Fic: The Fire of Thine Eyes, Giles/Wesley 5/17

[lostgirlslair]

Title: The Fire of Thine Eyes (Warmth & Heat Redux)
Author: Lostgirl
Pairing: Giles/Wesley
Rating: NC-17 (overall rating)
Part: 5/17
Feedback and concrit adored: lostgirlslair @ yahoo.com
Spoilers: Begins directly after 'Bad Girls', AU from there on out with bits and pieces taken from all over the end of BtVS season three.
Summary:  Giles finds Wesley lying, badly beaten, on the library floor.

Disclaimer: All things BtVS belong to Joss Whedon and various corporate entities.  I am neither

Big, huge thanks to beadtific, janedavitt, kyrieane, malnpudl, and psychoadept for their beta magic.  Thanks to the Buffyverse Dialogue Database for, well, the dialogue.  And thank you to everyone who read the first versions of these stories.  Your interest and feedback have made this a pleasure to work on.

Previous parts located here.


Wesley took in several factors as he raised the crossbow, his mind flying in many directions.  He took careful aim.  All three were apparently human, judging by the bright sunlight that lit the courtyard.  Wounding shots, then.  His first bolt caught the one man in the thigh and he went down, screaming.  Wesley was already loading a second bolt when one of the men holding Rupert turned to him.

That put the man off balance and Wesley shook his head, tsking loudly as he raised his crossbow.  Rupert surged back, focusing his force on the off-balance man and pushing to the side.  He made it to his feet, ripping his arm free from the third man.  Rupert dove to the side and Wesley fired, hitting the one man still on his feet.  The bolt took him in the arm, the force of it causing him to stumble and fall.

The other had hit his head on the ground, but was even now standing.  He grabbed the man who had a bolt through his thigh and together they hobbled from the courtyard.  Rupert was standing, brushing himself off as the man with a bolt in his arm stood.  Wesley pointed his crossbow and heard Rupert tell the man not to move.

Freezing, the attacker watched them carefully, his jaw clenching and unclenching.  Wesley kept the crossbow trained on him and let Rupert do the talking.  He wanted to have complete concentration.  If the man so much as twitched in Rupert's direction, he'd be dead.  Period.  Wesley was a little disturbed at the white noise that had seemed to fill his head as he'd come outside, the steadiness of an arm that should be shaking with relief or . . . tension or . . . something.  Some feeling.  Shouldn't he feel something?

"What the bloody hell was this about?"  Rupert's voice was colder than Wesley had ever heard it.  Still the voice of the man he'd come to know, though, still Rupert and therefore strangely comforting.

"You're both dead men.  We should never have left you breathing," the attacker said to Wesley, who started, blinking, but did not as much as twitch his crossbow.  "And you?  We'll get it out of you, kill you slow."  The man's smile as he said such things to Rupert made Wesley want to pull the trigger, wipe the smirk off his face with a crossbow bolt to someplace that would hurt, but not kill him.  Shuddering slightly at those thoughts, Wesley clamped his mouth shut to keep from speaking them aloud.

"And why is that?"  Rupert sounded so calm and Wesley wondered if Rupert felt the same as he did, filled with noise and yet empty as if his stomach had dropped out somewhere along the line.

"We will find it.  You can't keep us from it--" the man suddenly stopped, words trailing off into choking sound, foam spilling from his mouth, his limbs jerking grotesquely.  Wesley watched in horror as he collapsed, eyes bulging from his head as he fell to the courtyard paving stones.

"Bugger," Rupert murmured, and Wesley's eyes flicked to him.  Like a puppet with cut strings, Wesley's arm went slack, the crossbow falling uselessly to his side.

Bugger?  Blinking, Wesley swallowed hard as his throat constricted with the urge to vomit.  "What . . . uh, what happened?"

Rupert moved closer to the man, cautious.  Wesley immediately brought the crossbow back up, shuffling closer as well.

"He's dead," Rupert said after a quick check of the man's pulse.  "I'm not sure what happened yet.  Help me flip him over."  Blanching at the thought of touching the body, Wesley nonetheless put aside his weapon and knelt next to Rupert.  His fingers were trembling, but at least he felt something now.  Of course, he wasn't exactly sure he didn't want to go back to the noise and emptiness as, mostly, he felt rather nauseated.

With his help, Rupert flipped the man over.  Wesley flinched back at the smell of . . . bitter almonds?

"Cyanide," he and Rupert said together, though Wesley thought his own voice was a bit less steady.  He looked at the other man and wondered why it didn't seem real.  There was a dead body in Rupert's courtyard and it felt like a rather bland nightmare.

"He killed himself.  That's . . . odd," Rupert said.

Wesley blinked at Rupert, shaking his head, his voice an indignant whisper.  "Odd?  There's a dead man lying in your courtyard and it's . . . odd?"

"Hmm?  Well, yes.  It's certainly never happened before."

And somehow that was the last straw.  Turning on his knees, Wesley crawled to the nearest bush and heaved the contents of his stomach, trying to stem the tide of laughter that seemed to be welling up inside.

Odd.  A dead human, whom he'd been ready to maim . . .  and it was . . . odd.  And that was funny.  What was wrong with him?  What the bloody hell was wrong with Rupert?  How could the man be so damn calm?

And then there was a hand on his back, warm and soothing.  Rupert knelt next to him, offering a handkerchief and Wesley took it without hesitation, wiping his mouth and blowing the taste from his nose.

"How can--how can you be so bloody calm?"  He regretted the question as soon as it came out.  God, how weak he must look, but . . . a dead human.  A dead body.  And the image of bulging eyes and foam spewing lips and . . . oh, God.  Feeling bile rise in his throat once again, Wesley forced the images from his mind and pressed the handkerchief to his mouth.

"Uh, well . . ." Rupert gave him a worried look, still moving his hand over Wesley’s back.  "We don't . . . can we at least get the body inside before we discuss this?"

Once again left blinking, Wesley only nodded, his mind filled with a tiny, giggling voice that said, Of course.  We should get the body inside.  Inside Rupert's flat . . . where else do dead bodies belong?

"Right," he managed, trying to keep his voice from cracking as he stood, neatly folded the handkerchief, and turned to help move a dead man into his lover's flat.

*****

Wesley swallowed hard, trying to force down the bile as he washed his hands for the third time.  Rupert didn't comment and Wesley was grateful.  He wasn't sure he could have taken derision from Rupert at the moment . . . or at all, ever.

His main thought was that there was something very wrong about having a dead man in the bathtub.  Shaking his head, Wesley dried his hands and turned to go back into the living room.  The sound of Rupert shutting the bathroom door was a relief.

"What, uh, what do we do with it now?"  Wesley collapsed onto the couch, removing his glasses and putting them on the coffee table so he could scrub his hands over his face.  "Calling the police entered my mind, but won't there be questions?  And we did move it.  I . . . what do we do?"

He felt Rupert take seat next to him and glanced up to find his lover looking tired and worn.  Without a thought, he leaned against Rupert, brought somewhat back to reality by the arm laid over his shoulders, a solid, comfortable weight.

There was a dead body in the bathroom.  The man had threatened them, had taken his own life . . . Why?  For what?  A dagger?  The puzzle began to draw him even further back, though it did nothing to lessen the vague numbness that still clung to him, nor did it quell the little voice in his mind that seemed to be laughing hysterically.

"Uh, I suppose we dump it.  Uh, in water, somewhere.  Let the police find him and . . . well, it isn't as if they're anything near good at their jobs.  Dear Lord, Wesley, how am I supposed to know what to do with a dead body?"

"I'm sorry.  I just thought . . . well, you're so calm."

"It's not as if we killed him.  However, I do find it quite disturbing that the man killed himself rather than answer our questions.  What did he think we'd do to him?"

"Does it matter?"  Relaxing against the hand that was rubbing his tense neck, Wesley shook his head.  "I . . . a dead man is in your bathtub.  I find that very disturbing.  In fact, it's going to be hard to shower here," Wesley sighed and then realized what he'd said.  Afraid he'd been a bit presumptuous, he glanced over to find Rupert shrugging.

"I can't say I'm particularly thrilled either.  Perhaps we'll need to stay at your flat for a day or two, or at least shower there if the thought's too disturbing."  Rupert shrugged once again and Wesley found himself warmed by how easily the man said 'we', acted as if the solution were only natural.

If they couldn't shower at his place, then they'd simply do it at Wesley's.  It was such a small thing, but seemed another sign of acceptance, or continuity, and made him feel . . . wanted.

"Yes, of course.  I, er," he wasn't sure if he should continue, didn't know what was proper or not for so early in a relationship like this one.  "I enjoy staying over here," he finally admitted, a bit nervously.

"Then we'll just shower at your flat," Rupert said, off-handedly, his mind obviously elsewhere.  "We need to talk to the others.  There's clearly something going on here.  Those men were dangerous and if they’re after this dagger . . ."

"I'll get back to the translation," Wesley said.  The brief moments of a completely different kind of nervousness had helped him to push back the hysteria.  It didn't hurt that he now had something else upon which to focus.  The translation.  If he just concentrated on that . . .

"Right.  I'll call Buffy and the others, have them come here after school with some books from the library.  If you can find that dagger's location, I'd like to have Buffy along when we check it out."

"Good," Wesley said with a nod, still not quite able to move from the warmth of Rupert's hand.  "A plan is good.  Uh, when--when will we have time to dump the, uh, the body?"

"I'm hoping that Angel will take care of that while we check out locations."

"Oh, thank God," Wesley muttered and then blushed, realizing again how weak he must seem to Rupert.

"I quite agree," the other man responded with a snort and Wesley glanced at him, finding his lover watching him with a worried expression.  "Are you all right?"

Wesley straightened, putting his glasses back on and swallowing hard.  "I'm fine.  It's a bit of a shock is all."

"That it is."  The man leaned in and Wesley closed his eyes at the feel of Rupert's lips, soft and quick, against his own.  "We should get started."

Wesley nodded firmly, standing and going back to his translation.  It took him a while to get back to where he had left off.  He listened to Rupert on the phone, telling the children that they needed to come by after school.  Rupert didn't mention what had happened, which Wesley thought was wise.

Sighing, Wesley forced himself to work and was lost again for a long while.  He stared at the words until he thought the convoluted structure might make his eyes bleed, but finally seemed to be getting somewhere.  There was mention that the horde's leader had a fondness for the ocean and a particular set of caves.

It apparently took Rupert a few tries to get his attention.  Wesley looked up to find the other man sitting on the edge of his desk, an amused smile on his face.  "I wanted to ask if you feel up to eating."

"Uh," Wesley thought about that and then shrugged.  "I feel fine, but not particularly hungry."

"Why don't you come away from the research for a little while regardless?  You've been at it all day and the children will be here soon."

Wesley looked up at that, unsure exactly what Rupert meant.  The children would be here soon, so . . . what?  So they should get in what time to themselves they could?  So he should try to look as if he hadn't spent the night in Rupert's arms?

He shrugged, nodding and closing the book with a sigh, after carefully marking his place.  "Perhaps," he said without looking up, busying himself straightening the Rupert's desk.  "Perhaps I should go to my flat and change.  The children might notice that I wore this yesterday."

"Would that bother you?"  Rupert leaned back on the desk, his expression curious and his tone giving no hint to his own thoughts on the matter.

Wesley raised an eyebrow, sighing.  "Uh, well . . . I don't know.  Uh, I'm not terribly happy to be caught in my shirtsleeves and trousers from yesterday, but, uh . . . that's not really what you're asking, is it?"

Rupert shook his head, but remained silent.

Wesley looked at Rupert and shrugged.  "I don't know how to answer that."  Rupert raised an eyebrow, opening his mouth to speak, but Wesley rushed to continue.  "No, wait, let me finish.  It's a difficult question.  You're asking if I mind the children guessing about our . . . us, and I don't know.  It--it isn't as if they've ever liked me or . . . but then again neither did you."  Snorting, Wesley leaned his head in his hands.

He tried to reason out what the children might think and found it impossible.  Did they even know that 'their Giles' might favor men as well as women?  He highly doubted it.  It wasn't something Rupert would just discuss without reason . . . although . . . could there have been 'reason' before him?  Squirming at that possibility, Wesley thought again of all the jokes at his expense and wondered how that would change, if that would change, and . . . damn it; he didn't want to think about this.  He wasn't even sure what was between Rupert and him and . . .

"It would bother me," he finally said, swallowing hard and fearing how Rupert would take his reluctance.

"Wesley?"  Rupert came to stand in front of him and Wesley raised his head, quite worried about what would come next.  He met those breathtaking eyes, dread rising.  "It was a hypothetical question.  I didn't mean to upset you and it's not as if I'm particularly ready to--forgive the expression, however appropriate--jump out of the closet to them myself."

Snorting, Rupert sat beside him and Wesley leaned against him automatically.  When he realized what he’d done he made to pull away, but Rupert's arm settled around him, the action so casual, almost absentminded, that Wesley stayed where he was.

"Why did--" Wesley cleared his throat, trying to get rid of the confusion in his tone.  "Why did you ask?"

"If, uh, if there is to be anything between us in-in the long run . . ." Wesley's heart skipped a beat, chest constricting tight as he waited for Rupert to continue.  "I . . . think it's a fairly important question.  I wouldn't want to hide, Wesley, and if . . . if you're uncomfortable with being more open ab--"

"Wait," Wesley straightened, shaking his head.  "That's not . . . I'm not saying that I could never . . ." Wesley wanted to say that it didn't mean he could never be open about . . . them, but . . . could he?  Dear Lord.  Who would know?  Just what did Rupert mean by 'not hiding'?  "I . . . oh, God."  He was breathing too fast again, the idea of his father finding out about Rupert driving him quickly toward panic.

"Shh," Giles whispered in his ear, though he couldn't have said how long that warm breath had been tickling his neck.  Long enough so that it didn't come as a surprise.  "Calm down, Wes.  Breathe.  We'll talk about this another time, just . . . breathe."

Right.  Breathing.  He'd been doing that all his life and suddenly it seemed so hard.  Relaxing into Rupert's hold, he tried to calm down, tried to gain some composure.

"No," he said softly, forcing himself to sit up and take deep gulps of air.  "If, uh, if it's an important question than we should dis-discuss it."  He didn't want Rupert feeling as if he couldn't bring things like this up.  More importantly, he didn't want Rupert to decide that nothing 'more' was possible between them.

Wesley found he rather liked the idea, in theory.  He wasn't sure what it might entail in practice, but the thought of Rupert feeling 'more' for him was . . . exciting.  It was a little frightening as well, though.  He'd have liked to ask what was included in this 'more', how would it change things?  What was he supposed to do?  While he doubted there was a simple, straightforward list, he'd have loved to have one.

"Only if you want to," Rupert said, leaning back a little.  Wesley felt the loss of the other man's breath on his neck, but thought this might be better for his ability to think clearly.  "I must admit that I . . . don't understand the strength of your reaction."

Wesley leaned back, turning to look at Rupert and wondering how he could even begin to explain.  He didn't want to hurt Rupert's feelings, though honestly he wasn't sure if he were capable of that in anything more than a superficial sense.

"Uh, I . . . What do you mean by 'open'.  There’s just . . . I've never . . ." Shaking his head, Wesley sighed and tried just to blurt it out.  "I don't know what--what any of this is.  I don't. . ." Wesley swallowed hard, squirming a bit.  "I've never done this before and, quite frankly, it scares the hell out of me.  I don't know what to do, or say, and I . . . what happens if I do something wrong?"

Rupert raised an eyebrow, standing and opening his mouth to speak only to snap it shut when they heard the children's voices in the courtyard.  "Damn," Rupert growled, hand reaching for the lock on the door.  Wesley intercepted it, slipping his fingers around Rupert's wrist.

"No.  It's all right.  We--we really can't discuss this with them just waiting outside.  Uh, do you mind if I skip this?  I'd like to go check in on Faith and . . ." Wesley motioned to his clothing, his mind already spinning the jokes the children would make if they knew.

Rupert opened his mouth again and shut it, nodding.  "All right, but . . . we'll discuss it later?"

"Of course."  Wesley gave the best smile he was capable of, suddenly wanting to get out, get away.  God, he'd probably ruined things.  It had been so easy between Rupert and himself and he'd probably destroyed that by basically saying he was too scared to continue and that wasn't true, but . . . in some ways it was.  It was all tangled in his head.  How could he expect Rupert to understand when he couldn't even sort it all out himself?

Wesley barely remembered leaving Rupert's flat.  He all but flew past the children, with a quick nod at their surprised greetings.  He had no idea how Rupert would explain his presence, but needed to get away for a while, to think.

So much had happened so quickly and he'd been simply content to go with it, to let it happen because it felt so very good, but now he was unsure.  The past two days had been beyond words.  The easy feeling between Rupert and himself, the way the man touched him, kissed him . . .

Swallowing hard, Wesley struggled to keep his thoughts from running off.  Still stiff and sore, he ignored the ache of his muscles, walking to his own flat before remembering that his car was at Faith's motel.  Closing his eyes, he tried not to think about her hands around his throat, but the memory that came instead was Rupert bundling him into his car, driving without a thought to his own flat and not to Wesley's.

Sighing, he turned his feet to the park instead.  Going to check on Faith was the right thing to do, but it would wait just a little while.  He needed to think, needed to sort his mind into something at least resembling order.

All Watcher's received training on how to find their own center, that small, calm place within that let one analyze and think about things rationally and without bias.  Granted, it often took too much time for practice in everyday situations, but it was skill the Council felt all Watchers should possess.  Wesley had learned to do it long before they'd begun teaching him.  He'd found that space inside himself after hours of practice, hours of trying hard not to think how dark and cramped and musty it was in that closet . . .

Pushing those thoughts away as well, Wesley sat on a park bench.  He breathed slowly in and out, focusing on the cobblestone-paved walkways and refusing to let his attention move to anything else.  Opening his eyes, he ran through everything that had happened, trying to pinpoint the moment when what was between Rupert and himself had become a relationship rather than . . . what?  Casual sex?  No, he couldn't say it had ever actually been casual, at least not on his part.  The things Rupert had done to him, that . . . that they'd done together were, to his mind, far from 'casual'.

Rupert seemed to think the same.  He'd called it a relationship, after all, but that could mean anything, really.  Wesley tried to define it to himself, what he thought and wanted and . . . he couldn't.  Not because he didn't know, really.  He wanted what they'd had these last few days.  He wanted the ease between them, the way Rupert touched and talked as if it were perfectly normal, as if they were friends as well as lovers.

However, they hadn't been friends.  Rupert hadn't seemed to like him much at all.  What had changed?  His being injured?  Was all of this based upon some caretaking need in the other man and . . . God, he hoped not.  There would be no chance for something solid, or equal, or real.

That last thought caught Wesley by surprise, as that was something he hadn't realized some part of him wanted.  An actual relationship . . . with Rupert Giles.  God, he must have been hit on the head harder than he'd thought.  He didn't even know if Rupert wanted the same thing, and if he did?  What would that mean?

His mind kicked into planning mode, cataloguing all the changes that would occur in his life.  Rupert had said he didn't want to hide.  Did he mean just from the children?  Wesley wasn't even sure he could handle that, and if it were a more general openness . . .

The Council would not look kindly upon his new outlook concerning the man, he was sure.  Still, he'd already decided that the Council was wrong to have sacked Rupert, that the bond between him and Buffy had only strengthened her will to fight.  That had been why he'd gone to Faith in the first place.

And look how that turned out, sniped that damnable voice in his head.  Wesley bit his lip, ignoring the sting of the words and pushing them aside to continue his thoughts.  Would the Council eventually sack him as well?  There was terror at the thought, the disappointment he knew his father would feel fueling tremors in his hands.  Wesley blinked at that, his forehead crinkling.  He'd spent his entire life training to be a Watcher, studying and striving to get where he was, to be the official Watcher to not one but two Slayers.  Yet the idea of the Council letting him go made him worry not about what he would do with his life, or how disappointed he himself would be, but rather how disappointed in him his father would feel.

Something about that jostled him.  Sighing, Wesley raised one hand to remove his glasses and the other to rub at the bridge of his nose.  He wanted to talk with Rupert about this.  The talk he'd had with him about Faith had been helpful and friendly; still, he knew he couldn't, not until he knew what to say.  'I want the possibility of something more with you, but the thought scares the bloody hell out of me because I don't know what it means to me and my life' didn't seem like a wonderful way to start off.

No, if they were going to discuss this, he needed to have it all laid out in his mind, needed to know what was going on in his thoughts.  He knew Rupert wouldn't let him off easily, nor should he.  If he started this conversation, if he broke the easiness between them, then at the very least he had to know why he was doing it.  He had to know if it was worth it.

Then again, knowing what Rupert was thinking, what the man wanted from him, with him . . . that might very well be all the motivation he needed.  Rupert's actions . . . he wanted to understand.  What had made Rupert look at him and see something worth . . . caring for?  Caring about?  His breath caught at the latter idea, sending a small shiver through him.  Yes, knowing whether Rupert cared about him might just be worth it.

The walk to Faith's motel gave Wesley plenty of time to think, plenty of time for the terror to begin wearing on him again.  He tried to detach himself from it, but he couldn't seem to get past the fear.

Sighing as he slipped his key into the door lock of his car, Wesley shook his head and tried instead to understand the fear.  Though that hadn't helped him on many occasions, at least he'd then be able to lay it out when he spoke with Rupert.  Mostly, he believed, it was the unknowns in it all.  He didn't like stepping into a situation with no idea of what he was likely to find.  He didn't like--

"Wesley?"

At the sound of his name, Wesley turned, flattening himself against his car and reaching for a stake he wasn't carrying.  Of course, the first thing he realized was that it was daylight and a stake would be rather useless.  The second was that, while it was a vampire who'd called his name, he had nothing to fear from Angel . . . well, mostly.

"Oh, uh, Angel.  I didn't see you skulking there."  The man stood in the opened doorway of Faith's room.  It was safe enough, with the catwalk above shading him.  "What-what are you doing here?"

"Came to get some of Faith's things for her.  You here to get your car?"  The vampire was, indeed, carrying a duffel bag in which Wesley had seen Faith store weapons.

"Yes.  Uh, Rup--Mr. Giles gave me a--"

Angel held up his hand.  "I don't want details."

Wesley blinked, feeling himself turn red as he sputtered out, "ride."

"Oh," Angel ducked his head, looking quite sheepish.  "Uh, sorry."  He glanced up and shrugged, eyes darting away from Wesley's.

"Good Lord, one would think it would be possible to keep a secret around here," Wesley grumbled under his breath, turning back to his car, too embarrassed to continue the conversation with Angel.

"Look, I'm sorry," Angel said again.  "Really.  I didn't know it was a secret."

Wesley spun around, suddenly angry, though only tangentially with Angel.  Mostly, he was angry about his own reaction, angry that he couldn't just take this in stride.  And why did it matter if Angel knew?  Because that made it all the more likely Buffy did, or would.  How would she react?

"Did Faith tell you?"  Wesley shook his head, advancing on the vampire.  "I don't know why I suddenly feel rather betrayed when I didn't after she nearly choked the life out of me."

"Faith knows?"  Angel raised an eyebrow at that, shaking his head.  "I gotta tell ya, that's probably not the best way to keep a secret."

"She didn't tell you?"  Wesley gaped, racking his brain in an attempt to think of where Angel might have heard about Rupert and himself.  "Then who did?"

Angel raised an eyebrow at him, giving him a faintly worried look.  "Uh, vampire, remember?  I can . . . well, er, smell him on you."

Wesley closed his eyes, sure that his face had gone crimson.  Of course, his reaction was only partially due to the embarrassment that rose up inside him.  The thought of being surrounded by Rupert's scent . . . "Right.  Of course."  Sighing, Wesley raised a hand to rub at his aching forehead.  "Yes, well.  Uh, I would appreciate it if you would . . . uh, not-not mention this to Buffy, or the, uh, the others."

"Uh, s-sure.  I can't say anything for Oz, but you got it."

Wesley blinked at that, his mind taking a moment to make the connection.  Oz, werewolf, heightened sense of smell.  "Damn," he sighed, shaking his head.  Pushing the topic from his mind, because the only thing he could do about it at the moment was panic and he was quite too drained for that, he glanced back at his car.  "Uh, how did you get here?"

"Sewers," Angel shrugged.

"Yes, well.  Grab a blanket from Faith's bed and I'll drive you back.  I was going to see her anyway."

"You were?"  Angel looked at him dubiously, though he was already moving to get a blanket.  "Why?  I mean, no offense, but the last thing Faith needs right now is to be lectured and--"

"I wanted to make sure she was all right," Wesley said quietly, opening the passenger side back door for a blanket-shrouded Angel to scuffle inside.  Sighing as he once again nearly got in on the passenger side, Wesley went round the car and slid behind the wheel.  "I don't intend to . . . 'lecture' her."

"Really?  That's, uh, that's pretty good of you, considering . . . Aren't you angry with her?"

"Very," Wesley sighed once again, shaking his head.  "She's dangerous, but dangerous because she's in a very, very bad place and I . . . I only wanted to help.  I think that not going to see her would only reinforce her belief that no one cares.  Beyond that, I am still her Watcher."

"That means a lot to you, huh?"

"What?"  Wesley tilted his head back a bit, finding it fairly odd to be having a conversation with the blanket in his backseat.  "Oh, being her Watcher?  Of-of course, that's . . . uh, it's my duty, my--my life."

"So, it's not about her at all?"  Angel's tone hadn't changed at all from the first question.  There was no censure, just curiosity, which was likely why Wesley told him anything at all instead of snapping at him to mind his own business.

"It is about her.  How can it not be?  She's a Slayer, she needs a Watcher.  Buffy has her own and . . . I'm not needed there at all.  But with Faith . . . she and I are not, er, dissimilar and . . . I think I could be of help to her, and I want to be.  I want to help her."

"That's good.  Faith needs as many people to care about her as she can get right now.  She's . . . I think I got through, a little, but . . . it's hard.  It'll always be hard.  You know that, right?  If you're going to be her Watcher, if you're going to sign on for the lifetime deal, Faith's never gonna wake up one day and be over this."

"I know," Wesley said softly, sighing.  He was aware of that and he did want to help her.  He simply wasn't sure that his attempts to do so wouldn't make it all worse.

****

"Oh, lookie.  You brought me someone else to play with."  Faith's voice was snide.  She leaned back against the wall, rubbing at her manacled wrists.  "Aw, Angel, you shouldn't have.  Really."

"Actually, he brought me back from your motel room.  Was on his way to see you anyway," Angel commented, tossing Faith's duffel to the floor.

"I, uh, I wanted to see how you're doing," Wesley commented, taking in the manacles, glancing at Angel with a raised eyebrow.

"Oh, yeah, like you'd trust her with her hands free," Angel snorted, looking back toward Faith.  "I want to, though.  It'll just . . . take some time."

"And, until then, she's bound to a cold wall with barely any room to move?"  Wesley blinked at Angel, his jaw clenched.  "Animals are better treated."

"Well, most animals don't have the strength of a Slayer and a friend who can't chase them into daylight if they get loose," Angel said with a shrug, though he looked a bit sheepish.

Wesley opened his mouth and then snapped it shut, shaking his head.  "Please, Angel, I'm sure we can come up with something more comfortable than this."

"Why the fuck do you care?"  Faith snorted, shaking her head.  "Did you two practice this little speech on the way here?"

Wesley blinked at the Slayer, forehead wrinkling.  "Why would we?"

"Oh, come on!  You both want me to fall into your arms or some shit.  Want me to think you actually give a crap and aren't just scared of me.  Of what I can do."  Faith's talk was big; her voice, however, wavered just a bit, her posture slumped, eyes darting between him and Angel.

"That's not true," both he and Angel said at once.

"Could we have a few moments, please?"  Wesley asked the vampire with a small sigh.

Angel opened his mouth, looked at Faith and then back to Wesley before he nodded and left.  Wesley sighed, moving around the room, poking here and there although his mind was hardly on the décor.

"Faith.  I am your Watcher.  Until recently . . . I didn't even understand what that meant.  I suppose . . . It doesn't matter.  I won't lie.  You scare the bloody hell out of me.  You strangled me and I thought I was going to die."

Wesley turned to look at her and found himself faced with a young woman, though one who could easily take his life, at least physically.  He wasn't sure if he she would feel remorse or not and that was, perhaps, what scared him the most.  Still, if he could just . . . He wasn't sure what good the truth would do, other than to give Faith a sense of where he was coming from, if that were possible.  He had nothing else to offer.

"It's not the first time I've been afraid," he said softly, ducking his head for a moment as he pushed away memories.  "And it quite certainly won't be the last.  I'm human, Faith.  A vampire could kill me, or a demon, or a stronger, quicker human.  You're not all that special, in that concern."

"Oh, thanks so much," Faith spat, glaring at him.  "At least I'm good at what I do," she growled.

"You are.  You're a very good Slayer, but you can't do this alone."  Wesley sighed, shaking his head and moving to the fireplace.  "Angel can empathize, far better than I, with what you're going through.  But Faith," Wesley turned to her then, willing her to understand.  "No one else, not even Giles, can be your Watcher.  He's Buffy's Watcher, that's . . . you and I both know there's no place for us there, in that relationship.  I can be your Watcher, Faith.  There's a reason Slayers have them.  You don't know yourself half as well as you think you do.  It burns inside you; the energy and power that define you as a Slayer, a we-warrior."

"We-warrior?  You were going to say, what?  Weapon?"  Faith looked down at her hands, the clench of her jaw obvious.

"Yes, but, uh, I no longer believe that.  If I did, I would have called the Council, regardless of what anyone else said.  If I still thought of you as a weapon, your feelings in the matter would mean nothing to me and I would have barged in here with a Council team to drag you back."

Faith's eyes swung up to meet his.  "What makes you think you know shit about me?  You can't feel it; you don't know what it's like to have this . . . this fire inside."

Wesley nodded at that.  "You feel it, but I can help you understand it.  I may not be able to experience it, but I'm no fool.  I've studied extensively.  Your link to Slayers past is weak, but I know, I've learned how they channeled it, drew upon it, calmed and soothed it when they had to.  I can make you stronger, faster, more at ease in your own skin when you're not slaying.  I can help you, Faith.  If you'll let me.  Letting me includes letting Angel help you, and coming back to work with us, with myself and Buffy and Rup-Giles."

Faith stared at him, apparently taken by surprise.

"Why?"  Faith shook her head, slumping back to the wall those she couldn't seem to look away.  "Why would you want to?  Make me stronger, or faster, more . . . at ease.  Why do you even care?"

Wesley opened his mouth to say . . . something, but shook his head.  "You want the truth?"  Faith nodded, narrowing her eyes.  "I need you as much as you need me.  I'm a Watcher in name only.  I love my work, but it's more than research and learning.  It's fighting, it's helping this . . . this world and I'm useless at that right now.  But I want to help, and I think you want to, in some way.  Want to help, to be something, someone.  We can do that for one another."

Faith stared at him for a long moment and Wesley stood there, feeling like a bug under a microscope, unsure what else he could say to convince her.

"Think about it, Faith, just . . . take some time and think about it.  I'll . . . I'll come back tomorrow.  Is-is there anything I can bring you?"

"Huh, other than a set of keys to these things?"  Faith snorted and shrugged, turning serious even as her forehead furrowed.  "Yeah, o-okay.  I'll, uh, I'll think about it."

Wesley gave a small smile and then slipped out of the room.

"Hey, how'd it go?"  Angel asked, pushing himself away from the wall upon which he'd been leaning, startling Wesley a bit.

"Please stop doing that."

"Sorry."  Angel shrugged, giving him a worried glance.  "So?"

"Uh, I . . . I think it went well, actually.  I really think that I got through to her, a little, anyway."  Wesley shrugged, but he did feel as if he'd accomplished something.  He'd established that Faith and he needed one another and he supposed that would be a solid foundation, a good start.  He had to wonder how Rupert had gotten through to Buffy.  Perhaps, if it were still possible after they talked about their relationship, he'd ask.

"That's good.  I hope it helps."  Angel seemed a bit uncomfortable and Wesley realized he was probably intruding.

"Oh, I should go.  Uh, I would like to . . . Is there anywhere else you could put her?  I know she's unpredictable right now, but . . . she can't be comfortable and . . ."

Angel lifted an eyebrow at him, but nodded.  "I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you."  Wesley turned to go when a thought struck him.  "Oh, uh, I believe Rupert wanted to ask you to, uh, do us a favor."

At that, Angel's eyebrows rose considerably.  "A favor?"

"Yes," Wesley sighed, turning to meet Angel's eyes.  "You see, there's a dead man in his bathtub and--"

Angel looked dumfounded.  "What?  I'm sorry, did--did you just say there's a dead man in Giles' bathtub?"

Continued here.