iGrief teaches the steadiest minds to waver./i
Sophocles, Antigon ...
He's seen death before. Watched death get her claws in someone and not let up. Seen 'em drop like Johns when the sirens come. Friends, family. Death don't give a fuck if you love someone. If they love you. If you're a good person.
Gunn knows this. He's known this since he was a child. There's no reason this should be any different. No reason the pale, scrawny form attached to beeping equipment should shock or surprise him, but it does. No reason gunshot wounds should be surprising or shocking to him, either, but this one is.
He catches movement out of the corner of his eyes. Imagines it's Wes. Waking. He's pissed and hungry and he turns to Gunn; he asks where a soul can find a satisfactory cup of tea. Then Gunn shakes the daydream from his head. Waste of fucking time, imagining things the way they aren't.
He knows this, too.
There are times when he doesn't worry about it, though. Times when he lets himself get caught in his own thoughts. Usually he daydreams about his sister, the life they could be leading if things were different. But sometimes--not too often--the daydreams don't have anything to do with vampires or family or even the future. Sometimes he daydreams about late nights and cold beers and manly hugs that last a bit too long. Then he straps on his favorite crossbow and pushes thoughts from his head that are a bit too sweet for a red-blooded-African-American-male.
Another beep. A slight flicker of motion. Imagines Wesley is waking, reaching out to him, asking to bury his face in the strong muscle and smooth skin at the junction of Gunn's shoulder and neck. He knows about irony, too. About loving it when humans stroke a place that he'd kill a demon for touching.
"This is bullshit," he says to no one, clenching and unclenching his fists. He doubts the nursing staff would appreciate his language but he doesn't give a shit. He approves even less of their raised eyebrows and knowing nods.
The blanket has worked loose from Wes' shoulders. Gunn moves it, imagines words of thanks. "How can I repay you for your kindness?" Dream-Wes asks and Gunn has more than a few suggestions.
Gunn might be going crazy.
He's heard of that. Folks going crazy after a loved one has died and he wonders if that could happen to him. Because of him. Him and Wes. Not like he loves him. He does, of course, 'cause who else would he love besides his crew? He loves them all. But Wes and him is too fucking crazy to consider- -two friends with more than age and race working against them.
Gunn yawns. Imagines Wes telling him that the folks who wouldn't like it if they were together could just "Sod off," and then blushing like a child caught cussing in front of his grandmother and Wes can't die. He can't. He'll live. Scattered thoughts and broken images flick through his head. Wes with a sword. Wes with a pen. Hot either way and he can't die. He can't. Gunn wants to will it so.
"Live...live...live..." he whispers, as if saying the words into the empty room is enough to make it happen. And maybe it does because he detects movement again. No more than a twinge of muscle on Wes' hand, but it's enough.
With some relief, Gunn sits back breathing regularly for the first time since he began the long watch. Wes' lips are blue and that seems wrong. Gunn's hands are smooth and untouched--for the moment--and that seems wronger. More wrong? Fuck. Point is, Wes is probably dying and Gunn doesn't even have a papercut.
He runs the smooth digit over cold lips and imagines the lips parting, taking the fingers in and sucking them. Imagines two bodies--one strong and thick and dark, the other long and thin and fair--trying to fit into one small hospital bed. Wes' almost girlish giggling as Gunn cops a feel under the bleached white blankets and faded sheets. Blushing and laughing at the nurse's horror because--
Fucking stupid waste of time. And if Gunn's seen a lingering look, felt a nervous hand helping him to his feet after a battle with Peckshel demons knocked him on his ass, well then that's just the result of too much wishful thinking. Gunn knows how things are and he knows how things aren't. He and Wes are friend and they aren't brothers or lovers or any of a dozen things he wishes they could be. But they are friends. Friends. And his friend is dying and by association, Gunn himself.
He pulls the blanket higher. It's up around his chin, trying to cover his ears. Wes' ears get cold when they fight at night. English hates cold ears. Gunn rubs at them, trying to stimulate blood flow and replaces the blankets over them.
Except now it looks like Wes is a mummy; only his face is exposed. He's already dead, wrapped in cheap, pale cotton and Gunn can't handle that. His sister didn't get a real funeral. Wes will. Except he's not dead just yet and lookin' like a mummy is seriously fucking with Gunn's mind. He pulls the blankets down to Wes' shoulders and exchanges their warmth for his own hands. He covers Wes' ears, presses his face into a pale throat. He's warm. Gunn can keep him warm. Doesn't need a shitty blanket to keep his friend warm. That's what friends are for. Human blanket. Or was that lovers?
It's been days since Gunn has slept. How long? One? Four? Wes is beeping. Wes is dying. Wes is warm...warm...warm...and his skin is so soft and if Gunn rests a while that's okay, 'cause there's no one to tell him it's wrong.
...
"Gunn?" Raspy. Painful. Strained.
"WATCH OUT FOR ITS EYES!
"Gunn?" Stronger now. "May I have some water?"
Dark eyes blink open to meet a field of worn cotton.
"Were am I?"
"I'm not entirely sure myself. May I have that water?" Gunn lifts his head slowly, the ache in his heart momentarily made insignificant by the ache in his neck.
"You were shot." His mouth is sandpaper. He casts his eyes left and right until he finds a cheap plastic pitcher of water. Pours one for Wes. One for himself.
"Cheers, Gunn." He might still be dreaming. Probably is. After all, Wes is dying and Gunn is going to keep his ears warm until then an--
"Wesley? You're alive."
"It appears so, yes." Wes coughs, spilling a few drops of water. Gunn watches the water absorb onto the blanket, dark blue starbursts on pale blue fabric. He's trying to makes sense of things and not having much success.
"You're alive," he repeats.
"Yes." Soft. Wes' voice is soft like sunshine and twice as warm. Gunn closes his eyes briefly.
"Alive." His hands are opening and closing over something precious. Something priceless. A hand.
"Gunn." It's a statement and a question at the same time. One word. Gunn knows Wes is confused and not from a gunshot wound but from the body he's found half curled against his own upon waking. Gunn drops the hand, then rubs his face hard. "Gunn?"
"You're alive. We were worried."
"Gunn..."
Once he has something in his mind, Wes won't let it go. Gunn knows this, too, but he isn't sure he's ready to let Wes run with those somethings just yet.
"Angel's here. Cordy, too. I can get you some food if you want. Can't promise it'll be that good, but--"
"Sleep. Lots of sleep."
"Yeah. Sleep is good."
Wes winces, stretching to make himself more comfortable.
"How are you feeling? Does it hurt bad?"
"Oh, I suppose it feels like a small metal object has been projected through my body with great force."
"Huh. Imagine that."
"Yes. Imagine that." Wes sips his water thoughtfully, eyes already sagging. He needs a shave and a bath. Gunn can see the circles under his drugged eyes, but all things considered, Wes sipping tap water from a plastic cup is the best damn thing he's seen in...ever. "You know, I had the most marvelous dream."
"Yeah?"
"You were there. Angel and Cordelia, too. She kept making pies. All sorts of lovely desserts. Angel wanted to eat the lemon ones, but she refused to grant his wish. I believe she said they were reserved for the King of Prada. Then we took a bath in a fountain of lemonade and lay under an umbrella, relaxing during the moonrise, for several months. All in all, it was a lovely dream. You..."
"I...?"
"You weren't there. Not at first."
"No?"
"No. It was...upsetting. That you were not there, that is. I asked and asked but...no one knew where you were." Wes shivers and Gunn stills the urge to cover him more. Knows how Wes hates people mothering him. "We found you, of course. Fighting a Prismoni demon in an alley that was somehow behind the Hyperion and also adjacent to the beach with the lemonade fountain."
"Dreams are funny that way."
"It didn't feel funny." Wes is serious. Looking at his eyes, Gunn sees that they're no longer drug-lazy but concerned.
"Hey! Right here. Me. Being all kinds of right here. For as long as you need me."
"Ah, if that were true."
"It is." Softer then. Gunn meets his eyes fiercely. "It. Is."
Wes is startled but anything looks better than the painful concern of a moment ago so Gunn is grateful. Then Gunn feels the rough, precious hand descend on his own. "And I, you."
They're silent for long minutes. Wes, replaying his dream perhaps. Gunn, imagining things that he swears over and over he'll never waste his time on again. Then Wes squeezes Gunn's hand firmly and is bringing it up to lie at the crook of his neck. Gunn pulls his chair as close as he can get it, lays his head down on the side of the bed, and closes his eyes.
"Wes?"
"Yes?"
"You did find me, right? In the dream?"
"Oh, yes. I believe Cordelia allowed you many delicacies."
"That's good."
"And I believe I offered you some myself."
"You did?" Gunn's voice is ripe with false innuendo, but Wesley answers sincerely.
"I offered all that I had."
Gunn breathes deep, relaxing for the first time in many days. He feels strength returning to him--not the strength of muscle and bone but the power of conviction and purpose. He helps the hopeless. He finds light in dark places. And when Wes wakes up, maybe he'll still be holding Gunn's hand. Then again, maybe he won't. Some days, it just doesn't pay to crawl out of bed. There are no guarantees in life. Gunn knows this, too. But the steady rise and fall of Wesley's chest is enough of a promise for now.
The End