the extra kid at the table."
"You never quite grow out of that feeling, I'm afraid."
He reaches across the counter to pick up a few napkins. "You know, I figure once I've got my degree and I have, I don't know, a family or something, I won't feel so out of place." The napkins flake a bit under his fingers, twisting and pulling out of their pattern before his eyes. He could also just be staring at them a little too hard.
Sometimes, he says too much, and Annalise gets quiet, and it's like they've reached another check point in whatever their relationship is. Like she has the option to either open up further, or send him on his way like a kid who wandered too far from home.
She pats the top of covered plate a few times. Then she says, "I had a family. Sam and…." She turns the plate. Lets her voice sink into the space around whatever's lodged in her throat. "Sam and I almost had a kid, once. It didn't change anything."
Her voice trails, and his hand jumps on the napkins. Not to her, of course. Never to her.
But he says, "I'm sorry," because no matter what happened with Sam, he figures her disdain doesn't cover over to whatever child she lost.
Her jaw ticks to the side. "So am I." She lets go of the plate and glances back over to him. "You never stop feeling out of place where you're not supposed to be. You just have to find somewhere else to call home."
He scans the kitchen. "Like here?" He shouldn't feel that way, not with what happened here and all the bad stuff that continues to surround it. Yet, "It's funny, that we're still here. Like we were meant to be. Meant to find each other here. Not like — just, people who've been through a lot tend to find other people who've experienced tough stuff." Now it's his turn to trail, to speak to the counter rather than to her expectant face. "Birds of a feather and all that."
She doesn't mention the meant to be part thankfully.
"You mean broken people?" she asks.
He holds out a hand, and she slides the plate towards him. "I wouldn't say we're broken. I mean, look at us." He turns the plate again. "Leftovers on to go plates, casual summer clothes —" Don't think he hasn't noticed the jeans that wrap over her hips like a second skin, such a cry from the dresses that work like armor everywhere else he sees her. "We're practically normal, like good little people."
She snorts. "Good people don't act like us."
He hums and plucks his plate off the counter. "Maybe they should."
She hums too. "Happy fourth."
"Happy fourth, Annalise."
.
.
August.
.
.
Wes Gibbins (1:49a) / Can I come in?
Annalise Keating (1:52a) / be right there
.
She opens the door in a robe over a night dress, but her wig's still on. Her makeup's still in place. He wonders if—
"Nate's not here," she tells him while stepping aside. He heads into the house. "But Michaela is."
Wes freezes, eyes drawn to where he knows the guest bedroom to be. "Extra work?"
Annalise closes the door. "No. She needed a drink, and we all know I've got a very well stocked bar."
"That's actually part of why I'm here, though I didn't know sleepovers were an option."
She chuckles sarcastically. "Pretty sure you're not the type to take me up on that."
He's actually pretty down to take her up on that, or up on anything really, but he won't mention it. Just says, "And Michaela is?"
She glances to the guest bedroom, says that "sometimes people aren't too good at taking care of themselves."
"But she's —" one of the best of them, barely shows her stress at all. Or is he just not looking for it?
"She's working on it. This helps, for now."
He nods. "Help me?"
And there's something about the moment, about the proximity and the way their bodies angle towards each other over the counter. The guest bedroom is still visible over her shoulder and she quirks up a brow.
"What'll it be tonight?"
Intrusively, he thinks, anything you want. It's not right. It's not even what he wants, necessarily. He just wants a drink and someone who won't ask him questions he can't answer, or offer to help him study so his grades will be better next semester than they were the last. He wants to shed off being normal and well-adjusted as easily as he kicked off his shoes at the door.
"Anything," he says. He'll save the other words for another time. Maybe next time he goes out with Meggy. (She'd probably laugh at them. Take it as a sign to peck his lips and trace his stubble with her short nails. Rebecca used to scratch — not hard but enough. He imagines Annalise is probably the same way. Not that he imagines often. He won't imagine often. Just, well, enough.)
She leads the way into the kitchen. He takes his shoes along with him, drops them down by that door so they won't be so visible to anyone else who comes in the house. She pours him a few heavy handed shots of vodka and steps towards the fridge.
"No chaser," he says, and she peers back over her shoulder. It's a nice view — the kitchen lights basking over her cheeks and just the right tilt to her body to show all her curves at once. He forces out the rest of his sentence. "No mixers, or anything like that. I can keep up."
She hums a little low in her throat. "We'll see about that."
Classes start back up in a few weeks, then she's back to being his professor and his boss. He's got papers to write and cases to memorize. No time for nights hazed over and five times distilled.
He reaches to grab his glass and grabs hers while he's at it. Stalks the length of the kitchen island until they're front to front, though not quite face to face. He holds hers out, and she slips it from his fingers like they've been passing back and forth for ages.
"Cheers," he offers, and she lifts her glass the same way she does an eyebrow. He scrambles for a toast worth having. "To becoming good people."
She clinks her glass to his. "To trying."
They sip together, and he does his best not to watch her lips wrap around the glass.
"So, Wes, what brings you here? Besides a drink."
He tilts his head. "I don't know."
She tilts hers. "You came here this late, and you don't know what for?" He does, it's just — "Or you don't want to say?"
He and Annalise talk about half as much as he and Meggy do. Their conversations get existential and vague and tend to trail off into moments of silence since they're so used to being cut off all the time. They never talk about Frank, or Wes' dad, or any of the murders they've seen or covered up. They don't talk about attraction, or favorite colors, or what it is that they want out of life. Technically, she's ruined him just as much as he's ruined her. But he keeps coming back. And she keeps helping him. They keep… circling, and a person can only circle so much before they have to step inside and see what's there.
He takes another sip of the vodka. She keeps it smooth, so the warmth lasts longer than the burn. It'd be nice with a little juice though. He left a tropical one the last time he came over.
"You said, good people don't act like us." His eyes find hers. "What do we act like?"
Her eyes drop down to his hand on the glass. Or maybe just to his fingers. Women tend to do that. Then they usually go back to his lips, then settle back in to his eyes.
"Like something we shouldn't," she says. There's a bit of bass to her voice, but he kind of hopes that's not because of finality.
"Be more specific," he says.
"Who's in charge here?" she asks.
He cocks a shoulder up. "Whoever wants to be."
That drives her to drink. To take a controlled gulp and lower the glass down to the counter. She levels with him. "Let's not do this, Mr. Gibbins."
The name shouldn't make his toes tingle. Shouldn't make his face a little warmer, or his grip tighten. He steps forward, mostly just to see if she'll move back.
She doesn't.
"Do what?"
His glass goes on the counter too.
"Whatever you're thinking. Remember the toast?"
He runs his hand along the surface until it gets close to hers. "What? We said we were trying."
"This isn't trying. This is giving in."
His fingers bump hers. She stills. He slides his hand over hers.
"What's wrong with that?"
She sputters, "Nate. Meggy. Michaela's right over there."
"And yet you asked why I was here." Another step closer. "You started this conversation. You—"
A door creaks. He freezes. She freezes. Michaela must take another step of her own because the guest door moves again.
"Annalise? Do you have a change of clothes? I can't sleep in this."
Wes sneaks another peek down at Annalise before moving back to their original spacing and picking up his glass again. By the time Michaela gets to the kitchen, it's like any other time they're caught whispering alone together.
Michaela barely bats an eye. "Oh, hi, Wes."
"Hey, Michaela. You've got a little…." He motions to the strands of hair stuck to her cheek, and she tugs them down with a roll of her eyes.
She focuses back on Annalise. "I can't wear this. I'm sorry." This meaning her own dress, one that's loose enough to be casual but still a little too nice to really roll around in.
Annalise perks back up enough to seem normal. "Let me get you something. Follow me." She gets to the doorway before pausing. "Good night, Mr. Gibbins."
That's a dismissal if he's ever heard one. He tries not to let the disappointment show. It's not like they could've done anything anyway, or even that they should. A few more weeks, and it's back to normal.
"G'night."
Annalise and Michaela head upstairs, and Wes finishes the rest of his drink. He puts his glass in the sink, slips his shoes back on, and heads out of the house.
That's the thing about summer — it's a few months of what if's, of maybe's and potential answers to questions that people think up the whole school year. What if they talked over break? What if he popped up to visit? What if he showed up when it was late and no one else was around?
Answers or not, true break or not, it always ends. And the rest of the year picks up right where it left off.
Wes Gibbins (2:12a) / You'll lock the door?
Annalise Keating (2:13a) / on my way back down.
(2:13a) / Don't wait up. You've got class in the morning.
Wes Gibbins (2:14a) / Didn't you hear? I'm a bad student
Annalise Keating (2:15a) / Be better. You lot are making me look bad
Wes Gibbins (2:15a) / We were kind of busy
Annalise Keating (2:17a) / Not anymore. All that stuff's behind us. The bad cases, the accidents, all of it
He listens for the click of the lock and watches as she flips off the light switches inside of the house. The street's too quiet after that, so he starts walking while he replies.
Wes Gibbins (2:19a) / Right. We left it in the woods.
He's pretty down for another trip right about now. He can wait though. It shouldn't be too long until things really get back to normal, and who knows how far he can push them then? They might be trying to change, but some things are constant. She protects him. He protects her. And they always wind up here.
It's not like the house is going anywhere.
.
.