Wes fidgeted, listening to Giles clatter around in the kitchen. His
stomach was doing flip-flops and not only from the nausea. The urge to
turn and look gnawed at him, but he fought it, keeping his eyes trained on
the fire.
It was nothing, he kept telling himself, repeating it as if the mantra would become a shield against further embarrassment. Still, his mind kept throwing up the image of Giles' lips, so close they'd have filled his vision if he'd have let them.
"Here you are."
Wes jumped at the sound of Giles' voice, his mind having wandered off into the memory.
"Did you doze?" Giles sat next to him, a cup of tea in either hand. Wesley accepted his without ever meeting the other man's gaze. "I'm sorry if I startled you."
"I wasn't sleeping," Wes replied after a grateful sip at his mug. The warmth of it did more for him even than the taste, which was pure heaven after so long without proper tea. He could feel it chasing away the cold inside him and that made him drowsy.
"But you will be soon," Giles chuckled, settling back onto the couch, one arm stretching over the back.
Wesley almost choked when he felt that arm brush him, just slightly. He recovered quickly enough to send a reassuring look to Giles, who'd straightened immediately, worried.
Worried . . . about him?
"Swallowed badly," Wes muttered, leaning back. His eyes felt so heavy, but he really shouldn't fall asleep here. It wasn't polite. Wasn't he supposed to stay awake?
"Here," Giles took the warm cup from his hands. Wesley opened his mouth to protest, but the older man cut him off. "You can have it back as soon as I've looked at those cuts. You'll be falling asleep soon and I want to get them taken care of first. Is that all right?"
Wes nodded, not sure he had words.
"I'm just going to fetch the first aid kit."
Again, Wesley nodded. Why was Giles doing all this? Why be so nice to him? The man didn't even like him. He could have just as easily dropped Wesley at the hospital and washed his hands of the whole affair. So, why hadn't he?
"Here we are," Giles said as he returned, probably attempting not to startle him once again.
Attempting to avoid the other man's eyes, Wes found his gaze stuck on Giles' hands. He'd looked at them before, knew they were large, weapon roughened. He'd never let himself stare though. Now, he couldn't help himself. He watched each muscle flex, each tendon pull tight, each scar bunch and pull at the surrounding skin. There were many scars, though Wes didn't know what put them there. He wanted to ask, to know something about this man whose fingers brushed his lips gently, dabbing at blood and who knew what else. The words wouldn't come. His mind felt hazy and it was so much easier to close his eyes, to relax into the strong touch and pretend.
"Wes? Are you falling asleep on me?" The words were vague things, buzzing in his ear, but easy to ignore. A sigh followed, but there was no anger in it and so Wesley continued to ignore. He felt as if he were sinking, but if felt good. His body no longer seemed so cold and he was comfortable, more so then he'd been in ages. The ache remained, throbbing in the background, but not enough to disturb his exhaustion.
There were hands on him, unbuttoning his shirt.
"No!" Wesley sat up with a start, eyes snapping open. Mr. Giles had jerked back, falling on his ass and staring at Wes with bewildered eyes.
"Wes? Are you all right?" The use of the nickname only further disoriented him. Mr. Giles had never called him that, was always formal, if not polite.
"Mr. Giles?"
"Rupert."
It took Wesley a moment to process that, confused by the rapid change from sleeping to waking. The abrupt movement had set his head to pounding again and his mind spun like a top. He realized how hard he was breathing and tried to calm down as he blinked and looked around the room, trying to orient himself.
"Wesley."
His eyes snapped to Mr. Giles at the sound of the older man's voice, his mouth forming words just as reflexively. "Yes?"
There was that look on the other man's face again, the one given only to the children when they laid their problems on his doorstep. Wes had watched the ex-Watcher talking to them, wondering if they knew how lucky they were to have . . . anyone look at them with such compassion and caring. He knew he must still be asleep then.
"Is this a dream?"
One of Mr. Giles' eyebrows lifted, a bemused smile lightening his face. "I don't believe so. I doubt you'd be so injured if either of us were dreaming."
Wesley didn't know what to say to that. It was true, but then it wasn't. Sometimes pain carried through into dreams, even if it wasn't enough to wake you up when you were drained, when everything was dark and too cramped to move.
"I need to see how bad it is, Wes. Wesley?"
Mr. Giles voice dragged him back to the moment and for that, alone, he was grateful.
"What?"
"Your chest. I can see the bruising around your collar . . . it looks as if someone tried to strangle you." The last was ground out, Mr. Giles' jaw clenching around the words.
Wesley blinked, trying to follow the change in tone as much as the words themselves. "Someone choked me? You want . . . what?"
"I need you to take off your shirt," Mr. Giles sighed, standing to come and sit beside him on the couch. Heat rolled off the older man's body and Wesley began wonder what his skin would feel like, only to quickly cut off that train of thought, turning his mind to the words.
"Oh . . . uh, y-yes of-of course."
It was nothing, he kept telling himself, repeating it as if the mantra would become a shield against further embarrassment. Still, his mind kept throwing up the image of Giles' lips, so close they'd have filled his vision if he'd have let them.
"Here you are."
Wes jumped at the sound of Giles' voice, his mind having wandered off into the memory.
"Did you doze?" Giles sat next to him, a cup of tea in either hand. Wesley accepted his without ever meeting the other man's gaze. "I'm sorry if I startled you."
"I wasn't sleeping," Wes replied after a grateful sip at his mug. The warmth of it did more for him even than the taste, which was pure heaven after so long without proper tea. He could feel it chasing away the cold inside him and that made him drowsy.
"But you will be soon," Giles chuckled, settling back onto the couch, one arm stretching over the back.
Wesley almost choked when he felt that arm brush him, just slightly. He recovered quickly enough to send a reassuring look to Giles, who'd straightened immediately, worried.
Worried . . . about him?
"Swallowed badly," Wes muttered, leaning back. His eyes felt so heavy, but he really shouldn't fall asleep here. It wasn't polite. Wasn't he supposed to stay awake?
"Here," Giles took the warm cup from his hands. Wesley opened his mouth to protest, but the older man cut him off. "You can have it back as soon as I've looked at those cuts. You'll be falling asleep soon and I want to get them taken care of first. Is that all right?"
Wes nodded, not sure he had words.
"I'm just going to fetch the first aid kit."
Again, Wesley nodded. Why was Giles doing all this? Why be so nice to him? The man didn't even like him. He could have just as easily dropped Wesley at the hospital and washed his hands of the whole affair. So, why hadn't he?
"Here we are," Giles said as he returned, probably attempting not to startle him once again.
Attempting to avoid the other man's eyes, Wes found his gaze stuck on Giles' hands. He'd looked at them before, knew they were large, weapon roughened. He'd never let himself stare though. Now, he couldn't help himself. He watched each muscle flex, each tendon pull tight, each scar bunch and pull at the surrounding skin. There were many scars, though Wes didn't know what put them there. He wanted to ask, to know something about this man whose fingers brushed his lips gently, dabbing at blood and who knew what else. The words wouldn't come. His mind felt hazy and it was so much easier to close his eyes, to relax into the strong touch and pretend.
"Wes? Are you falling asleep on me?" The words were vague things, buzzing in his ear, but easy to ignore. A sigh followed, but there was no anger in it and so Wesley continued to ignore. He felt as if he were sinking, but if felt good. His body no longer seemed so cold and he was comfortable, more so then he'd been in ages. The ache remained, throbbing in the background, but not enough to disturb his exhaustion.
There were hands on him, unbuttoning his shirt.
"No!" Wesley sat up with a start, eyes snapping open. Mr. Giles had jerked back, falling on his ass and staring at Wes with bewildered eyes.
"Wes? Are you all right?" The use of the nickname only further disoriented him. Mr. Giles had never called him that, was always formal, if not polite.
"Mr. Giles?"
"Rupert."
It took Wesley a moment to process that, confused by the rapid change from sleeping to waking. The abrupt movement had set his head to pounding again and his mind spun like a top. He realized how hard he was breathing and tried to calm down as he blinked and looked around the room, trying to orient himself.
"Wesley."
His eyes snapped to Mr. Giles at the sound of the older man's voice, his mouth forming words just as reflexively. "Yes?"
There was that look on the other man's face again, the one given only to the children when they laid their problems on his doorstep. Wes had watched the ex-Watcher talking to them, wondering if they knew how lucky they were to have . . . anyone look at them with such compassion and caring. He knew he must still be asleep then.
"Is this a dream?"
One of Mr. Giles' eyebrows lifted, a bemused smile lightening his face. "I don't believe so. I doubt you'd be so injured if either of us were dreaming."
Wesley didn't know what to say to that. It was true, but then it wasn't. Sometimes pain carried through into dreams, even if it wasn't enough to wake you up when you were drained, when everything was dark and too cramped to move.
"I need to see how bad it is, Wes. Wesley?"
Mr. Giles voice dragged him back to the moment and for that, alone, he was grateful.
"What?"
"Your chest. I can see the bruising around your collar . . . it looks as if someone tried to strangle you." The last was ground out, Mr. Giles' jaw clenching around the words.
Wesley blinked, trying to follow the change in tone as much as the words themselves. "Someone choked me? You want . . . what?"
"I need you to take off your shirt," Mr. Giles sighed, standing to come and sit beside him on the couch. Heat rolled off the older man's body and Wesley began wonder what his skin would feel like, only to quickly cut off that train of thought, turning his mind to the words.
"Oh . . . uh, y-yes of-of course."