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janedavitt Jul. 25th, 2004 04:49 pm)
janedavitt Jul. 25th, 2004 04:49 pm)Here is Chapter Seven of this fic, written with ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wesleysgirl.
Previous chapters are here:
Sick of Shadows
Sick of Shadows by Jane Davitt and Wesleysgirl
Chapter Seven
They set up the spell as required – charcoal brazier in the centre of the room, with as much of the floor space cleared as possible, candles at the four quarters – before Giles went back to his bedroom to retrieve the statue. Again, he took care not to touch it with bare skin, and when he stepped into the front room Wesley was over against the door as he'd suggested, both palms flat to the wooden surface behind him as if that might somehow prevent him from doing anything he shouldn't.
Not commenting, just giving Wesley a reassuring nod, Giles set the statue in the centre of the space and stepped back.
"Are you ready?" he said.
The spell was simple enough; a short incantation chanted as they walked between the candles in a pattern, each scattering a different ingredient into the brazier at the end of each line. Giles handed Wesley what he needed, met his eyes in one long look, and then they began.
The room seemed to darken as they passed each other, their voices low and steady as they recited the words. Giles tried to watch Wesley as he walked, getting concerned as Wesley's voice and steps began to falter. His face was contorted now; pale and damp with sweat, and he was hunched over, as if the amulet was searing into his flesh.
As the air became thicker, it was harder to breathe, the atmosphere within the circle a dense, swirling eddy that seemed to be sucking the oxygen out of the rest of the room, The slip of paper that had been sitting on the table beside the couch flew into the air, caught in the whirlwind, circling.
Giles shouted the last words of the ritual to be sure that they were heard over the rushing wind, and there was a deafening clap as the power they'd raised charged to the centre of the room, the brazier overheating and simultaneously exploding in a shower of flame and jagged splinters of metal, several of which hit the meteorite sculpture, shattering it into a crumpled pile of dust.
Above the remains, a Viking warrior that looked as if it owed rather a lot to Mary Shelley's Frankenstein solidified, took in his surroundings, and roared with satisfaction.
"You freed me," the warrior said, turning his attention toward Wesley. His voice was guttural and his accent thick but Giles could understand him well enough – and the long sword he carried was doing a good job of conveying his intent, as it was pointed unwaveringly at Wesley.
Giles had fought alongside Wesley often enough that they'd got to the point of anticipating each other's moves. Sparing him a glance, he was relieved to see that Wesley had straightened and was breathing easier, as if the materialisation of the warrior had released him from the compulsion that had been affecting him. It made sense, Giles decided; the warrior had no need of Wesley now he had his own body back. He didn't seem particularly grateful though...
Taking advantage of the fact that the warrior's attention was focused on Wesley, a cruel smile curving his lips, Giles edged to the side of the room. They'd anticipated needing to fight, and an axe and a sword lay waiting for them to use.
Picking up the axe, Giles sent the sword skidding across the floor to Wesley with a shove of his foot and gave him the chance to stoop and pick it up by swinging his axe at the warrior. It was aimed at his back, but reflexes swifter than Giles had expected sent him swinging around, thick eyebrows drawing together with anger, and the axe glanced off the thick leather jerkin he wore, slicing his arm but doing little damage.
With an enraged shout that sounded very loud in the small room, the warrior advanced on Giles.
There was no hesitation on Wesley's part – he snatched up his weapon and launched himself at the warrior's back, driving the sword deep into the behemoth's torso, which caused a gout of blood to spill onto the floor. The Viking made a pained sound that was considerably less than Giles would have hoped for, whirled, and backhanded Wesley. Wesley went down hard, the sword knocked from his hand. It skittered across the floor several feet and fetched up just out of his reach, although Giles could tell that he was probably too disoriented from the blow to manage to retrieve it just then in any case.
Giles was tall, but this man was a head taller and considerably heavier. Strategy seemed to be a better bet than all-out attack, but Giles was finding it difficult to remain calm after seeing the blood on Wesley's face from the blow.
Swinging his axe, not at the man but his weapon, he shattered the blade of the Viking's sword easily, leaving him clutching a hilt with only a few inches of jagged metal protruding from it. "Like a knife through butter," he said, with a ferocious grin at the man who'd done so much to disrupt their lives. "Want me to show you what it does to flesh and bone?"
"You, a warrior?" The Viking laughed, seemingly unconcerned by the blood that was pooling onto the floor behind him. "Little man." Moving more quickly than Giles would have thought possible, the giant dropped his ruined weapon and grabbed onto the front of Giles' shirt, dragging him closer and taking Giles' axe hand in his enormous grip. It was the work of a moment for the Viking to squeeze to the point where Giles had no choice but to drop the weapon as the bones in his hand ground together so painfully that he could barely remain standing.
Then Giles heard Wesley's voice say, "Little men can be great foes," and felt a powerful jolt go through the Viking. His hand was released as abruptly as it had been grabbed, and the warrior staggered back, a look of utter surprise on his face and a sudden stain of dark blood running from his mouth.
The huge body of the Viking crumpled to the floor, Wesley's sword sunk deeply into his back, and Giles cradled his injured wrist to his chest and watched him die with a grim satisfaction.
"Well done, Wesley," he murmured, glad that it had been Wesley, who had suffered the most, who had got to deliver the killing blow.
As they stared down at the figure it began to decay, flesh winnowed from bones, bones crumbling to dust, until all that remained was Wesley's sword, clattering to the floor in the sudden silence.
Giles didn't realise that he'd been wavering on his feet until suddenly Wesley's arm was around his waist, guiding him gently to the sofa and easing him down to sit.
"There," Wesley said, kneeling on the floor in front of Giles and wrapping careful hands around his wrist, moving his own hand away from it so that he could examine it more closely. "Do you think it's broken?" His face, looking up into Giles', was full of concern, which seemed almost comical considering that it was bloodied by what Giles could now see was a shallow abrasion across the cheekbone. The soft tissue just over the orbital bone was already swollen – he'd have a spectacular bruise by morning – but otherwise he seemed uninjured.
"Just bruised, I think," Giles said, moving it experimentally and wincing at the sharp pain that shot through his wrist. "I'll put something cold on it." He reached out and brushed the fingers of his uninjured hand over the cut on Wesley's face. "I think you'll need to do that, too." The stress of the last day caught up with him in a rush and he realised, with an odd detachment, that his hand was shaking slightly. Or possibly that was because Wesley's skin was warm against his hand and he was fighting the urge to cup Wesley's face in his hand and kiss the worry off it. "It's a little inadequate, I know, but thank you. I really wasn't looking forward to having my bones ground to make bread."
Wesley made a little sound that might have been hysterical laughter if it hadn't been so brief, then he did what Giles had just wanted to do – cupped Giles' face in his hand tenderly. "No, thank you. That you'd be able to put aside what happened last night, even long enough to get through this... it's far more than anyone could have expected of you."
Giles frowned, even as his hand came up to rest against Wesley's. "Last night must have been far worse for you, Wesley. To have your body... used... like that, made to do something you'd never have – I can't imagine how you must be feeling." He curled his fingers under Wesley's hand and pulled it down into his lap, not letting go of it, and found that he was having trouble controlling his voice. "I'm so very sorry. I never would have – if I'd known it wasn't you – please believe that. I didn't know, Wesley. I didn't – oh God – " He released Wesley's hand, cursing himself for making everything so much worse, and stood up abruptly. "I'll get that ice. Sorry."
He cursed himself a second time as Wesley stumbled to his feet as well. "But it wasn't – Rupert, please. Wait."
Forcing his body to stop moving and wait was more difficult than Giles would have thought, so strong was his desire to flee from this impossible situation that they'd found themselves in, but he just managed it, pausing, letting Wesley's fumbling hands stop him.
Wesley swallowed. "I don't... please, just let me apologize. Please. I know you'll never be able to look at me the same way again, not when it was me – or him, influencing me, wearing my face – who convinced you to have sex. I know you'd never want me that way. And I'd never have done those things, no matter how much I might have wanted..." He looked down at the floor, keeping his gaze there, and took a deep breath. "I'm very sorry. I promise you it will never happen again, and... I wouldn't blame you if you felt that you couldn't have me stay on. So... just say the word, and I'll go."
It was, Giles thought, like one of those dreams where nothing made sense. He knew he should answer Wesley, who was looking at him now, waiting to be told – what? To go? Giles shook his head in an instinctive reaction to that idea, and found his voice. "I don't think we're communicating here," he said quietly. "Which isn't surprising given what we've just been through. Think about it, Wes; I just told you I slept with you, believing it was you. Not forced, not unwilling – the only problem I had was that you weren't – it wasn't quite as I'd imagined it would be." He bit his lip. "Because it was just your body I had, not you. And the only excuse I can give you for not realising something was wrong was that I was too... eager, to be thinking about anything clearly." He took a deep breath. "I wanted you last night, Wesley, and if I hadn't been convinced that you were still in love with Angel, I'd have told you that weeks ago."
"But..." Wesley was pale again, although not as pale as he'd been earlier, and his hand reached out and clutched at Giles' good one. "You thought I was in love with Angel?" When Giles nodded, he continued, walking them toward the kitchen. "I've had... I've had feelings for you for a while, I think. I didn't want to look at them too closely... things went so badly for me in L.A..."
Giles wondered if he should be holding his breath. This was the most candidly he'd ever heard Wesley speak about what had happened with Connor and Angel – previous conversations had been limited to terse answers in as few words as possible and ended as quickly as Wesley could manage to change the subject. It had taken months for Giles to get enough information out of him to piece together the chain of events that had led Wesley to show up on his doorstep in London.
As Wesley took ice from the freezer, wrapped it in a towel and sat down in the chair next to Giles', gently pressing the cold packet to Giles' wrist, he said, slowly, and with several pauses, "I don't think I wanted to chance it. You're the only friend I had left, I didn't want to... and now... but I didn't let myself think about it. I couldn't." He adjusted the ice pack slightly. "Why... why did you think I was in love with Angel?"
"The way you spoke about him," Giles said bluntly. "Oh, you wouldn't talk about what happened to bring you here, without me prodding you, but all the stories you told me of what you did with him in the early days, how he trained you, the demons you fought – the way you felt when he abandoned you all and left you in charge... You sounded as if you had a bad case of hero worship, to be honest, and your reaction to him trying to kill you – you weren't angry, as you had every right to be, Wes; you were heartbroken. What else was I supposed to think?"
The ice was numbing his wrist and trickles of cold water were dripping onto the table. Giles stood, got another towel from a drawer, and split the ice, making a smaller pack that he held against Wesley's swollen face, hitching his chair closer to Wesley's so he didn't have to stretch.
Wesley closed his eyes, and that simple gesture went straight to Giles' heart, speaking so openly of trust when it came from someone who had every reason to be wary. "I was heartbroken," he agreed quietly. "But not about Angel. Well, not in the way that you mean, but because of Connor. Because my error in judgment resulted in Connor being cheated out of the life he could have had, and Angel being cheated out of sharing that life. But it's... it's guilt. It's not love." He drew a shuddering breath, and Giles wondered if he was keeping his eyes closed now because it was easier that way. "I won't deny that I had feelings for him at one time. But I don't anymore."
It wasn't fair to do this when Wesley couldn't see, but Giles couldn't help it. Dropping the ice to the table, he leaned forward and kissed Wesley, not on his mouth, but on his bruised, cut cheek, feeling the small shock of chilled skin against his lips and bringing his good hand up to Wesley's shoulder to brace himself. Wesley's eyes opened in surprise and Giles pulled back slightly and met his gaze. "Why don't you? Because you don't think you deserve him?"
"Actually, I think the fact that he tried to kill me might have something to do with it," Wesley said with a tremulous smile. "No – I blame myself more than he could possibly blame me, so the fact that he'll never forgive me for what happened... for what I did... that doesn't really come into play." He shrugged a bit, the shoulder under Giles' hand rising and then falling again. "I think there's just too much history there. Too much, if you'll forgive the phrase, bad blood." Their eyes met again and held this time, and when Wesley spoke, it was with the most gentle voice Giles had ever heard him use. "The last thing I want is to lose your friendship, but... if you still think there might be a chance, for you and I to..."
"I just kissed you, Wesley," Giles pointed out. "Do I normally do that, no matter how friendly I'm feeling?"
He couldn't remember ever being this close to Wesley before – and he wasn't counting anything that had happened when Wesley had been possessed; in fact he was trying to forget that entirely – and he was discovering that Wesley's eyes were bluer than he'd thought, and he'd had his left ear pierced at some point, though the hole was almost healed over. He remembered Xander's open mouthed shock at discovering he'd done the same, the night they'd found him singing at the coffee shop, and smiled, both at the memory, and at Wesley.
"It's not so much a chance as a certainty," he said, matching Wesley's gentle tone. "If you want to, that is. I know how I feel about you, and I know it's what I want... but if it's too soon, I can wait, and if you change your mind, I'll understand."
"It's not too soon." Unexpectedly, Wesley leaned forward, slowly enough so that Giles would be able to move away or stop him if he so chose, and then almost chastely pressed his lips to Giles' in a gentle kiss that ended sooner than Giles would have liked. "If you're sure."
"Can we assume we're both absolutely certain, and then I can kiss you properly?" Giles asked, aware that he sounded plaintive, and not caring. That short kiss had made every ache go away – apart from one – and he felt his control slipping. The last thing he wanted to do was rush Wesley, and he knew they were both still far from back to normal after what they'd gone through, but the space between them was starting to seem like yards, not inches. His hand had slipped down to Wesley's arm and he kept it very still as he waited for Wesley's answer.
When it came, he thought it made all the difficulties of the past two days worth it.
"Yes," Wesley said.
wesleysgirl. Previous chapters are here:
Sick of Shadows
Sick of Shadows by Jane Davitt and Wesleysgirl
Chapter Seven
They set up the spell as required – charcoal brazier in the centre of the room, with as much of the floor space cleared as possible, candles at the four quarters – before Giles went back to his bedroom to retrieve the statue. Again, he took care not to touch it with bare skin, and when he stepped into the front room Wesley was over against the door as he'd suggested, both palms flat to the wooden surface behind him as if that might somehow prevent him from doing anything he shouldn't.
Not commenting, just giving Wesley a reassuring nod, Giles set the statue in the centre of the space and stepped back.
"Are you ready?" he said.
The spell was simple enough; a short incantation chanted as they walked between the candles in a pattern, each scattering a different ingredient into the brazier at the end of each line. Giles handed Wesley what he needed, met his eyes in one long look, and then they began.
The room seemed to darken as they passed each other, their voices low and steady as they recited the words. Giles tried to watch Wesley as he walked, getting concerned as Wesley's voice and steps began to falter. His face was contorted now; pale and damp with sweat, and he was hunched over, as if the amulet was searing into his flesh.
As the air became thicker, it was harder to breathe, the atmosphere within the circle a dense, swirling eddy that seemed to be sucking the oxygen out of the rest of the room, The slip of paper that had been sitting on the table beside the couch flew into the air, caught in the whirlwind, circling.
Giles shouted the last words of the ritual to be sure that they were heard over the rushing wind, and there was a deafening clap as the power they'd raised charged to the centre of the room, the brazier overheating and simultaneously exploding in a shower of flame and jagged splinters of metal, several of which hit the meteorite sculpture, shattering it into a crumpled pile of dust.
Above the remains, a Viking warrior that looked as if it owed rather a lot to Mary Shelley's Frankenstein solidified, took in his surroundings, and roared with satisfaction.
"You freed me," the warrior said, turning his attention toward Wesley. His voice was guttural and his accent thick but Giles could understand him well enough – and the long sword he carried was doing a good job of conveying his intent, as it was pointed unwaveringly at Wesley.
Giles had fought alongside Wesley often enough that they'd got to the point of anticipating each other's moves. Sparing him a glance, he was relieved to see that Wesley had straightened and was breathing easier, as if the materialisation of the warrior had released him from the compulsion that had been affecting him. It made sense, Giles decided; the warrior had no need of Wesley now he had his own body back. He didn't seem particularly grateful though...
Taking advantage of the fact that the warrior's attention was focused on Wesley, a cruel smile curving his lips, Giles edged to the side of the room. They'd anticipated needing to fight, and an axe and a sword lay waiting for them to use.
Picking up the axe, Giles sent the sword skidding across the floor to Wesley with a shove of his foot and gave him the chance to stoop and pick it up by swinging his axe at the warrior. It was aimed at his back, but reflexes swifter than Giles had expected sent him swinging around, thick eyebrows drawing together with anger, and the axe glanced off the thick leather jerkin he wore, slicing his arm but doing little damage.
With an enraged shout that sounded very loud in the small room, the warrior advanced on Giles.
There was no hesitation on Wesley's part – he snatched up his weapon and launched himself at the warrior's back, driving the sword deep into the behemoth's torso, which caused a gout of blood to spill onto the floor. The Viking made a pained sound that was considerably less than Giles would have hoped for, whirled, and backhanded Wesley. Wesley went down hard, the sword knocked from his hand. It skittered across the floor several feet and fetched up just out of his reach, although Giles could tell that he was probably too disoriented from the blow to manage to retrieve it just then in any case.
Giles was tall, but this man was a head taller and considerably heavier. Strategy seemed to be a better bet than all-out attack, but Giles was finding it difficult to remain calm after seeing the blood on Wesley's face from the blow.
Swinging his axe, not at the man but his weapon, he shattered the blade of the Viking's sword easily, leaving him clutching a hilt with only a few inches of jagged metal protruding from it. "Like a knife through butter," he said, with a ferocious grin at the man who'd done so much to disrupt their lives. "Want me to show you what it does to flesh and bone?"
"You, a warrior?" The Viking laughed, seemingly unconcerned by the blood that was pooling onto the floor behind him. "Little man." Moving more quickly than Giles would have thought possible, the giant dropped his ruined weapon and grabbed onto the front of Giles' shirt, dragging him closer and taking Giles' axe hand in his enormous grip. It was the work of a moment for the Viking to squeeze to the point where Giles had no choice but to drop the weapon as the bones in his hand ground together so painfully that he could barely remain standing.
Then Giles heard Wesley's voice say, "Little men can be great foes," and felt a powerful jolt go through the Viking. His hand was released as abruptly as it had been grabbed, and the warrior staggered back, a look of utter surprise on his face and a sudden stain of dark blood running from his mouth.
The huge body of the Viking crumpled to the floor, Wesley's sword sunk deeply into his back, and Giles cradled his injured wrist to his chest and watched him die with a grim satisfaction.
"Well done, Wesley," he murmured, glad that it had been Wesley, who had suffered the most, who had got to deliver the killing blow.
As they stared down at the figure it began to decay, flesh winnowed from bones, bones crumbling to dust, until all that remained was Wesley's sword, clattering to the floor in the sudden silence.
Giles didn't realise that he'd been wavering on his feet until suddenly Wesley's arm was around his waist, guiding him gently to the sofa and easing him down to sit.
"There," Wesley said, kneeling on the floor in front of Giles and wrapping careful hands around his wrist, moving his own hand away from it so that he could examine it more closely. "Do you think it's broken?" His face, looking up into Giles', was full of concern, which seemed almost comical considering that it was bloodied by what Giles could now see was a shallow abrasion across the cheekbone. The soft tissue just over the orbital bone was already swollen – he'd have a spectacular bruise by morning – but otherwise he seemed uninjured.
"Just bruised, I think," Giles said, moving it experimentally and wincing at the sharp pain that shot through his wrist. "I'll put something cold on it." He reached out and brushed the fingers of his uninjured hand over the cut on Wesley's face. "I think you'll need to do that, too." The stress of the last day caught up with him in a rush and he realised, with an odd detachment, that his hand was shaking slightly. Or possibly that was because Wesley's skin was warm against his hand and he was fighting the urge to cup Wesley's face in his hand and kiss the worry off it. "It's a little inadequate, I know, but thank you. I really wasn't looking forward to having my bones ground to make bread."
Wesley made a little sound that might have been hysterical laughter if it hadn't been so brief, then he did what Giles had just wanted to do – cupped Giles' face in his hand tenderly. "No, thank you. That you'd be able to put aside what happened last night, even long enough to get through this... it's far more than anyone could have expected of you."
Giles frowned, even as his hand came up to rest against Wesley's. "Last night must have been far worse for you, Wesley. To have your body... used... like that, made to do something you'd never have – I can't imagine how you must be feeling." He curled his fingers under Wesley's hand and pulled it down into his lap, not letting go of it, and found that he was having trouble controlling his voice. "I'm so very sorry. I never would have – if I'd known it wasn't you – please believe that. I didn't know, Wesley. I didn't – oh God – " He released Wesley's hand, cursing himself for making everything so much worse, and stood up abruptly. "I'll get that ice. Sorry."
He cursed himself a second time as Wesley stumbled to his feet as well. "But it wasn't – Rupert, please. Wait."
Forcing his body to stop moving and wait was more difficult than Giles would have thought, so strong was his desire to flee from this impossible situation that they'd found themselves in, but he just managed it, pausing, letting Wesley's fumbling hands stop him.
Wesley swallowed. "I don't... please, just let me apologize. Please. I know you'll never be able to look at me the same way again, not when it was me – or him, influencing me, wearing my face – who convinced you to have sex. I know you'd never want me that way. And I'd never have done those things, no matter how much I might have wanted..." He looked down at the floor, keeping his gaze there, and took a deep breath. "I'm very sorry. I promise you it will never happen again, and... I wouldn't blame you if you felt that you couldn't have me stay on. So... just say the word, and I'll go."
It was, Giles thought, like one of those dreams where nothing made sense. He knew he should answer Wesley, who was looking at him now, waiting to be told – what? To go? Giles shook his head in an instinctive reaction to that idea, and found his voice. "I don't think we're communicating here," he said quietly. "Which isn't surprising given what we've just been through. Think about it, Wes; I just told you I slept with you, believing it was you. Not forced, not unwilling – the only problem I had was that you weren't – it wasn't quite as I'd imagined it would be." He bit his lip. "Because it was just your body I had, not you. And the only excuse I can give you for not realising something was wrong was that I was too... eager, to be thinking about anything clearly." He took a deep breath. "I wanted you last night, Wesley, and if I hadn't been convinced that you were still in love with Angel, I'd have told you that weeks ago."
"But..." Wesley was pale again, although not as pale as he'd been earlier, and his hand reached out and clutched at Giles' good one. "You thought I was in love with Angel?" When Giles nodded, he continued, walking them toward the kitchen. "I've had... I've had feelings for you for a while, I think. I didn't want to look at them too closely... things went so badly for me in L.A..."
Giles wondered if he should be holding his breath. This was the most candidly he'd ever heard Wesley speak about what had happened with Connor and Angel – previous conversations had been limited to terse answers in as few words as possible and ended as quickly as Wesley could manage to change the subject. It had taken months for Giles to get enough information out of him to piece together the chain of events that had led Wesley to show up on his doorstep in London.
As Wesley took ice from the freezer, wrapped it in a towel and sat down in the chair next to Giles', gently pressing the cold packet to Giles' wrist, he said, slowly, and with several pauses, "I don't think I wanted to chance it. You're the only friend I had left, I didn't want to... and now... but I didn't let myself think about it. I couldn't." He adjusted the ice pack slightly. "Why... why did you think I was in love with Angel?"
"The way you spoke about him," Giles said bluntly. "Oh, you wouldn't talk about what happened to bring you here, without me prodding you, but all the stories you told me of what you did with him in the early days, how he trained you, the demons you fought – the way you felt when he abandoned you all and left you in charge... You sounded as if you had a bad case of hero worship, to be honest, and your reaction to him trying to kill you – you weren't angry, as you had every right to be, Wes; you were heartbroken. What else was I supposed to think?"
The ice was numbing his wrist and trickles of cold water were dripping onto the table. Giles stood, got another towel from a drawer, and split the ice, making a smaller pack that he held against Wesley's swollen face, hitching his chair closer to Wesley's so he didn't have to stretch.
Wesley closed his eyes, and that simple gesture went straight to Giles' heart, speaking so openly of trust when it came from someone who had every reason to be wary. "I was heartbroken," he agreed quietly. "But not about Angel. Well, not in the way that you mean, but because of Connor. Because my error in judgment resulted in Connor being cheated out of the life he could have had, and Angel being cheated out of sharing that life. But it's... it's guilt. It's not love." He drew a shuddering breath, and Giles wondered if he was keeping his eyes closed now because it was easier that way. "I won't deny that I had feelings for him at one time. But I don't anymore."
It wasn't fair to do this when Wesley couldn't see, but Giles couldn't help it. Dropping the ice to the table, he leaned forward and kissed Wesley, not on his mouth, but on his bruised, cut cheek, feeling the small shock of chilled skin against his lips and bringing his good hand up to Wesley's shoulder to brace himself. Wesley's eyes opened in surprise and Giles pulled back slightly and met his gaze. "Why don't you? Because you don't think you deserve him?"
"Actually, I think the fact that he tried to kill me might have something to do with it," Wesley said with a tremulous smile. "No – I blame myself more than he could possibly blame me, so the fact that he'll never forgive me for what happened... for what I did... that doesn't really come into play." He shrugged a bit, the shoulder under Giles' hand rising and then falling again. "I think there's just too much history there. Too much, if you'll forgive the phrase, bad blood." Their eyes met again and held this time, and when Wesley spoke, it was with the most gentle voice Giles had ever heard him use. "The last thing I want is to lose your friendship, but... if you still think there might be a chance, for you and I to..."
"I just kissed you, Wesley," Giles pointed out. "Do I normally do that, no matter how friendly I'm feeling?"
He couldn't remember ever being this close to Wesley before – and he wasn't counting anything that had happened when Wesley had been possessed; in fact he was trying to forget that entirely – and he was discovering that Wesley's eyes were bluer than he'd thought, and he'd had his left ear pierced at some point, though the hole was almost healed over. He remembered Xander's open mouthed shock at discovering he'd done the same, the night they'd found him singing at the coffee shop, and smiled, both at the memory, and at Wesley.
"It's not so much a chance as a certainty," he said, matching Wesley's gentle tone. "If you want to, that is. I know how I feel about you, and I know it's what I want... but if it's too soon, I can wait, and if you change your mind, I'll understand."
"It's not too soon." Unexpectedly, Wesley leaned forward, slowly enough so that Giles would be able to move away or stop him if he so chose, and then almost chastely pressed his lips to Giles' in a gentle kiss that ended sooner than Giles would have liked. "If you're sure."
"Can we assume we're both absolutely certain, and then I can kiss you properly?" Giles asked, aware that he sounded plaintive, and not caring. That short kiss had made every ache go away – apart from one – and he felt his control slipping. The last thing he wanted to do was rush Wesley, and he knew they were both still far from back to normal after what they'd gone through, but the space between them was starting to seem like yards, not inches. His hand had slipped down to Wesley's arm and he kept it very still as he waited for Wesley's answer.
When it came, he thought it made all the difficulties of the past two days worth it.
"Yes," Wesley said.