Giles carefully looked elsewhere as Wesley dropped the towel. Not that he hadn't seen everything there was to see at one time or another during the last few weeks, but it wouldn't do to have Wesley turn around and find him gazing at his arse. He fiddled with the shaving implements he'd brought in and thought of the first, horrible attempt he'd made at getting Wesley to shave.
They were still in Los Angeles, and Wesley was in the dismayingly blank state they'd found him in. Terribly polite of course, but prone to trembling for no reason and had odd gaps in his memory. He knew who he was, what he did, where he was and that he'd been...wounded. Who knew what was lost - or what was gained - in the moments that Wesley had been gone?
Wesley had been just strangely disconnected from everything - rather like he was in his own protective bubble. His own, protective post-traumatic stress bubble, doing what ever it took to process his death and resurrection. Buffy had given Giles as much help as she could on the subject. It had been not very hopeful, but at least he hadn't had to claw his way out of a coffin and six feet of earth.
Wesley did remember Giles, and Angel, and had been very wary of Illyria. Spike he watched with an amused little smile - the same amused smile he turned on the cartoons Spike loved to watch. Giles had rather liked that: Spike equaled cartoon.
So peaceful had Wesley been those first few days that it was all the more shocking and horrifying when the man broke, and all it took was one look at an old fashioned, straight-edged razor as it came out of Giles' shaving kit.
Not that he'd planned to offer it to Wesley - he wasn't a fool, and anyone could see the scar on the man's throat - in fact he was digging in the kit for a disposible he kept on hand for when he was too weary to go through the shaving ritual his grandfather had taught him. One look at the old razor, ivory and steel, and Wes had howled, simply howled, in agony, and collapsed. An hour later, the fever had begun and the days had been filled with screaming, fighting and tears.
He risked a glance at Wes, who was standing there, still naked, legs visibly trembling, his sweatpants in one hand. His whole body was shaking with the effort of remaining upright. And he obviously didn't have enough reserves to do that and put on his clothing.
Stifling a sigh because the man had not asked for help, Giles hopped down from the counter. "Let me help?" He didn't take a step nearer the man, not even reach out a hand. He didn't want Wesley to feel pressured. However, it was clear that if he wanted to dress, Giles' help was going to be the only option.
Wesley's shoulders slumped, his hand reaching out to the wall to support himself.
"It's nothing I haven't done before, Wesley."
And apparently that was exactly the wrong thing to say. Wesley's shoulders straightened and he moved back into the shower stall, taking a seat on the bench. He grunted as he leaned over to try and pull on the sweats, in obvious pain. Giles merely shook his head, leaning back against the wall.
True to his thoughts, Wesley quickly grew frustrated and Giles moved in to help, permission or not. He wasn't going to stand there and watch the man struggle.
Pushing Wesley's hands away, he gently pulled Wes' feet through the fitted holes at the bottom. Wesley gritted his teeth, but leaned back to allow his help and Giles sighed with relief. That done, he pulled the things up Wesley's calves and offered his arm for Wes to lean on as he stood and grabbed one of the support bars.
Giles didn't understand the man's blush until Wes stood and the man's erection was suddenly at eye level. That, too, was nothing he hadn't seen in the last weeks. Ignoring it with the ease of long practice, or at least pretending it was easy, Giles pulled the sweats up until Wes could reach them without bending.
Moving back a little, Giles stood, reaching for the t-shirt.
At the first touch of Giles' hand on his skin, Wes' senses had gone on full sensual red alert. He could feel every whorl and dip of the man's fingertips, slightly rough and calloused in ways that spoke of both weapons and books. He supposed his own hands felt that way.
Gritting his teeth, and straining to come up with the Davrok word for embarassment, especially tricky since they only communicated in a series of clicks. He tried to ignore the feel of Giles hands on his skin, kind and impersonal, but his body was not cooperating.
As he stood up, he leaned forward a little and caught Giles' scent again. His knees nearly buckled. In addition to the comforting smells of tea and aftershave, the strong scent that must be Giles' own was stronger, sharper and it smelled, quite frankly, even better than that turkey sandwich. He bit back a reminicent moan at how good that had tasted, as his mind plunged forward with the question of how Giles might taste.
Utterly confounded, he bowed his head as he wrestled the sweatpants up his thighs and tied them. He couldn't bring himself to look at the man until he was under better control.
T-shirt in hand, Giles waited until the man had finished adjust his sweat pants before handing it over.
"You may want to sit down again and . . . take it easy on your arm." Giles left Wesley to take care of that himself, getting everything else ready for him. He heard Wesley emerged from the shower stall, but didn't look up. Trying to gain control over his wandering mind.
God, I've lost my mind, he chastised himself, the image of Wesley's cock, hard, just inches from his mouth, flashing into place every time he tried to push it away. Putting on his pleasant, blank, mask once more, Giles turned and hopped up onto the counter. There if Wesley needed assistance, but doing his best not to push the other man.
For his part, Wesley was trying to will away his erection, trying not to smell that delightful scent that seemed to surround Giles at the moment. And what was that anyway? He could have sworn it hadn't been there . . . or maybe it had, but much, much weaker. Shaking his head, Wes looked over the myriad of things laid out on the counter.
Risking a glance into the mirror for the first time since he'd come into the bathroom, he sighed. He looked scruffy and tired, very tired. Going about his tasks, he couldn't help but keep glancing over at Giles. The man made no attempt at small talk, just sat there, waiting. Wesley supposed this was all familiar to Giles and therefore rated no real thought.
"Would it . . . would it be possible for me to see Angel? And Illyria and Spike as well?"
"Of course," Giles replied, apparently a bit startled to here him speak. "I'll call as soon as we get you back into bed. And, as for Angel, that visit would be much easier if you'd consent to the use of a wheel chair. He's only just down the hall, but . . . it really would be better if you didn't overexert yourself."
Wesley paused, and then sighed, nodding. His mind was racing however and in an entirely different direction. Now that he was well, or at least not delirious, who would be . . . helping him? He didn't think he could bear for Spike or Illyria to see him like this. He didn't want to a stranger either though . . .
Sighing, because he had little choice in the matter, really, he finished shaving.
They were still in Los Angeles, and Wesley was in the dismayingly blank state they'd found him in. Terribly polite of course, but prone to trembling for no reason and had odd gaps in his memory. He knew who he was, what he did, where he was and that he'd been...wounded. Who knew what was lost - or what was gained - in the moments that Wesley had been gone?
Wesley had been just strangely disconnected from everything - rather like he was in his own protective bubble. His own, protective post-traumatic stress bubble, doing what ever it took to process his death and resurrection. Buffy had given Giles as much help as she could on the subject. It had been not very hopeful, but at least he hadn't had to claw his way out of a coffin and six feet of earth.
Wesley did remember Giles, and Angel, and had been very wary of Illyria. Spike he watched with an amused little smile - the same amused smile he turned on the cartoons Spike loved to watch. Giles had rather liked that: Spike equaled cartoon.
So peaceful had Wesley been those first few days that it was all the more shocking and horrifying when the man broke, and all it took was one look at an old fashioned, straight-edged razor as it came out of Giles' shaving kit.
Not that he'd planned to offer it to Wesley - he wasn't a fool, and anyone could see the scar on the man's throat - in fact he was digging in the kit for a disposible he kept on hand for when he was too weary to go through the shaving ritual his grandfather had taught him. One look at the old razor, ivory and steel, and Wes had howled, simply howled, in agony, and collapsed. An hour later, the fever had begun and the days had been filled with screaming, fighting and tears.
He risked a glance at Wes, who was standing there, still naked, legs visibly trembling, his sweatpants in one hand. His whole body was shaking with the effort of remaining upright. And he obviously didn't have enough reserves to do that and put on his clothing.
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Wesley's shoulders slumped, his hand reaching out to the wall to support himself.
"It's nothing I haven't done before, Wesley."
And apparently that was exactly the wrong thing to say. Wesley's shoulders straightened and he moved back into the shower stall, taking a seat on the bench. He grunted as he leaned over to try and pull on the sweats, in obvious pain. Giles merely shook his head, leaning back against the wall.
True to his thoughts, Wesley quickly grew frustrated and Giles moved in to help, permission or not. He wasn't going to stand there and watch the man struggle.
Pushing Wesley's hands away, he gently pulled Wes' feet through the fitted holes at the bottom. Wesley gritted his teeth, but leaned back to allow his help and Giles sighed with relief. That done, he pulled the things up Wesley's calves and offered his arm for Wes to lean on as he stood and grabbed one of the support bars.
Giles didn't understand the man's blush until Wes stood and the man's erection was suddenly at eye level. That, too, was nothing he hadn't seen in the last weeks. Ignoring it with the ease of long practice, or at least pretending it was easy, Giles pulled the sweats up until Wes could reach them without bending.
Moving back a little, Giles stood, reaching for the t-shirt.
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Gritting his teeth, and straining to come up with the Davrok word for embarassment, especially tricky since they only communicated in a series of clicks. He tried to ignore the feel of Giles hands on his skin, kind and impersonal, but his body was not cooperating.
As he stood up, he leaned forward a little and caught Giles' scent again. His knees nearly buckled. In addition to the comforting smells of tea and aftershave, the strong scent that must be Giles' own was stronger, sharper and it smelled, quite frankly, even better than that turkey sandwich. He bit back a reminicent moan at how good that had tasted, as his mind plunged forward with the question of how Giles might taste.
Utterly confounded, he bowed his head as he wrestled the sweatpants up his thighs and tied them. He couldn't bring himself to look at the man until he was under better control.
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"You may want to sit down again and . . . take it easy on your arm." Giles left Wesley to take care of that himself, getting everything else ready for him. He heard Wesley emerged from the shower stall, but didn't look up. Trying to gain control over his wandering mind.
God, I've lost my mind, he chastised himself, the image of Wesley's cock, hard, just inches from his mouth, flashing into place every time he tried to push it away. Putting on his pleasant, blank, mask once more, Giles turned and hopped up onto the counter. There if Wesley needed assistance, but doing his best not to push the other man.
For his part, Wesley was trying to will away his erection, trying not to smell that delightful scent that seemed to surround Giles at the moment. And what was that anyway? He could have sworn it hadn't been there . . . or maybe it had, but much, much weaker. Shaking his head, Wes looked over the myriad of things laid out on the counter.
Risking a glance into the mirror for the first time since he'd come into the bathroom, he sighed. He looked scruffy and tired, very tired. Going about his tasks, he couldn't help but keep glancing over at Giles. The man made no attempt at small talk, just sat there, waiting. Wesley supposed this was all familiar to Giles and therefore rated no real thought.
"Would it . . . would it be possible for me to see Angel? And Illyria and Spike as well?"
"Of course," Giles replied, apparently a bit startled to here him speak. "I'll call as soon as we get you back into bed. And, as for Angel, that visit would be much easier if you'd consent to the use of a wheel chair. He's only just down the hall, but . . . it really would be better if you didn't overexert yourself."
Wesley paused, and then sighed, nodding. His mind was racing however and in an entirely different direction. Now that he was well, or at least not delirious, who would be . . . helping him? He didn't think he could bear for Spike or Illyria to see him like this. He didn't want to a stranger either though . . .
Sighing, because he had little choice in the matter, really, he finished shaving.
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