Wesley flinched at the first prod, but forced himself to be still when
Giles winced and apologized. He'd have liked to get a look at the damage
for himself, but didn't have the energy to get to the bathroom mirror.
"Is-is it bad?" He couldn't keep the words inside any longer. He had to know the extent of it.
"You're black and blue," Mr. Giles commented, voice rough and hoarse.
I must be a mess, Wes thought, closing his eyes so he didn't have to see the anger or reproach on Mr. Giles' face. He already knew he should have done better, already knew that he was a pathetic excuse for a Watcher. He'd been told often enough and didn't need Mr. Giles to confirm it.
"I . . . I didn't even see them," he murmured, mostly to himself. It wasn't an excuse, he knew that, but he only wanted to try to explain before the older man could get too worked up.
"I know." The soft comfort in Mr. Giles' voice took him by surprised. Wesley opened his eyes to find the other man watching him. Wesley's breath caught in his throat as he met the man's eyes, nearly choking him when Mr. Giles laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "We'll find them. They won't get away with this."
Wesley could only stare, realizing for the first time that the ex-Watcher wasn't angry with him.
"You, you don't think that I . . ." unable to finish the sentence, Wes looked away, his eyes finding their way to the other man's' hand. Wes' stomach knotted, realizing that Mr. Giles hadn't moved his other hand. It still rested on his shoulder, kneading gently.
"That you what, Wes?"
That nickname again. Hearing it said in such a low, intimate way had his heart beating fast, even as he frantically tried to convince himself it was nothing, meant nothing. It hurt to get his hopes up, or rather, it would hurt worse later.
"I should have been able to protect myself," he answered without thought, listing the things he'd done wrong. "I should have been more aware. I should have--"
"No," Giles interrupted, voice so intense it drew Wesley's eyes back to his face. "This isn't your fault."
Four words. Just small words, but strung together in a way that made his breath catch, made tears prickle at his eyes.
"I . . . I should have--"
Mr. Giles' lips cut off his words this time. The man closed in so quickly that Wes didn't have time to panic. Out of nowhere, it seemed to him, there was a firm pressure, soft lips rubbing against his own.
A whimper escaped him when the ex-Watcher's tongue slipped out, licking at him almost urgently. Wesley opened under the onslaught, his body reacting quick and fast, his heartbeat thudding in his ears. Giles' tongue snaked into his mouth and Wesley moaned, his muscles relaxing. He melted against the older man, half-disbelieving and half-desperate for any touch at all.
Then Mr. Giles was pulling away and Wes heard himself whimper at the loss.
"I-God, Wes, I'm so sorry," the older man muttered before fleeing to the kitchen.
Wesley stared at the wall, shocked, unsure. Finally, he blinked, heat rising to his face as he tried not to cry. The last thing he needed was to cry, and in front of Mr. Giles no less. As if he hadn't embarrassed himself enough for the next century.
"Here."
He jumped at the sound of the older man's voice, sending pain jolting along his bruised torso.
Mr. Giles handed him a fresh cup of tea and sat on the couch once again, this time putting far more distance between them.
He's probably afraid I'll want to kiss him again, Wes thought with a self- deprecating snort. Still, he . . . he had to know what he'd done wrong. Having been handed something he'd wanted for . . . a long time, he had to know why it had been taken away.
"Was . . . I, uh. What was wrong with it?"
"What?" Giles looked at him as if he'd just asked why the moon was crimson. "What was wrong with what?"
Perhaps he wanted to pretend it didn't happen?
"With," Wes looked away, staring into his teacup as if it held the answers to everything. "With the kiss . . . did I . . . was I . . ." he didn't even know how to finish the question.
"What? Oh, Wesley," Giles scooted closer to him. "Look at me."
He didn't particularly want to, but all the same, Wes raised his gaze to meet Mr. Giles'. The other man's expression was soft and searching, so caring . . . he wanted to believe it was for him, but he knew it was because he was injured.
"I shouldn't have kissed you," Mr. Giles confused him, saying that, but at the same time reaching out to lie a gentle hand on his cheek. Wesley found it hard to concentrate on what the other man was saying, found it hard to think with those rough fingers rubbing at his jaw line. "You're hurt, and dazed. You have a concussion. It was wrong of me . . . which doesn't mean I wouldn't do exactly the same thing if I had to do it over."
"You'd . . ." Wes stared, leaning his head into that touch, taking a risk, but barely caring anymore. "You'd kiss me again?"
"If you weren't injured? I'd do a hell of a lot more to you than kiss you." Mr. Giles' voice and eyes were frank, blunt even, in a way that Wesley simply couldn't doubt. His cock hardened at what he was hearing, setting up a throbbing ache inside him. Of course, the feel of Mr. Giles' . . . Rupert's hand on his face did nothing to impair his reaction.
"I've . . ." he shouldn't say it. He should take what he'd gotten, more than he'd ever expected, and be happy with it, savor it and pull it close on cold nights, but . . . "I've heard that kisses can be healing to bruises and scrapes."
"Is-is it bad?" He couldn't keep the words inside any longer. He had to know the extent of it.
"You're black and blue," Mr. Giles commented, voice rough and hoarse.
I must be a mess, Wes thought, closing his eyes so he didn't have to see the anger or reproach on Mr. Giles' face. He already knew he should have done better, already knew that he was a pathetic excuse for a Watcher. He'd been told often enough and didn't need Mr. Giles to confirm it.
"I . . . I didn't even see them," he murmured, mostly to himself. It wasn't an excuse, he knew that, but he only wanted to try to explain before the older man could get too worked up.
"I know." The soft comfort in Mr. Giles' voice took him by surprised. Wesley opened his eyes to find the other man watching him. Wesley's breath caught in his throat as he met the man's eyes, nearly choking him when Mr. Giles laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "We'll find them. They won't get away with this."
Wesley could only stare, realizing for the first time that the ex-Watcher wasn't angry with him.
"You, you don't think that I . . ." unable to finish the sentence, Wes looked away, his eyes finding their way to the other man's' hand. Wes' stomach knotted, realizing that Mr. Giles hadn't moved his other hand. It still rested on his shoulder, kneading gently.
"That you what, Wes?"
That nickname again. Hearing it said in such a low, intimate way had his heart beating fast, even as he frantically tried to convince himself it was nothing, meant nothing. It hurt to get his hopes up, or rather, it would hurt worse later.
"I should have been able to protect myself," he answered without thought, listing the things he'd done wrong. "I should have been more aware. I should have--"
"No," Giles interrupted, voice so intense it drew Wesley's eyes back to his face. "This isn't your fault."
Four words. Just small words, but strung together in a way that made his breath catch, made tears prickle at his eyes.
"I . . . I should have--"
Mr. Giles' lips cut off his words this time. The man closed in so quickly that Wes didn't have time to panic. Out of nowhere, it seemed to him, there was a firm pressure, soft lips rubbing against his own.
A whimper escaped him when the ex-Watcher's tongue slipped out, licking at him almost urgently. Wesley opened under the onslaught, his body reacting quick and fast, his heartbeat thudding in his ears. Giles' tongue snaked into his mouth and Wesley moaned, his muscles relaxing. He melted against the older man, half-disbelieving and half-desperate for any touch at all.
Then Mr. Giles was pulling away and Wes heard himself whimper at the loss.
"I-God, Wes, I'm so sorry," the older man muttered before fleeing to the kitchen.
Wesley stared at the wall, shocked, unsure. Finally, he blinked, heat rising to his face as he tried not to cry. The last thing he needed was to cry, and in front of Mr. Giles no less. As if he hadn't embarrassed himself enough for the next century.
"Here."
He jumped at the sound of the older man's voice, sending pain jolting along his bruised torso.
Mr. Giles handed him a fresh cup of tea and sat on the couch once again, this time putting far more distance between them.
He's probably afraid I'll want to kiss him again, Wes thought with a self- deprecating snort. Still, he . . . he had to know what he'd done wrong. Having been handed something he'd wanted for . . . a long time, he had to know why it had been taken away.
"Was . . . I, uh. What was wrong with it?"
"What?" Giles looked at him as if he'd just asked why the moon was crimson. "What was wrong with what?"
Perhaps he wanted to pretend it didn't happen?
"With," Wes looked away, staring into his teacup as if it held the answers to everything. "With the kiss . . . did I . . . was I . . ." he didn't even know how to finish the question.
"What? Oh, Wesley," Giles scooted closer to him. "Look at me."
He didn't particularly want to, but all the same, Wes raised his gaze to meet Mr. Giles'. The other man's expression was soft and searching, so caring . . . he wanted to believe it was for him, but he knew it was because he was injured.
"I shouldn't have kissed you," Mr. Giles confused him, saying that, but at the same time reaching out to lie a gentle hand on his cheek. Wesley found it hard to concentrate on what the other man was saying, found it hard to think with those rough fingers rubbing at his jaw line. "You're hurt, and dazed. You have a concussion. It was wrong of me . . . which doesn't mean I wouldn't do exactly the same thing if I had to do it over."
"You'd . . ." Wes stared, leaning his head into that touch, taking a risk, but barely caring anymore. "You'd kiss me again?"
"If you weren't injured? I'd do a hell of a lot more to you than kiss you." Mr. Giles' voice and eyes were frank, blunt even, in a way that Wesley simply couldn't doubt. His cock hardened at what he was hearing, setting up a throbbing ache inside him. Of course, the feel of Mr. Giles' . . . Rupert's hand on his face did nothing to impair his reaction.
"I've . . ." he shouldn't say it. He should take what he'd gotten, more than he'd ever expected, and be happy with it, savor it and pull it close on cold nights, but . . . "I've heard that kisses can be healing to bruises and scrapes."