Giles propped him into the front seat, large hands brushing Wes as he
buckled the seat belt around him. The contact was shocking and warm and
Wesley had to bite his lips to stifle the gasps, to keep from embarrassing
himself.
The ride went by in silence, or at least Wesley was pretty sure it did. The car's movement made him dizzy and what mind he had left tried frantically to convince him that his reactions stemmed from the fact that it had been so long since anyone really touched him.
Wes refused to let himself think about how long; wouldn't let himself count up the years.
They parked in front of Giles' flat and Wes realized it wasn't the motion that would bring back the nausea; it was the stopping. He watched, as if from a distance, as his clumsy hands scrambled at the door, pushing it open almost violently. He tried to lean out, but the seatbelt held him still and Wes whimpered, unable to work the damned thing.
Larger, stronger hands pushed his away. The seatbelt loosened and Wes threw himself to his knees outside the car, dry heaves wracking his body and making his head feel as if someone had hollowed it out with a sharp ice cream scoop.
Once again, there was a warm hand on his back, low nonsense whispered in his ear. As much as he hated himself for it, he liked the comfort, reveled in it even as his body jerked and his ribs began to ache.
When the heaving finally passed, Wesley hung his head, too exhausted to stand. There wasn't much choice but to allow Giles to help him up and all but walk him to his flat. Wes hissed as he leaned against the wall, waiting for Giles to unlock the door. He was beginning to feel the rest of his body, even through the ache in his head, beginning to think it wasn't just the concussion making him stiff and weak.
"Come on."
Wesley started at Giles' words, found the man holding out an arm to him, looking expectant. Had he faded out? He remembered not to shake the cobwebs out of his head this time.
"At least I'm a quick learner," he muttered to himself, earning a raised eyebrow from Giles. "Nothing," he continued by way of explanation, glancing away.
"We'll get you settled on the couch. I'll start a fire and get you some tea before I have a look at those cuts."
"Cuts?" Wesley blinked, trying to bring the older man into focus, only then realizing he wasn't wearing his glasses.
"Someone did a number on you." There was a hard edge in the man's voice that left Wes wondering what he'd done wrong.
Panic began to well as he was eased down onto the couch. He'd done something wrong. Would Giles still help him? How cross had he made the older man? How bad was this going to be?
"Don't worry," Giles laid a throw over him, tucking it under his legs with a gentleness that took Wesley's breath away. "We'll find out who did this. I promise."
The hard edge was still there, but it was somehow softened by the careful way Giles was handling him. The panic didn't fade, but it did settle, only to flare into fireworks a moment later when Giles' ministrations brought his face mere inches from Wesley's.
Everything seemed to slow. Giles noticed where his face was, but didn't pull away. Instead, his eyes flickered up, meeting Wesley's head on, trapping him. Wes stared, unable to look away, swallowing against the sudden, aching dryness that claimed his throat.
Their lips were inches apart, so close he could feel the other man's breath on his skin. Giles' tongue flickered out, wetting his firm mouth. The motion freed Wesley's eyes and, as he watched, the urge to lick his own lips was nearly overwhelming.
He'd never kissed another man before. He'd thought about it. Often, if he was truthful with himself. He'd even thought of kissing this man and . . . touching him. Wes was nearly certain part of that fantasy was about to actually happen.
Giles straightened, pulling away, and cleared his throat, turning to start a fire.
Wesley choked back a whimper, his breath coming fast as he frantically sought to understand. He had been so sure . . . maybe he'd been projecting or . . . oh, god. What if Giles hadn't felt the same at all? His thoughts had to have been obvious.
Oh, god. Oh, god.
"I don't mean to be a bother," he croaked out, moving to stand despite the way his ribs protested.
"Sit still," Giles admonished, one large hand landing on Wes' shoulder, gently pressing him back to the couch. "You sound hoarse. I should get you that tea."
The ride went by in silence, or at least Wesley was pretty sure it did. The car's movement made him dizzy and what mind he had left tried frantically to convince him that his reactions stemmed from the fact that it had been so long since anyone really touched him.
Wes refused to let himself think about how long; wouldn't let himself count up the years.
They parked in front of Giles' flat and Wes realized it wasn't the motion that would bring back the nausea; it was the stopping. He watched, as if from a distance, as his clumsy hands scrambled at the door, pushing it open almost violently. He tried to lean out, but the seatbelt held him still and Wes whimpered, unable to work the damned thing.
Larger, stronger hands pushed his away. The seatbelt loosened and Wes threw himself to his knees outside the car, dry heaves wracking his body and making his head feel as if someone had hollowed it out with a sharp ice cream scoop.
Once again, there was a warm hand on his back, low nonsense whispered in his ear. As much as he hated himself for it, he liked the comfort, reveled in it even as his body jerked and his ribs began to ache.
When the heaving finally passed, Wesley hung his head, too exhausted to stand. There wasn't much choice but to allow Giles to help him up and all but walk him to his flat. Wes hissed as he leaned against the wall, waiting for Giles to unlock the door. He was beginning to feel the rest of his body, even through the ache in his head, beginning to think it wasn't just the concussion making him stiff and weak.
"Come on."
Wesley started at Giles' words, found the man holding out an arm to him, looking expectant. Had he faded out? He remembered not to shake the cobwebs out of his head this time.
"At least I'm a quick learner," he muttered to himself, earning a raised eyebrow from Giles. "Nothing," he continued by way of explanation, glancing away.
"We'll get you settled on the couch. I'll start a fire and get you some tea before I have a look at those cuts."
"Cuts?" Wesley blinked, trying to bring the older man into focus, only then realizing he wasn't wearing his glasses.
"Someone did a number on you." There was a hard edge in the man's voice that left Wes wondering what he'd done wrong.
Panic began to well as he was eased down onto the couch. He'd done something wrong. Would Giles still help him? How cross had he made the older man? How bad was this going to be?
"Don't worry," Giles laid a throw over him, tucking it under his legs with a gentleness that took Wesley's breath away. "We'll find out who did this. I promise."
The hard edge was still there, but it was somehow softened by the careful way Giles was handling him. The panic didn't fade, but it did settle, only to flare into fireworks a moment later when Giles' ministrations brought his face mere inches from Wesley's.
Everything seemed to slow. Giles noticed where his face was, but didn't pull away. Instead, his eyes flickered up, meeting Wesley's head on, trapping him. Wes stared, unable to look away, swallowing against the sudden, aching dryness that claimed his throat.
Their lips were inches apart, so close he could feel the other man's breath on his skin. Giles' tongue flickered out, wetting his firm mouth. The motion freed Wesley's eyes and, as he watched, the urge to lick his own lips was nearly overwhelming.
He'd never kissed another man before. He'd thought about it. Often, if he was truthful with himself. He'd even thought of kissing this man and . . . touching him. Wes was nearly certain part of that fantasy was about to actually happen.
Giles straightened, pulling away, and cleared his throat, turning to start a fire.
Wesley choked back a whimper, his breath coming fast as he frantically sought to understand. He had been so sure . . . maybe he'd been projecting or . . . oh, god. What if Giles hadn't felt the same at all? His thoughts had to have been obvious.
Oh, god. Oh, god.
"I don't mean to be a bother," he croaked out, moving to stand despite the way his ribs protested.
"Sit still," Giles admonished, one large hand landing on Wes' shoulder, gently pressing him back to the couch. "You sound hoarse. I should get you that tea."