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janedavitt Jun. 13th, 2005 02:12 pm)
janedavitt Jun. 13th, 2005 02:12 pm)Here's the next part of this fic. There's a distressing lack of smut. Well, I find it distressing. On the other hand, Wesley and Giles snarling works for me just as well...
Previous parts here
Third Time Lucky
Part Two
"So do you think she meant it?"
Giles stares across the room at Wesley. The man looks tired -- they both do -- but he's leaning forward eagerly, heedless of the fact that the bottle of beer held suspended between his knees, loose in his hands, is dripping condensation onto the carpet. Giles notes the progress of one drip and splash and then takes a sip from his own beer, decanted into a glass because he's older than Wesley and sometimes it shows in more ways than the obvious.
Like the grey hairs on his chest, outnumbering the brown. Wesley has them too, of course, but fewer and seemingly there just to point up the darkness of the rest of his hair in an elegantly minimalist way.
Bastard can lap him, too, when they're training, and Giles doesn't let himself think about sex because that way lies... well, something that hasn't happened yet, but if this keeps up -- oh Lord! -- continues, is inevitable.
Faith's not easy to satisfy on any level. If he hadn't come to care for her in a way he would once have thought implausible, improbable and even vaguely disloyal, he wouldn't even try,
But he does care and he's not stepping aside for Wesley.
And he cares for him, too, which makes it all so bloody complicated. Stubborn, hurting, angry Wesley, gifted with a second chance at life and too damaged to be anything but suspicious and wary. Wesley with the careful hands and eager mouth. Wesley who's so like him, and yet not, that Giles is never quite sure, never quite certain --
Rival, lover, friend, but not in equal measure. Not any more.
"Which bit in particular?" he answers finally when Wesley's starting to frown. "The part where she says she'll replace us?"
Wesley waves the bottle he's holding in a grandiose, dismissive gesture and Giles wonders if the beer's chasing more than a cup of tea, which is the last liquid he saw Wesley drink. He's wondered that before but never been concerned enough to override his scruples and search Wesley's room for hidden bottles.
"No. She can't; who else is good enough for her?"
There's an arrogant pride to that which Giles acknowledges with a private smile. Good to see Wesley's got that much self-confidence, at least. He's right, of course. There are half-a-dozen Watchers who'd be only too glad to take on the senior Slayer; the last 'real' one, as he knows she's thought of by many.
Capable, trained, sympathetic to what she's gone through -- and if they took one step towards her, he'd bring the Council down in flames before they took a second.
Well. Maybe not that. They're still recovering from the First's depredations, after all, and there's a greater good to be considered and -- no, dammit, they're not firing him twice. He contents himself with a mild, 'true', following a thoughtful look, as if he were giving it serious consideration when he wasn't and he won't.
"What, then?" Giles goes on. "The part where she hasn't been enjoying --"
"No!"
Giles can't keep his grin from showing. Oh, she knows how to flick them on the raw, doesn't she? Good girl, even if it is bloody painful being on the receiving end. Wesley's flushed now, his fingers sliding restlessly along the neck of the bottle, slipping in the beaded condensation.
Impossible not to remember those fingers on him, not to wish -- Resolutely and reluctantly, Giles forces his gaze upward and his cock -- well, that can do what it wants. It usually does.
"Although, I have noticed that perhaps she hasn't been entirely... focused?"
Liar, Giles thinks kindly. You didn't notice, any more than I did, and she'll hate us for that, and who could blame her?
"What, then?" Giles asks.
But he knows, he knows...
"Faith isn't in love with me, if that's what you're worried about, Wesley. She's never told me that she is, at least,, and knowing her, I feel sure she would, as she'd get a good deal of enjoyment out of watching my reaction."
Wesley finishes his beer. "I'm sure she would," he says dryly. "Giles, never mind her for the moment. I came here looking for a fight that first day and we both know it. You didn't let me start one and sometimes I almost wish you had."
"Faith thinks a fight started the moment you walked in and it hasn't stopped since," Giles points out. "I can't say that she's wrong." He puts his glass down on the table beside him. "Is besting me really the prime objective I think it is for you? Or am I --" He pulls a face because it's so damn American, this. "Projecting my insecurities onto you?"
"How the hell should I know?" Wesley asks, not unreasonably, standing up and making his way to the small collection of bottles in a corner cupboard. "I don't think that's what I'm trying to do. I just want to make this work. And what the hell do you have to be insecure about anyway?"
Giles reaches out as Wesley goes past and pulls Wesley down into his lap in one strong, graceless yank. Wesley struggles, but mostly just to get comfortable, lifting his legs over the arm of the chair and hooking his arm around Giles' shoulders, and then turns a mildly astonished face towards Giles.
"What are you doing?"
It's a good question. What is he doing? With Wesley's arse snug against Giles' lap, his face close enough to kiss, Giles supposes he could be forgiven for being momentarily distracted.
"She says we only get on when we're fucking," he says slowly, the arm around Wesley's waist sliding up and taking Wesley's loose T-shirt with it so that Giles' other hand has a bare, flat stomach to caress. "And I think we both know that's not enough. No matter how often we do it."
"Quite often," Wesley says, his lips twitching in a smile. "But I take your point. One can't always be --"
"Aroused?" Giles asks, letting his hand move down a little. "No. One can't. I can't, certainly." He lets Wesley's T-shirt slide down and lifts his hand to curve around Wesley's cheek. "But I can give you some time, Wesley. Time when we're not fighting, not fucking, just being... friendly."
"I'm not sure this qualifies as friendly," Wesley says but he's not moving away. "This isn't something I've ever done with a friend."
"Nor I," Giles admits ruefully. "Poor choice of words; I'm sorry."
Wesley's hand strokes slowly along the back of Giles' neck. "I've never sat on anyone's knee past the age of nine or so, either" he says. "In fact, thanks to my father's rather old-fashioned views on rods, the sparing of, what you just did brought back some rather unpleasant memories."
Giles bites back the urge to apologise. "Is that something you want to talk about?" he asks cautiously. "And please don't feel obliged to stay where you are." He tries a smile. "You're actually a little heavy, but that's an observation, not a complaint."
"I really don't want to discuss my father's disciplinary methods at a time like this. And I don't feel very at ease in this position, to be honest," Wesley says. Giles releases him at once and waits, resting his hands on the arm of the chair. Wesley sighs and stands up. "You could have just kissed me," he says. "I might have changed my mind."
"I am not, contrary to what you and Faith think, a mind reader," Giles says coldly. "I'm a man doing a job that's been complicated in a way I never foresaw and floundering."
"Complicated by me?"
It's tempting to say 'yes' and to shift the blame onto Wesley's shoulders and watch them sag and curve defencelessly inward. Wouldn't be true though.
"Faith did that all by herself," Giles says. "And I've only myself to blame for giving into her."
Wesley grins and perches on the arm of Giles' chair, his arm slipping back around Giles' shoulders. "I don't feel inclined to blame you. She's rather hard to push away."
"Try 'impossible'," Giles says with feeling. "She had my trousers around my ankles while I was still telling myself that I had the situation under control and we were making good progress in shaping a relationship based on mutual respect and a certain, necessary distance."
Wesley snorts with laughter and Giles has to join in.
"So my swift seduction in the shower that day wasn't unexpected to you, no matter how surprised I was?"
"Far from it," Giles assures him. "It's the way she does things and it's remarkably effective for the most part, as I'm sure you'd vouch for."
"We're talking," Wesley says abruptly. "Is this what you wanted?"
It is, he supposes, but the slow, gentle stir of Wesley's fingers as they push through his hair is even more pleasant. Without speaking, or waiting for a reply, Wesley slides down onto Giles' lap again, straddling him this time, something the wide, Victorian armchair makes just about possible. His hands touch Giles first, curling into the front of Giles' shirt and then relaxing and moving up to rest on Giles' shoulders, kneading them gently.
Giles runs his hands slowly up Wesley's sides, feeling the heat from his body strike through the thin, soft cotton, and then tilts his head back as Wesley kisses him.
It's possible to kiss without becoming aroused, he discovers, or at least not to the point where more than kissing is needed. He's perfectly happy and content with the unhurried, almost chaste kisses that Wesley's giving him; measured, deliberate, considered kisses, as if Wesley's starting from the beginning, as if the tongue Wesley's slowly drawing across Giles' lips has never done more than this, has never been the cause of Giles making sounds he recalls afterwards with a squirm because they're so very raw, pleading for more in a way that strips him of dignity.
"I can't do this without you, Wesley," he says, not knowing if it's entirely true, but knowing that it's what Wesley needs to hear and what Faith wants. "How we've become -- the three of us -- it's working. It was, at least. I'm willing to do whatever is needed to convince you both that it's possible."
Wesley's mouth is warm against his. "No, you're not." His tongue finally slips past Giles' parted lips and thrusts deep, fierce and possessive. "You don't know what that is, so how can you? But you'll need to be, I agree with you there."
He sits back, wincing slightly and rubbing at his legs which must feel cramped by now. "And so will I."
"You've still got that propensity for being annoyingly literal, I see," Giles says mildly.
"Fine," Wesley says, standing up. "You said it was working; Faith said she was close to loving us both. I agree. It was ... nice. But it lasted a very short while, didn't it? And the idea of us being equal, well, that was never going to work, in the training room, or the bedroom. You can't relinquish control, Giles, and Faith doesn't respond well to being bullied, however much she respects authority."
He turns away and then, after three steps towards the door, glances back, his face closed-off as it was when he arrived. "And I won't be bullied. Not any more. Not by you, or her, or anyone." His lips twist. "You think you're being very magnanimous, don't you? Not taking the obvious solution and telling me to leave?"
"Faith wouldn't like it," Giles says automatically.
"No. She's rather determined not to hurt me again, isn't she?" Wesley looks at him thoughtfully. "I'm not sure she'd mind quite so much if you left though."
Giles meets his gaze. "I don't intend to put that to the test. Leave Faith with only you to guide her? No. And if we're to talk of bullying..." He lets his words trail off.
"Helping her to find her limits --" Wesley begins, his lips set in an angry line.
"Oh, I think that could be very useful," Giles says evenly. "If the person doing it wasn't crippled by self-doubt, insecurities and a rather disturbing taste for violence."
"Which of us are we talking about?" Wesley asks.
It's a good line to exit on, even if it's accompanied by a sneer that Giles can't help but feel is unnecessary, and this time Wesley closes the door quietly.
Previous parts here
Third Time Lucky
Part Two
"So do you think she meant it?"
Giles stares across the room at Wesley. The man looks tired -- they both do -- but he's leaning forward eagerly, heedless of the fact that the bottle of beer held suspended between his knees, loose in his hands, is dripping condensation onto the carpet. Giles notes the progress of one drip and splash and then takes a sip from his own beer, decanted into a glass because he's older than Wesley and sometimes it shows in more ways than the obvious.
Like the grey hairs on his chest, outnumbering the brown. Wesley has them too, of course, but fewer and seemingly there just to point up the darkness of the rest of his hair in an elegantly minimalist way.
Bastard can lap him, too, when they're training, and Giles doesn't let himself think about sex because that way lies... well, something that hasn't happened yet, but if this keeps up -- oh Lord! -- continues, is inevitable.
Faith's not easy to satisfy on any level. If he hadn't come to care for her in a way he would once have thought implausible, improbable and even vaguely disloyal, he wouldn't even try,
But he does care and he's not stepping aside for Wesley.
And he cares for him, too, which makes it all so bloody complicated. Stubborn, hurting, angry Wesley, gifted with a second chance at life and too damaged to be anything but suspicious and wary. Wesley with the careful hands and eager mouth. Wesley who's so like him, and yet not, that Giles is never quite sure, never quite certain --
Rival, lover, friend, but not in equal measure. Not any more.
"Which bit in particular?" he answers finally when Wesley's starting to frown. "The part where she says she'll replace us?"
Wesley waves the bottle he's holding in a grandiose, dismissive gesture and Giles wonders if the beer's chasing more than a cup of tea, which is the last liquid he saw Wesley drink. He's wondered that before but never been concerned enough to override his scruples and search Wesley's room for hidden bottles.
"No. She can't; who else is good enough for her?"
There's an arrogant pride to that which Giles acknowledges with a private smile. Good to see Wesley's got that much self-confidence, at least. He's right, of course. There are half-a-dozen Watchers who'd be only too glad to take on the senior Slayer; the last 'real' one, as he knows she's thought of by many.
Capable, trained, sympathetic to what she's gone through -- and if they took one step towards her, he'd bring the Council down in flames before they took a second.
Well. Maybe not that. They're still recovering from the First's depredations, after all, and there's a greater good to be considered and -- no, dammit, they're not firing him twice. He contents himself with a mild, 'true', following a thoughtful look, as if he were giving it serious consideration when he wasn't and he won't.
"What, then?" Giles goes on. "The part where she hasn't been enjoying --"
"No!"
Giles can't keep his grin from showing. Oh, she knows how to flick them on the raw, doesn't she? Good girl, even if it is bloody painful being on the receiving end. Wesley's flushed now, his fingers sliding restlessly along the neck of the bottle, slipping in the beaded condensation.
Impossible not to remember those fingers on him, not to wish -- Resolutely and reluctantly, Giles forces his gaze upward and his cock -- well, that can do what it wants. It usually does.
"Although, I have noticed that perhaps she hasn't been entirely... focused?"
Liar, Giles thinks kindly. You didn't notice, any more than I did, and she'll hate us for that, and who could blame her?
"What, then?" Giles asks.
But he knows, he knows...
"Faith isn't in love with me, if that's what you're worried about, Wesley. She's never told me that she is, at least,, and knowing her, I feel sure she would, as she'd get a good deal of enjoyment out of watching my reaction."
Wesley finishes his beer. "I'm sure she would," he says dryly. "Giles, never mind her for the moment. I came here looking for a fight that first day and we both know it. You didn't let me start one and sometimes I almost wish you had."
"Faith thinks a fight started the moment you walked in and it hasn't stopped since," Giles points out. "I can't say that she's wrong." He puts his glass down on the table beside him. "Is besting me really the prime objective I think it is for you? Or am I --" He pulls a face because it's so damn American, this. "Projecting my insecurities onto you?"
"How the hell should I know?" Wesley asks, not unreasonably, standing up and making his way to the small collection of bottles in a corner cupboard. "I don't think that's what I'm trying to do. I just want to make this work. And what the hell do you have to be insecure about anyway?"
Giles reaches out as Wesley goes past and pulls Wesley down into his lap in one strong, graceless yank. Wesley struggles, but mostly just to get comfortable, lifting his legs over the arm of the chair and hooking his arm around Giles' shoulders, and then turns a mildly astonished face towards Giles.
"What are you doing?"
It's a good question. What is he doing? With Wesley's arse snug against Giles' lap, his face close enough to kiss, Giles supposes he could be forgiven for being momentarily distracted.
"She says we only get on when we're fucking," he says slowly, the arm around Wesley's waist sliding up and taking Wesley's loose T-shirt with it so that Giles' other hand has a bare, flat stomach to caress. "And I think we both know that's not enough. No matter how often we do it."
"Quite often," Wesley says, his lips twitching in a smile. "But I take your point. One can't always be --"
"Aroused?" Giles asks, letting his hand move down a little. "No. One can't. I can't, certainly." He lets Wesley's T-shirt slide down and lifts his hand to curve around Wesley's cheek. "But I can give you some time, Wesley. Time when we're not fighting, not fucking, just being... friendly."
"I'm not sure this qualifies as friendly," Wesley says but he's not moving away. "This isn't something I've ever done with a friend."
"Nor I," Giles admits ruefully. "Poor choice of words; I'm sorry."
Wesley's hand strokes slowly along the back of Giles' neck. "I've never sat on anyone's knee past the age of nine or so, either" he says. "In fact, thanks to my father's rather old-fashioned views on rods, the sparing of, what you just did brought back some rather unpleasant memories."
Giles bites back the urge to apologise. "Is that something you want to talk about?" he asks cautiously. "And please don't feel obliged to stay where you are." He tries a smile. "You're actually a little heavy, but that's an observation, not a complaint."
"I really don't want to discuss my father's disciplinary methods at a time like this. And I don't feel very at ease in this position, to be honest," Wesley says. Giles releases him at once and waits, resting his hands on the arm of the chair. Wesley sighs and stands up. "You could have just kissed me," he says. "I might have changed my mind."
"I am not, contrary to what you and Faith think, a mind reader," Giles says coldly. "I'm a man doing a job that's been complicated in a way I never foresaw and floundering."
"Complicated by me?"
It's tempting to say 'yes' and to shift the blame onto Wesley's shoulders and watch them sag and curve defencelessly inward. Wouldn't be true though.
"Faith did that all by herself," Giles says. "And I've only myself to blame for giving into her."
Wesley grins and perches on the arm of Giles' chair, his arm slipping back around Giles' shoulders. "I don't feel inclined to blame you. She's rather hard to push away."
"Try 'impossible'," Giles says with feeling. "She had my trousers around my ankles while I was still telling myself that I had the situation under control and we were making good progress in shaping a relationship based on mutual respect and a certain, necessary distance."
Wesley snorts with laughter and Giles has to join in.
"So my swift seduction in the shower that day wasn't unexpected to you, no matter how surprised I was?"
"Far from it," Giles assures him. "It's the way she does things and it's remarkably effective for the most part, as I'm sure you'd vouch for."
"We're talking," Wesley says abruptly. "Is this what you wanted?"
It is, he supposes, but the slow, gentle stir of Wesley's fingers as they push through his hair is even more pleasant. Without speaking, or waiting for a reply, Wesley slides down onto Giles' lap again, straddling him this time, something the wide, Victorian armchair makes just about possible. His hands touch Giles first, curling into the front of Giles' shirt and then relaxing and moving up to rest on Giles' shoulders, kneading them gently.
Giles runs his hands slowly up Wesley's sides, feeling the heat from his body strike through the thin, soft cotton, and then tilts his head back as Wesley kisses him.
It's possible to kiss without becoming aroused, he discovers, or at least not to the point where more than kissing is needed. He's perfectly happy and content with the unhurried, almost chaste kisses that Wesley's giving him; measured, deliberate, considered kisses, as if Wesley's starting from the beginning, as if the tongue Wesley's slowly drawing across Giles' lips has never done more than this, has never been the cause of Giles making sounds he recalls afterwards with a squirm because they're so very raw, pleading for more in a way that strips him of dignity.
"I can't do this without you, Wesley," he says, not knowing if it's entirely true, but knowing that it's what Wesley needs to hear and what Faith wants. "How we've become -- the three of us -- it's working. It was, at least. I'm willing to do whatever is needed to convince you both that it's possible."
Wesley's mouth is warm against his. "No, you're not." His tongue finally slips past Giles' parted lips and thrusts deep, fierce and possessive. "You don't know what that is, so how can you? But you'll need to be, I agree with you there."
He sits back, wincing slightly and rubbing at his legs which must feel cramped by now. "And so will I."
"You've still got that propensity for being annoyingly literal, I see," Giles says mildly.
"Fine," Wesley says, standing up. "You said it was working; Faith said she was close to loving us both. I agree. It was ... nice. But it lasted a very short while, didn't it? And the idea of us being equal, well, that was never going to work, in the training room, or the bedroom. You can't relinquish control, Giles, and Faith doesn't respond well to being bullied, however much she respects authority."
He turns away and then, after three steps towards the door, glances back, his face closed-off as it was when he arrived. "And I won't be bullied. Not any more. Not by you, or her, or anyone." His lips twist. "You think you're being very magnanimous, don't you? Not taking the obvious solution and telling me to leave?"
"Faith wouldn't like it," Giles says automatically.
"No. She's rather determined not to hurt me again, isn't she?" Wesley looks at him thoughtfully. "I'm not sure she'd mind quite so much if you left though."
Giles meets his gaze. "I don't intend to put that to the test. Leave Faith with only you to guide her? No. And if we're to talk of bullying..." He lets his words trail off.
"Helping her to find her limits --" Wesley begins, his lips set in an angry line.
"Oh, I think that could be very useful," Giles says evenly. "If the person doing it wasn't crippled by self-doubt, insecurities and a rather disturbing taste for violence."
"Which of us are we talking about?" Wesley asks.
It's a good line to exit on, even if it's accompanied by a sneer that Giles can't help but feel is unnecessary, and this time Wesley closes the door quietly.
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