Fic: Exertion 2/2, Giles/Wesley, NC-17 (FRAO)
Title: Exertion (2/2)
Author: Lostgirl
Pairing: Giles/Wesley
Rating: NC-17 (FRAO)
Summary: Wesley's working through some issues.
Spoilers: Set post Not Fade Away.
Feedback and Concrit adored: lostgirlslair @ yahoo.com
Disclaimer: All things BtVS and AtS belong to Joss Whedon and various corporate entities. I am neither.
Big, huge thanks to mireille719 for the wonderful beta magic! All mistakes are my own.
Part One
When Wesley did finally look up, it was to see Spike staring at him as if he'd just announced he was retiring to Australia to become a kangaroo. Wesley snorted at that look, motioning to Spike's empty pint. "I'm going to get another. Shall I?"
Spike blinked, looked down at his own pint and then back to Wesley. "Yeah. You do that. I'm gettin' the feeling we're both gonna need it."
Wesley snorted again and went to get them both another. Briefly, he considered leaving. He really had said too much. He didn't want to discuss this, at all, but he certainly hadn't meant for it to spill out like that.
Melodramatic, he told himself, shaking his head at himself. He'd just felt so off balance since waking up. He returned to the table to find Spike sitting with a thoughtful look on his face. A truly thoughtful, contemplative expression and it was just one more reminder that this was a different Spike than the one he'd known.
"Thanks, mate," Spike said when Wesley put the pint down in front of him. Wesley took his seat, opening his mouth to tell Spike to forget what he'd said, only to have Spike cut him off, yet again. "Now, you wanna explain what you said?"
"No," Wesley denied, forcing something like a smile, weak as it was. "I'd rather we just pretend it never happened, like real men. Possibly play darts. I really could go for tossing sharp objects at something."
Spike said nothing. He simply raised an eyebrow, his eyes never leaving Wesley's. Wesley had to look away first, a fact that sparked annoyance deep inside him. Wesley took a long drink, set his glass down carefully, and then met Spike's stare again.
"Darts are out, then?"
"Wes, you aren't just throwing that out and expecting me to ignore it. You have more brains than that. At least, I thought you did." Spike leaned back against his booth.
"What do you expect, Spike?" Wesley growled, suddenly angry, possibly more than the situation warranted. "That I'll pour out my soul, and we'll have a nice heart to heart? It isn't going to happen. I don't want to talk, I want to drink, to drink and to stop thinking about things I can't--" Wesley caught his mouth before anything truly incriminating slipped out. He glared at Spike, took another long pull from his pint, and then smacked it down on the table.
"Prickly bastard," Spike muttered, sighing. "Fine. You came here to drink. Don't need me to do that." Spike stood and reached for his coat. Wesley opened his mouth, ready to ask Spike to stay, but he couldn't force the words past his lips, couldn't make himself look any more of a git than he already did.
Spike gave him one final look, as if he were giving Wesley one last chance, but Wesley looked down, stared into his drink, and remained stubbornly silent.
Spike muttered something Wesley couldn't make out, made a disgusted noise and stormed out, leaving Wesley alone. Wes couldn't help but think he should be used to the condition by now.
-----
The phone was ringing when Rupert opened the door. He rushed to pick it up, wishing he'd at least had the time to hang up his wet coat. "Hello?"
"Rupert? Good." Spike's voice was brusque, and there was something in it that spoke of urgency. "That man's losing his mind. You should get over there before he drinks himself to death."
"I'm sorry, what?" Rupert held the phone in the crook of his shoulder, pulling one arm free from his coat. "What are you talking about, Spike?"
"Wesley." There was a sigh on the other end of the line, weary. Rupert's stomach clenched tight. He began struggling to get his arm back into his coat sleeve as Spike continued. "He's . . . I don't know. He said he was worried he was already dead, but he clammed up and he's not going to talk to me. I figured, well, you've been around him way more than I have, and maybe he'd talk to you."
"He's at home?" Rupert asked. He could have pressed for more details, but just then the only thing he really wanted was to see Wesley. While he hoped Spike was exaggerating, he knew Spike wouldn't have called him unless he was actually worried.
"No. Pub a couple blocks from his flat. He called and said he wanted to get a drink. Rupert, find out what's wrong with him. He's . . . there aren't many of us left." Rupert knew Spike was referring to those who had been in LA.
"Of course. Give me the address." Rupert wrote it down and then hung up after a quick goodbye. Grabbing his keys, he turned and went right back out into the rain.
His mind, restless with concern, ticked over the possibilities. Most of the magic he and Willow had worked on Wesley was untested, but Rupert hadn't seen any way it could be harmful. He still didn't. It was a possibility, but remote. More likely Wesley was having trouble adjusting, which was understandable, but just as dangerous.
Over the last few years, Rupert had seen far too many of his colleagues and his Slayers fall into that trap. The Slayers, newly powerful and often young, didn't always handle things well. The Watchers, newly trained and thrust into fieldwork, quickly learned that things weren't as shiny and bright as they had anticipated. And Wesley had even more to adjust to. He'd been effectively gone for a long time, and things had changed so much since then.
Rupert parked and headed toward the pub where Spike had left Wesley. He wasn't entirely certain what he'd say to Wes when he saw him. Wesley was clearly reluctant to talk and Rupert didn't know if pushing him to do so was the best option. He couldn't let Wesley drink alone, though. Wesley wasn't in any condition to defend himself, yet. He was getting stronger every day, but his balance remained an issue and to add alcohol on top of that? Rupert had a mental image of Wesley staggering home, pissed, and running into something nasty--pushing that thought from his mind, Rupert walked into the pub. He spotted Wesley at once and made his way over to the booth that Wesley occupied.
One look told him he was too late, if his mission was to keep Wesley sober. Wesley looked up at him and blinked owlishly. "Damn it," he said, voice gravelly in that way that pulled at things low in Rupert's body. "Can't you ever just leave me alone? How many of there are you?"
Then Wesley passed out, face down onto the table with a slight 'thumping' sound. Wincing in sympathy, Rupert set about waking Wesley up enough to get him home.
Wesley came around enough that Rupert could get water into him, but it took a while before he was sober enough for Rupert to get him out to the car. He had to hold one of Wesley's arms around his shoulder, supporting most of Wesley's weight.
"Where are we going?" Wesley asked as Rupert helped him into the car and got the seatbelt buckled over his chest. Wesley sat, passive, watching the process with a strange look on his face, almost wistful.
"I'm taking you home." Rupert answered, giving Wesley an amused smile. It was hard not to be amused when Wesley's hair was mussed and his eyes were bright with intoxication. Funnily enough, he looked happier than Rupert had seen him . . . ever, actually.
"Really? You're taking me home?" Unsure why that fact seemed to make Wesley smile, Rupert nodded.
"Yes," he said, "Watch your leg." Wesley pulled his leg inside the car so that Rupert could close the door.
Sliding in behind the wheel, Rupert looked over to find Wesley sporting a grin, his head tilted back against the seat. Shaking his head and unable to keep from smiling again, despite his worry, Rupert began the short drive to Wesley's flat. When they arrived, Wesley looked disappointed for some reason.
"This is my flat," he said softly, casting confused eyes over to Rupert. The grin was gone, and Wesley's forehead was wrinkled. "I thought you said you were taking me home."
Rupert's worry surfaced again, wiping the smile from his face. Wesley sounded so sad and confused. "And where is home, Wes?"
Wesley's forehead wrinkled further as he thought about this. Rupert turned off the engine and undid his seatbelt, turning to look at Wesley as he waited for the man's answer.
"Well," Wesley said, smiling again. It was a different smile, not the grin of a few moments ago, but somehow shy, an expression Rupert had never seen on Wesley's face. "I suppose that if you don't know, it's best we came here instead. Getting lost wouldn't help."
"True," Rupert agreed, letting the topic go. Now probably wasn't the moment, after all. He went around to help Wesley out and was glad to see that Wesley supported more of his own weight as they made their way to his door.
Wesley stood staring at the door for a moment and then finally pulled the keys from his pocket. His hands were surprisingly steady, given that he was leaning against the doorway. He unlocked the door and almost fell, as he'd been leaning against it when he opened it. Rupert reached out and caught him, though they both nearly went sprawling in the process.
With little enough cooperation from Wesley, who seemed too concerned with apologizing to support himself, Rupert managed to get him to the couch. He'd been to Wesley's place often enough to know where everything was, which was a blessing as Wesley was in no shape to tell him. Rupert knelt down in front of Wesley, who was slouching low, his legs splayed and his head tipped back. "I'm going to get you some tea, Wes, all right?"
"I don't know what happened. One moment I was upright and the next . . . What? Oh. Yes, tea. Tea is nice." Wesley looked up then, blinked and seemed to realize that Rupert was kneeling on the floor. Straightening up, he cleared his throat, making a visible effort to pull himself together. "Right. Yes, that would be lovely."
Rupert felt his forehead furrow as a flush crept up Wesley's neck, but went to put on the kettle.
Wesley was still sitting straight when Rupert came back with the tea, and that had to be a good sign. His eyes seemed a little clearer as well, when he opened them. "Right. Tea." Wesley smiled, the expression a bit embarrassed, which was Rupert's main clue that Wesley was in fact coming a little back to himself.
"I've made it quite strong," Rupert said, setting the tray on the coffee table and taking a seat in the chair nearest the sofa.
"That's, uh, probably for the best." It seemed the good mood was wearing off right along with the alcohol, and Rupert was sad to see it go. There had been a few moments, over the last months, when he'd seen Wesley actually smile, but it was a rarity. Pushing away those thoughts--they led to others Rupert couldn't allow himself at the moment--he handed Wesley his tea and watched carefully to make certain Wesley was steady enough not to spill.
They drank in awkward silence, and the air in the room seemed heavy, too full, though Rupert couldn't imagine why. He finally decided it was only him, that his mind was too full of things he couldn’t or wouldn't say.
"Thank you." Wesley broke the silence first, though he didn't look up from his tea.
"For?" Rupert shook his head, watching as Wesley pulled in a heavy breath.
"For bringing me home. I, uh, I was in no fit state. I'm . . . sorry to put you to the trouble." Wesley looked up then, his forehead furrowing and a look of revelation on his face. "How did you find me?"
"Spike," Rupert answered, setting down his empty cup. "He called after he left you at the bar."
"Oh, bloody lovely," Wesley muttered so quietly Rupert almost didn't hear it. "I suppose he told you I was acting a git?"
"Well, he didn't put it that way. I don't think he saw it that way, but he told me what you said, yes."
A heavy sigh came from Wesley, who then put his own cup down and reached up to scrub his hands across his face, into his hair, rumpling it further. Rupert had to pull his eyes away from the messy spikes it had formed into, meeting Wesley's eyes as he did. Wesley looked tired, worn, and Rupert wanted to see him smiling again.
Silence descended and Rupert flailed for a way to fill it. He didn't want to push Wesley into opening up; he was sure that would only lead to resentment. However, he couldn't just leave it. He wanted Wesley to know that he was there, that he could help. He just wasn't sure how to say so without sounding like a moron.
"Wesley--"
"Rupert--"
They both began at the same time and a nervous giggle escaped Rupert before he could stop it. Wesley looked surprised at the sound, blinking at Rupert. Then a smile lit his face and all thoughts of laughing flew out of Rupert's mind. Yes, that was what he'd wanted to see, that smile that seemed to light up even weary blue eyes. The humor passed all too soon, however and Rupert gestured for Wesley to continue, hoping whatever Wes had to say would give him an opening.
"I'm all right," Wesley finally said, though he couldn't seem to look up from his hands as he said it. "I was just . . . I'm fine."
Rupert sighed, leaning back in the chair and studying Wesley's slumped shoulders. So tired. "I hope you'll forgive me for saying that I don't believe you."
Wesley looked up, snorting and then turning his eyes to the wall behind Rupert. "I'm as well as I can be. Just, uh, need to get out more, I think."
"That wouldn't be a bad start," Rupert conceded with a nod. "I don't think that's all this is, though."
"And what makes you an expert?" Wesley's voice was suddenly harder, angry. He met Rupert's gaze head on. "Spike seemed to think that becoming human gave him some insight. So, what is it that you're comparing this to?" The change was startling, but Rupert didn't flinch or back away. He held Wesley's eyes and shrugged.
"Nothing. There is nothing I could compare it to. I'm not claiming to know how you feel, just that . . . what you said seems a bit extreme for someone who just needs to get out more."
Wesley snorted again, still looking Rupert straight in the eye. He sat straight now, tense. "I've lost two years of my life. I've lain in a bed, a vegetable, for two years and everyone . . . everything . . . it all changed around me! Everyone I knew--" His voice broke off in what Rupert could only call a sob, though the name did the sound no justice. It was choked and angry and hard. "All I feel is--is pain, in one form or another. The only time I feel anything else is--" Wesley seemed to force himself to stop then, swallowing as if he would pull back words that were on the tip of his tongue.
Rupert raised an eyebrow when Wesley looked away, his anger seeming to drain away as he slumped, defeated. "Wesley . . . I want to help."
"I know," Wesley said softly, sighing. "I'm sorry. I'm suddenly very tired. Uh, thank you for, um, seeing me home."
Rupert recognized a dismissal when he heard one, but the thought of leaving Wesley like this . . . "Wesley, just . . . let me say this and then I'll go and leave you be." Rupert waited for Wesley's nod, though Wesley still would not look at him. "I want to help, if there's any way I can. I--I'd like to think we've become friends, over the last months."
Wesley made a sound midway between a snort and a laugh. Rupert tried not to take it as a denial of what he'd said, but still his stomach clenched tight at the thought that Wesley didn't consider him a friend. Standing, Rupert laid a hand briefly on Wesley's shoulder, hoping to convey the comfort he couldn't put into words. "That's it. I want to help." Rupert stood there for a moment before moving to pick up his coat from the chair over which he'd draped it.
"Thank you," Wesley said, softly. Rupert wasn't certain if Wesley was thanking him for what he'd said or for leaving, but it seemed that, in the end, it didn't matter. Wesley remained still and silent, and Rupert left, looking back over his shoulder before closing the door behind him.
-----
Wesley listened to the door click shut and then closed his eyes, trying hard not to give into the roll of emotion inside. He called himself several kinds of fool, but in the end it changed nothing. He'd wanted, desperately, to ask Rupert to stay, to lean his cheek against the hand that had rested on his shoulder, to ask for what he really wanted.
Shaking his head at himself, Wesley opened his eyes, blinked away moisture, and stood. He didn't wobble, but his balance--already off--was not good enough for him to go far. He did make it to the light switch, though, there and back without falling, and he felt it was something of an accomplishment. He sat again, removing his shoes and trying not to get dizzy. He didn't bother with his clothing. It wasn't going to keep him awake, and just then all he wanted was the peace sleep brought with it.
He lay on his couch, too tired and dizzy to make it to his bed, and tried to rest. His mind kept throwing things at him, however. Angel's distance, Spike's earlier words, the changes in the world, Rupert's . . . Well, Rupert.
Wesley was convinced he could overcome it all, that he could re-establish his friendship with Angel, that he could manage to have a drink with Spike, that he could . . . if only he could stop the fear. It was always with him, but it wasn't what Spike thought. Wesley wasn't afraid of dying; it had just taken him so long to get what he'd had. He'd had to try so hard, to keep going despite all the mistakes he'd made . . . and it was gone, now. Gone because the world had kept moving and he had stayed still. Without his effort, it had all faded away. The thought of trying that hard again--of working that hard to have something worth having and then losing it all again--it was terrifying.
Morning came as something of a surprise. One moment he'd been lying there wondering what would have happened if he'd stopped being so frightened and just . . . done something, said something. The next moment light was flooding into his eyes, and his mouth felt like moss had begun to grow on his tongue.
Wesley had to drink a gallon of water to fend off his hangover, but he was determined. More than anything, he wanted to be out of his flat, wanted to stop thinking. The drinking had helped with that last night, and Wesley was desperately hoping that work would be interesting enough to help today.
He took a taxi to the office. His flat wasn't far, but he wasn't in any mood to walk, no matter how good for him it might be. Steeling himself against the possibility of seeing Rupert again, Wesley made his way inside and to his office, glad to close the door behind him. He shut the blinds, using only his desk lamp as he began his work, a translation of something that turned out to be useless to them, demon love poetry. Since that quite firmly put him off his lunch, Wesley managed to stay hidden in his office well into the afternoon.
He knew he couldn't do it forever, though. Halfway through the next translation, Wesley shook his head, realizing he'd been staring at the wall for he couldn't tell how long now. His mind had drifted. He was supposed to meet Rupert in the gym in an hour.
The urge to skip his session was nearly overwhelming. He'd come so close to blurting things out last night, and Wesley wasn't sure he was strong enough to keep silent again. Still, the exercise, the exertion, it was the one thing that stopped his rambling mind. Better than drinking, better than work, it never failed to silence his thoughts, and Wesley needed it desperately.
In the end, there wasn't any choice. Wesley needed the exercise, but it was more than that. As he changed into his sweats, Wesley let himself acknowledge that--as embarrassing as he knew it would be--he wanted to see Rupert. Despite knowing he was being a fool, Wesley couldn't seem to stop himself.
It was Sunnydale all over again.
Sighing, Wesley walked out into the gym proper and stopped short. The equipment had been pushed to the edges of the room; all except the weight bench, which took far too long to take apart, and was too heavy to be moved whole. There was a thick blue workout mat spread along the floor, and Rupert was sitting on the bench, two quarterstaffs leaning against it beside him.
He looked up when Wesley entered, but his smile, usually so welcoming, was a weak thing today. Oh, God. Did he guess what . . . Wesley took a slow breath, returning the smile, though he was certain his was more embarrassed than was usual.
"I thought we could work on your balance, today. Since that's what you seem to be having the most trouble with." All business. It was actually a comfort to Wesley. Rupert wasn't going to press him about last night, wasn't going to bring personal issues into their sessions. Relief flooded through him, and something inside Wesley relaxed.
"All right. As long as you don't expect me to use those on a balance beam, I think I can manage."
Rupert snorted at that, standing and holding one of the staffs out to Wesley. "No, no balance beam, yet. I think flat ground is a good enough start." Rupert nodded toward the mat and went to take up his position. Wesley followed, trying to clear his mind as he did.
"Flat ground and no sharp objects," he commented, nodding to the swords hanging along the walls.
"Once you've got your balance back," Rupert said, crouching with the staff held in both of his hands, "then you can challenge me to a rematch."
Wesley laughed, feeling his nervousness evaporate. They began to circle one another and a large part of Wesley's mind was taken up by watching. Watching Rupert for any sign of how he would move, when he would move.
"I think you'll find my fencing has improved quite a bit," Wesley said, speaking from that small part of his brain not already occupied. "Or, at least, it had. Who's to say, now?" Rupert chose that moment to strike, whipping his quarterstaff up, around and then down. Wesley couldn't respond, but he did manage to get out of the way.
"You'll be fine," Rupert was saying, his voice seeming softer now that Wesley could hear the pumping of his own heart; hear his blood rushing through his ears. He knew Rupert would have pulled the blow, but there had been no sign of it, and Wesley's body had reacted with a burst of adrenaline. "Once you've gotten your balance back, I'm sure you'll give me quite a challenge."
There was something to the words, or more to Rupert's expression. Rupert looked different today, almost predatory. Wesley put it down to his own nerves screaming at him to fight or to flee, but he couldn't deny that it did things to him, thinking of Rupert looking at him that way.
He shivered, and then pushed the thought away, attempting a strike of his own. He was too slow. Rupert slid easily out of the way, not even bothering to parry. Wesley knew he was taking too long because he had to work so hard at balancing, at coping with the momentum.
Wesley struck again, thinking to take Rupert by surprise with another attack so quickly. Rupert slipped behind him, though, and Wesley felt Rupert's quarterstaff tap his back lightly. Then Rupert was right behind him, helping Wesley stay on his feet by slipping an arm around his stomach. Wesley let out an explosive breath, his body aware of every inch of Rupert's that pressed again him.
"Breathe, Wes." The words were just a whisper, but Wesley felt Rupert's breath on his neck. Then Rupert was gone, once again in front of Wesley, crouching, ready for another bout.
Wesley swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. He tried to focus on Rupert's movements, but his mind kept interfering, reminding him of the way Rupert's body had slid along his own. Rupert got in two more strikes, but Wesley threw himself out of the way both times. Not graceful, but effective. He was still 'alive' after all.
Wesley finally got in another strike, even managed it well enough that Rupert had to block with his own staff. Wesley threw himself into it, rode the adrenaline and pushed away all thought. Neither of them spoke, neither of them had the excess mental capacity.
It was glorious. Wesley's only thoughts weren't really thoughts at all. For all it had been over two years since he'd picked up a quarterstaff, he'd had the principles drilled into him early on. It wasn’t something one forgot, even if one did get rusty. He quickly adjusted to the weapon, let himself think only of Rupert's shift in weight this way or that. They circled one another, faces set and hard. Rupert was better, but Wesley knew that if he kept trying, kept working at it, he would be back to himself one day. He could feel it in the stretch of each muscle, each tendon, all of his body remembering the movements, even if the strain was more than it would once have been.
Wesley began breathing hard before Rupert did, tiring out more quickly these days. He kept pushing, and Rupert let him, led him. Whenever Wesley began to slow, Rupert would be there, striking at him, forcing him to keep going. Sweat dripped along his skin, the taste of it on his tongue, the sting of it in his eyes. Wesley blinked it away, dodging another of Rupert's blows.
It was then that Wesley noticed it. Whether it was manufactured or an actual chink in Rupert's defenses, Wesley couldn't tell at first, but he did know how to find out. He felt himself smile, and it was feral despite the way his limbs were beginning to feel heavy and tired. Rupert's answering grin was the same and predatory in that way that made Wesley's cock harden. There was a joy in this, something primal and honest. It filled him up from his toes, drove everything else away. The fear was gone, the thoughts gone, everything but the way his body moved and the way Rupert's moved in response.
Rupert came at him again, and Wesley dodged, checked to be certain of what he'd seen. Satisfied, Wesley pretended tiredness, pretended a moment of inattention, knowing Rupert couldn't help but take advantage. Rupert struck, and Wesley didn't dodge.
Instead, he brought his quarterstaff up and kicked out. He'd meant to trip Rupert, but his kick had been clumsy. Their legs tangled, and Wesley couldn't regain his balance. Rupert tried to steady them both, but they fell anyway, slamming back onto the mat with a thud that knocked away what little breath Wesley had left.
Panting, gasping, Wesley found himself staring up into Rupert's face. Rupert was winded as well, but it was the look on his face that caught Wesley's attention, caught it and held it fast. Rupert was staring at him hard, supporting his weight on his elbows, his body pressed along Wesley's all the way down. Wesley swallowed hard and licked his lips. He saw Rupert's eyes dilate, saw . . . he couldn't be seeing what he thought he was seeing.
Rupert's eyes flicked down to Wesley's mouth, the look so quick that Wesley could pretend he didn't see it at all, if he wanted to. The fear welled up, telling Wesley not to project, not to see just what he wanted. Rupert was his only friend now. If he ruined that, he'd have nothing again.
The problem was that he'd given over control to his body. For the last hour he'd moved on instinct, his mind having only slight control, and Wesley was sure his mind had no part of what he did then. He surged upward, pressing his lips to Rupert's so hard he felt his teeth against the inside of them. Rupert's lips opened beneath his immediately and there was still no thought in Wesley.
His hands moved to touch Rupert, to rub along his back and sides, to slip under Rupert's shirt and touch, greedily, all the skin he could reach. Rupert's mouth moved over his, his tongue sliding along Wesley's lips and coaxing them open. Wesley moaned into the kiss, his hips pushing up and finding an answering hardness. It was Rupert who moaned then, pushing his hands into Wesley's hair and thrusting his tongue against Wesley's.
Wesley's muscles were like rubber, but he couldn't stop himself. Even if he'd wanted to, it was beyond him. He could only move, respond to Rupert's moves, could only feel the slide of Rupert's tongue as it traced a line to his throat. Rupert nipped at the edge of the scar there, licking along it and pulling a gasp from Wesley. Wesley's hips moved in a restless rhythm. He wanted more contact, needed more.
"Please," he managed, the word scratching his dry throat. "Need." He couldn't manage anything more, but it didn't seem necessary. Rupert groaned against his neck and then pulled back, straddling Wesley's hips, pressing their cocks together. The contact pulled a whimper from Wesley, who couldn't stop touching any part of Rupert that was close enough.
Rupert pulled his own shirt off in one quick movement, tossing it aside. He was panting, his eyes focused on Wesley's mouth. Wesley let his fingers slide over Rupert's stomach, the feeling of the crisp hair there a revelation. Then Rupert's hands were on him again, tugging Wesley's shirt up, and Wesley had to stop touching long enough for Rupert to get it over his head and off his arms, but no longer. Rupert thrust his hips forward and Wesley threw his head back, his hands sliding to Rupert's hips and then under the waistband of Rupert's sweats.
Rupert groaned, and they were kissing again. Wesley's muscles complained as he sat up to get more, but he couldn't care when Rupert's lips were hard against his and he could feel the scrape of almost invisible stubble along his cheeks. It drove him on. They moved against one another like wild things, and Wesley could never get enough of it, never enough skin, never enough touch. He whimpered again as Rupert bit at his throat, as Rupert's hands tugged at his hair. He thrust up against Rupert's body, his cock so hard it ached.
"Up on your knees," Rupert said, sounding hoarse, as he moved off of Wesley. Wesley wasted no time in kneeling. He reached out for Rupert, and Rupert was there at once. Wesley dove forward, lapping at Rupert's neck and then nipping his way down Rupert's chest, tasting him. Rupert's skin was salty with sweat, but underneath it, barely discernable, was another taste, something Wesley couldn't describe as anything but 'Rupert'. Wesley licked over Rupert's nipple, and Rupert's hands squeezed Wesley's shoulder blades. Rupert groaned, and Wesley felt the sound, felt Rupert's rapid breathing in the movement of his chest.
Then Rupert was pulling him up, and they were pressed together. Rupert's mouth was on his, the kiss hard and urgent and forcing Wesley to give back as good as he got. There was no hesitation, no second guessing, no thought at all. Wesley slipped his hands down, pushing them to Rupert's thighs and Rupert did the same with his. That first contact, bare cock against bare cock, was almost too much. Wesley buried his face in Rupert's neck, gasping in breath after breath as Rupert ground against him, Wesley pushing back just as hard.
"Please." It was almost a sob against Rupert's skin. He needed so much, though it was beyond him to say exactly what. He needed release, but a simple orgasm, no matter how mind-blowing, wasn't enough. Wesley couldn't define it, couldn't stop long enough to think.
Rupert's fingers dug into his hips pulling them tight together. "Want me inside you?" Rupert's voice in his ear was dark and deep and Wesley wanted to wrap it around himself, get lost in it.
"Yes," Wesley hissed out, rubbing his cheek against Rupert's and reveling in the burn of stubble against stubble.
"Weight bench," Rupert said, nodding toward the equipment with a quick jerk of his head. Wesley moaned, nodding against Rupert's shoulder and then scrambling to comply.
Rupert's gym bag was on the floor next to the bench and Wesley watched, barely restraining his need to touch, as Rupert dug through it until he found lotion. "Bend over it." Rupert looked at him as he said it, his gaze hot. Wesley swallowed and laid his chest along the bench, his knees on the floor. Rupert was behind him a moment later, those rough hands sliding along his back. Wesley pushed against them, arching his back and letting his forehead drop to the bench.
Slick fingers slid along his crease, and Wesley whimpered, his hips jerking against air, seeking friction for his cock. Rupert's fingers slipped lower, circling Wesley's entrance slowly. Wesley moaned and bucked against them, and Rupert seemed to get the point. One finger slid inside and Wesley pressed back hard, wanting the burn. Rupert slicked him, but didn't prepare him too much; Wesley wouldn't let him. He kept clenching around the fingers inside him, kept pushing back.
"Please. Please. Please." His hoarse voice was muffled as Wesley pressed his mouth against his arm, arching back, needing more.
Rupert groaned, withdrawing his fingers. For too long, neither of Rupert's hands was on him. Before Wesley could draw in enough breath to speak, he felt the blunt head of Rupert's cock against his entrance.
"God, yes," he groaned, and then Rupert was pushing into him, hard and fast and so perfect that Wesley thought he could live in that moment forever. Small, needy sounds were coming from his lips, and Wesley pushed back, taking Rupert fully inside. Wesley closed his eyes, feeling Rupert's forehead against his shoulder as Rupert began to thrust.
"God, Wesley, so good," Rupert was panting, that dark voice in his ear again. Wesley moaned, reaching his hands out and grasping the weight bar, using it as leverage to push back harder. "So--God--so tight."
Wesley knew there were more words, knew Rupert was still talking to him, but the words themselves were lost in the haze of feeling. Rupert's hands, Rupert's body, Rupert's voice, Rupert's cock pressing into him at that perfect angle.
"Close," Wesley gasped out. "Just need--" Rupert's hand moved from his hip and closed around his cock, "--Oh, God, Rupert!"
Wesley's entire body tensed, arched with the force of his orgasm. For a heartbeat, he couldn't breathe, couldn't move, could only feel the rush of it, surging through him and pouring out. Then Wesley was gasping, whimpering, his body alive, every feeling enhanced as something new filled the air. Rupert's magic was heavy around him, warm and soft and deep. Wesley closed his eyes, clench hard around Rupert's shaft. Rupert made a sound, deep in his throat, and then Wesley felt him come. The sense of Rupert's magic deepened, engulfing Wesley and carrying him away.
His next, solid, thought was that Rupert was draped over him. Wesley couldn't remember when that had happened, but he let himself enjoy the solid press of Rupert's weight. His hands had slipped from the weight bar at some point, and Wesley crossed them, resting his head on them and basking in the languid feel of his body.
It was a moment before Wesley realized Rupert was still inside him, pressed tight against him. Wesley clenched around Rupert's softening shaft and Rupert groaned against his shoulder, sounding even hoarser now.
Rupert made to move off of him, but Wesley pressed back and murmured, "Stay."
A moment later Rupert relaxed against him. Rupert's arms circled him and Wesley sighed, leaning his head to the side so that it pressed against Rupert's. And then Rupert whispered in that deliciously dark voice and Wesley felt himself smile at the words. "As long as you want me here, Wes."
Sequel: Exhaustion
Author: Lostgirl
Pairing: Giles/Wesley
Rating: NC-17 (FRAO)
Summary: Wesley's working through some issues.
Spoilers: Set post Not Fade Away.
Feedback and Concrit adored: lostgirlslair @ yahoo.com
Disclaimer: All things BtVS and AtS belong to Joss Whedon and various corporate entities. I am neither.
Big, huge thanks to mireille719 for the wonderful beta magic! All mistakes are my own.
Part One
When Wesley did finally look up, it was to see Spike staring at him as if he'd just announced he was retiring to Australia to become a kangaroo. Wesley snorted at that look, motioning to Spike's empty pint. "I'm going to get another. Shall I?"
Spike blinked, looked down at his own pint and then back to Wesley. "Yeah. You do that. I'm gettin' the feeling we're both gonna need it."
Wesley snorted again and went to get them both another. Briefly, he considered leaving. He really had said too much. He didn't want to discuss this, at all, but he certainly hadn't meant for it to spill out like that.
Melodramatic, he told himself, shaking his head at himself. He'd just felt so off balance since waking up. He returned to the table to find Spike sitting with a thoughtful look on his face. A truly thoughtful, contemplative expression and it was just one more reminder that this was a different Spike than the one he'd known.
"Thanks, mate," Spike said when Wesley put the pint down in front of him. Wesley took his seat, opening his mouth to tell Spike to forget what he'd said, only to have Spike cut him off, yet again. "Now, you wanna explain what you said?"
"No," Wesley denied, forcing something like a smile, weak as it was. "I'd rather we just pretend it never happened, like real men. Possibly play darts. I really could go for tossing sharp objects at something."
Spike said nothing. He simply raised an eyebrow, his eyes never leaving Wesley's. Wesley had to look away first, a fact that sparked annoyance deep inside him. Wesley took a long drink, set his glass down carefully, and then met Spike's stare again.
"Darts are out, then?"
"Wes, you aren't just throwing that out and expecting me to ignore it. You have more brains than that. At least, I thought you did." Spike leaned back against his booth.
"What do you expect, Spike?" Wesley growled, suddenly angry, possibly more than the situation warranted. "That I'll pour out my soul, and we'll have a nice heart to heart? It isn't going to happen. I don't want to talk, I want to drink, to drink and to stop thinking about things I can't--" Wesley caught his mouth before anything truly incriminating slipped out. He glared at Spike, took another long pull from his pint, and then smacked it down on the table.
"Prickly bastard," Spike muttered, sighing. "Fine. You came here to drink. Don't need me to do that." Spike stood and reached for his coat. Wesley opened his mouth, ready to ask Spike to stay, but he couldn't force the words past his lips, couldn't make himself look any more of a git than he already did.
Spike gave him one final look, as if he were giving Wesley one last chance, but Wesley looked down, stared into his drink, and remained stubbornly silent.
Spike muttered something Wesley couldn't make out, made a disgusted noise and stormed out, leaving Wesley alone. Wes couldn't help but think he should be used to the condition by now.
-----
The phone was ringing when Rupert opened the door. He rushed to pick it up, wishing he'd at least had the time to hang up his wet coat. "Hello?"
"Rupert? Good." Spike's voice was brusque, and there was something in it that spoke of urgency. "That man's losing his mind. You should get over there before he drinks himself to death."
"I'm sorry, what?" Rupert held the phone in the crook of his shoulder, pulling one arm free from his coat. "What are you talking about, Spike?"
"Wesley." There was a sigh on the other end of the line, weary. Rupert's stomach clenched tight. He began struggling to get his arm back into his coat sleeve as Spike continued. "He's . . . I don't know. He said he was worried he was already dead, but he clammed up and he's not going to talk to me. I figured, well, you've been around him way more than I have, and maybe he'd talk to you."
"He's at home?" Rupert asked. He could have pressed for more details, but just then the only thing he really wanted was to see Wesley. While he hoped Spike was exaggerating, he knew Spike wouldn't have called him unless he was actually worried.
"No. Pub a couple blocks from his flat. He called and said he wanted to get a drink. Rupert, find out what's wrong with him. He's . . . there aren't many of us left." Rupert knew Spike was referring to those who had been in LA.
"Of course. Give me the address." Rupert wrote it down and then hung up after a quick goodbye. Grabbing his keys, he turned and went right back out into the rain.
His mind, restless with concern, ticked over the possibilities. Most of the magic he and Willow had worked on Wesley was untested, but Rupert hadn't seen any way it could be harmful. He still didn't. It was a possibility, but remote. More likely Wesley was having trouble adjusting, which was understandable, but just as dangerous.
Over the last few years, Rupert had seen far too many of his colleagues and his Slayers fall into that trap. The Slayers, newly powerful and often young, didn't always handle things well. The Watchers, newly trained and thrust into fieldwork, quickly learned that things weren't as shiny and bright as they had anticipated. And Wesley had even more to adjust to. He'd been effectively gone for a long time, and things had changed so much since then.
Rupert parked and headed toward the pub where Spike had left Wesley. He wasn't entirely certain what he'd say to Wes when he saw him. Wesley was clearly reluctant to talk and Rupert didn't know if pushing him to do so was the best option. He couldn't let Wesley drink alone, though. Wesley wasn't in any condition to defend himself, yet. He was getting stronger every day, but his balance remained an issue and to add alcohol on top of that? Rupert had a mental image of Wesley staggering home, pissed, and running into something nasty--pushing that thought from his mind, Rupert walked into the pub. He spotted Wesley at once and made his way over to the booth that Wesley occupied.
One look told him he was too late, if his mission was to keep Wesley sober. Wesley looked up at him and blinked owlishly. "Damn it," he said, voice gravelly in that way that pulled at things low in Rupert's body. "Can't you ever just leave me alone? How many of there are you?"
Then Wesley passed out, face down onto the table with a slight 'thumping' sound. Wincing in sympathy, Rupert set about waking Wesley up enough to get him home.
Wesley came around enough that Rupert could get water into him, but it took a while before he was sober enough for Rupert to get him out to the car. He had to hold one of Wesley's arms around his shoulder, supporting most of Wesley's weight.
"Where are we going?" Wesley asked as Rupert helped him into the car and got the seatbelt buckled over his chest. Wesley sat, passive, watching the process with a strange look on his face, almost wistful.
"I'm taking you home." Rupert answered, giving Wesley an amused smile. It was hard not to be amused when Wesley's hair was mussed and his eyes were bright with intoxication. Funnily enough, he looked happier than Rupert had seen him . . . ever, actually.
"Really? You're taking me home?" Unsure why that fact seemed to make Wesley smile, Rupert nodded.
"Yes," he said, "Watch your leg." Wesley pulled his leg inside the car so that Rupert could close the door.
Sliding in behind the wheel, Rupert looked over to find Wesley sporting a grin, his head tilted back against the seat. Shaking his head and unable to keep from smiling again, despite his worry, Rupert began the short drive to Wesley's flat. When they arrived, Wesley looked disappointed for some reason.
"This is my flat," he said softly, casting confused eyes over to Rupert. The grin was gone, and Wesley's forehead was wrinkled. "I thought you said you were taking me home."
Rupert's worry surfaced again, wiping the smile from his face. Wesley sounded so sad and confused. "And where is home, Wes?"
Wesley's forehead wrinkled further as he thought about this. Rupert turned off the engine and undid his seatbelt, turning to look at Wesley as he waited for the man's answer.
"Well," Wesley said, smiling again. It was a different smile, not the grin of a few moments ago, but somehow shy, an expression Rupert had never seen on Wesley's face. "I suppose that if you don't know, it's best we came here instead. Getting lost wouldn't help."
"True," Rupert agreed, letting the topic go. Now probably wasn't the moment, after all. He went around to help Wesley out and was glad to see that Wesley supported more of his own weight as they made their way to his door.
Wesley stood staring at the door for a moment and then finally pulled the keys from his pocket. His hands were surprisingly steady, given that he was leaning against the doorway. He unlocked the door and almost fell, as he'd been leaning against it when he opened it. Rupert reached out and caught him, though they both nearly went sprawling in the process.
With little enough cooperation from Wesley, who seemed too concerned with apologizing to support himself, Rupert managed to get him to the couch. He'd been to Wesley's place often enough to know where everything was, which was a blessing as Wesley was in no shape to tell him. Rupert knelt down in front of Wesley, who was slouching low, his legs splayed and his head tipped back. "I'm going to get you some tea, Wes, all right?"
"I don't know what happened. One moment I was upright and the next . . . What? Oh. Yes, tea. Tea is nice." Wesley looked up then, blinked and seemed to realize that Rupert was kneeling on the floor. Straightening up, he cleared his throat, making a visible effort to pull himself together. "Right. Yes, that would be lovely."
Rupert felt his forehead furrow as a flush crept up Wesley's neck, but went to put on the kettle.
Wesley was still sitting straight when Rupert came back with the tea, and that had to be a good sign. His eyes seemed a little clearer as well, when he opened them. "Right. Tea." Wesley smiled, the expression a bit embarrassed, which was Rupert's main clue that Wesley was in fact coming a little back to himself.
"I've made it quite strong," Rupert said, setting the tray on the coffee table and taking a seat in the chair nearest the sofa.
"That's, uh, probably for the best." It seemed the good mood was wearing off right along with the alcohol, and Rupert was sad to see it go. There had been a few moments, over the last months, when he'd seen Wesley actually smile, but it was a rarity. Pushing away those thoughts--they led to others Rupert couldn't allow himself at the moment--he handed Wesley his tea and watched carefully to make certain Wesley was steady enough not to spill.
They drank in awkward silence, and the air in the room seemed heavy, too full, though Rupert couldn't imagine why. He finally decided it was only him, that his mind was too full of things he couldn’t or wouldn't say.
"Thank you." Wesley broke the silence first, though he didn't look up from his tea.
"For?" Rupert shook his head, watching as Wesley pulled in a heavy breath.
"For bringing me home. I, uh, I was in no fit state. I'm . . . sorry to put you to the trouble." Wesley looked up then, his forehead furrowing and a look of revelation on his face. "How did you find me?"
"Spike," Rupert answered, setting down his empty cup. "He called after he left you at the bar."
"Oh, bloody lovely," Wesley muttered so quietly Rupert almost didn't hear it. "I suppose he told you I was acting a git?"
"Well, he didn't put it that way. I don't think he saw it that way, but he told me what you said, yes."
A heavy sigh came from Wesley, who then put his own cup down and reached up to scrub his hands across his face, into his hair, rumpling it further. Rupert had to pull his eyes away from the messy spikes it had formed into, meeting Wesley's eyes as he did. Wesley looked tired, worn, and Rupert wanted to see him smiling again.
Silence descended and Rupert flailed for a way to fill it. He didn't want to push Wesley into opening up; he was sure that would only lead to resentment. However, he couldn't just leave it. He wanted Wesley to know that he was there, that he could help. He just wasn't sure how to say so without sounding like a moron.
"Wesley--"
"Rupert--"
They both began at the same time and a nervous giggle escaped Rupert before he could stop it. Wesley looked surprised at the sound, blinking at Rupert. Then a smile lit his face and all thoughts of laughing flew out of Rupert's mind. Yes, that was what he'd wanted to see, that smile that seemed to light up even weary blue eyes. The humor passed all too soon, however and Rupert gestured for Wesley to continue, hoping whatever Wes had to say would give him an opening.
"I'm all right," Wesley finally said, though he couldn't seem to look up from his hands as he said it. "I was just . . . I'm fine."
Rupert sighed, leaning back in the chair and studying Wesley's slumped shoulders. So tired. "I hope you'll forgive me for saying that I don't believe you."
Wesley looked up, snorting and then turning his eyes to the wall behind Rupert. "I'm as well as I can be. Just, uh, need to get out more, I think."
"That wouldn't be a bad start," Rupert conceded with a nod. "I don't think that's all this is, though."
"And what makes you an expert?" Wesley's voice was suddenly harder, angry. He met Rupert's gaze head on. "Spike seemed to think that becoming human gave him some insight. So, what is it that you're comparing this to?" The change was startling, but Rupert didn't flinch or back away. He held Wesley's eyes and shrugged.
"Nothing. There is nothing I could compare it to. I'm not claiming to know how you feel, just that . . . what you said seems a bit extreme for someone who just needs to get out more."
Wesley snorted again, still looking Rupert straight in the eye. He sat straight now, tense. "I've lost two years of my life. I've lain in a bed, a vegetable, for two years and everyone . . . everything . . . it all changed around me! Everyone I knew--" His voice broke off in what Rupert could only call a sob, though the name did the sound no justice. It was choked and angry and hard. "All I feel is--is pain, in one form or another. The only time I feel anything else is--" Wesley seemed to force himself to stop then, swallowing as if he would pull back words that were on the tip of his tongue.
Rupert raised an eyebrow when Wesley looked away, his anger seeming to drain away as he slumped, defeated. "Wesley . . . I want to help."
"I know," Wesley said softly, sighing. "I'm sorry. I'm suddenly very tired. Uh, thank you for, um, seeing me home."
Rupert recognized a dismissal when he heard one, but the thought of leaving Wesley like this . . . "Wesley, just . . . let me say this and then I'll go and leave you be." Rupert waited for Wesley's nod, though Wesley still would not look at him. "I want to help, if there's any way I can. I--I'd like to think we've become friends, over the last months."
Wesley made a sound midway between a snort and a laugh. Rupert tried not to take it as a denial of what he'd said, but still his stomach clenched tight at the thought that Wesley didn't consider him a friend. Standing, Rupert laid a hand briefly on Wesley's shoulder, hoping to convey the comfort he couldn't put into words. "That's it. I want to help." Rupert stood there for a moment before moving to pick up his coat from the chair over which he'd draped it.
"Thank you," Wesley said, softly. Rupert wasn't certain if Wesley was thanking him for what he'd said or for leaving, but it seemed that, in the end, it didn't matter. Wesley remained still and silent, and Rupert left, looking back over his shoulder before closing the door behind him.
-----
Wesley listened to the door click shut and then closed his eyes, trying hard not to give into the roll of emotion inside. He called himself several kinds of fool, but in the end it changed nothing. He'd wanted, desperately, to ask Rupert to stay, to lean his cheek against the hand that had rested on his shoulder, to ask for what he really wanted.
Shaking his head at himself, Wesley opened his eyes, blinked away moisture, and stood. He didn't wobble, but his balance--already off--was not good enough for him to go far. He did make it to the light switch, though, there and back without falling, and he felt it was something of an accomplishment. He sat again, removing his shoes and trying not to get dizzy. He didn't bother with his clothing. It wasn't going to keep him awake, and just then all he wanted was the peace sleep brought with it.
He lay on his couch, too tired and dizzy to make it to his bed, and tried to rest. His mind kept throwing things at him, however. Angel's distance, Spike's earlier words, the changes in the world, Rupert's . . . Well, Rupert.
Wesley was convinced he could overcome it all, that he could re-establish his friendship with Angel, that he could manage to have a drink with Spike, that he could . . . if only he could stop the fear. It was always with him, but it wasn't what Spike thought. Wesley wasn't afraid of dying; it had just taken him so long to get what he'd had. He'd had to try so hard, to keep going despite all the mistakes he'd made . . . and it was gone, now. Gone because the world had kept moving and he had stayed still. Without his effort, it had all faded away. The thought of trying that hard again--of working that hard to have something worth having and then losing it all again--it was terrifying.
Morning came as something of a surprise. One moment he'd been lying there wondering what would have happened if he'd stopped being so frightened and just . . . done something, said something. The next moment light was flooding into his eyes, and his mouth felt like moss had begun to grow on his tongue.
Wesley had to drink a gallon of water to fend off his hangover, but he was determined. More than anything, he wanted to be out of his flat, wanted to stop thinking. The drinking had helped with that last night, and Wesley was desperately hoping that work would be interesting enough to help today.
He took a taxi to the office. His flat wasn't far, but he wasn't in any mood to walk, no matter how good for him it might be. Steeling himself against the possibility of seeing Rupert again, Wesley made his way inside and to his office, glad to close the door behind him. He shut the blinds, using only his desk lamp as he began his work, a translation of something that turned out to be useless to them, demon love poetry. Since that quite firmly put him off his lunch, Wesley managed to stay hidden in his office well into the afternoon.
He knew he couldn't do it forever, though. Halfway through the next translation, Wesley shook his head, realizing he'd been staring at the wall for he couldn't tell how long now. His mind had drifted. He was supposed to meet Rupert in the gym in an hour.
The urge to skip his session was nearly overwhelming. He'd come so close to blurting things out last night, and Wesley wasn't sure he was strong enough to keep silent again. Still, the exercise, the exertion, it was the one thing that stopped his rambling mind. Better than drinking, better than work, it never failed to silence his thoughts, and Wesley needed it desperately.
In the end, there wasn't any choice. Wesley needed the exercise, but it was more than that. As he changed into his sweats, Wesley let himself acknowledge that--as embarrassing as he knew it would be--he wanted to see Rupert. Despite knowing he was being a fool, Wesley couldn't seem to stop himself.
It was Sunnydale all over again.
Sighing, Wesley walked out into the gym proper and stopped short. The equipment had been pushed to the edges of the room; all except the weight bench, which took far too long to take apart, and was too heavy to be moved whole. There was a thick blue workout mat spread along the floor, and Rupert was sitting on the bench, two quarterstaffs leaning against it beside him.
He looked up when Wesley entered, but his smile, usually so welcoming, was a weak thing today. Oh, God. Did he guess what . . . Wesley took a slow breath, returning the smile, though he was certain his was more embarrassed than was usual.
"I thought we could work on your balance, today. Since that's what you seem to be having the most trouble with." All business. It was actually a comfort to Wesley. Rupert wasn't going to press him about last night, wasn't going to bring personal issues into their sessions. Relief flooded through him, and something inside Wesley relaxed.
"All right. As long as you don't expect me to use those on a balance beam, I think I can manage."
Rupert snorted at that, standing and holding one of the staffs out to Wesley. "No, no balance beam, yet. I think flat ground is a good enough start." Rupert nodded toward the mat and went to take up his position. Wesley followed, trying to clear his mind as he did.
"Flat ground and no sharp objects," he commented, nodding to the swords hanging along the walls.
"Once you've got your balance back," Rupert said, crouching with the staff held in both of his hands, "then you can challenge me to a rematch."
Wesley laughed, feeling his nervousness evaporate. They began to circle one another and a large part of Wesley's mind was taken up by watching. Watching Rupert for any sign of how he would move, when he would move.
"I think you'll find my fencing has improved quite a bit," Wesley said, speaking from that small part of his brain not already occupied. "Or, at least, it had. Who's to say, now?" Rupert chose that moment to strike, whipping his quarterstaff up, around and then down. Wesley couldn't respond, but he did manage to get out of the way.
"You'll be fine," Rupert was saying, his voice seeming softer now that Wesley could hear the pumping of his own heart; hear his blood rushing through his ears. He knew Rupert would have pulled the blow, but there had been no sign of it, and Wesley's body had reacted with a burst of adrenaline. "Once you've gotten your balance back, I'm sure you'll give me quite a challenge."
There was something to the words, or more to Rupert's expression. Rupert looked different today, almost predatory. Wesley put it down to his own nerves screaming at him to fight or to flee, but he couldn't deny that it did things to him, thinking of Rupert looking at him that way.
He shivered, and then pushed the thought away, attempting a strike of his own. He was too slow. Rupert slid easily out of the way, not even bothering to parry. Wesley knew he was taking too long because he had to work so hard at balancing, at coping with the momentum.
Wesley struck again, thinking to take Rupert by surprise with another attack so quickly. Rupert slipped behind him, though, and Wesley felt Rupert's quarterstaff tap his back lightly. Then Rupert was right behind him, helping Wesley stay on his feet by slipping an arm around his stomach. Wesley let out an explosive breath, his body aware of every inch of Rupert's that pressed again him.
"Breathe, Wes." The words were just a whisper, but Wesley felt Rupert's breath on his neck. Then Rupert was gone, once again in front of Wesley, crouching, ready for another bout.
Wesley swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. He tried to focus on Rupert's movements, but his mind kept interfering, reminding him of the way Rupert's body had slid along his own. Rupert got in two more strikes, but Wesley threw himself out of the way both times. Not graceful, but effective. He was still 'alive' after all.
Wesley finally got in another strike, even managed it well enough that Rupert had to block with his own staff. Wesley threw himself into it, rode the adrenaline and pushed away all thought. Neither of them spoke, neither of them had the excess mental capacity.
It was glorious. Wesley's only thoughts weren't really thoughts at all. For all it had been over two years since he'd picked up a quarterstaff, he'd had the principles drilled into him early on. It wasn’t something one forgot, even if one did get rusty. He quickly adjusted to the weapon, let himself think only of Rupert's shift in weight this way or that. They circled one another, faces set and hard. Rupert was better, but Wesley knew that if he kept trying, kept working at it, he would be back to himself one day. He could feel it in the stretch of each muscle, each tendon, all of his body remembering the movements, even if the strain was more than it would once have been.
Wesley began breathing hard before Rupert did, tiring out more quickly these days. He kept pushing, and Rupert let him, led him. Whenever Wesley began to slow, Rupert would be there, striking at him, forcing him to keep going. Sweat dripped along his skin, the taste of it on his tongue, the sting of it in his eyes. Wesley blinked it away, dodging another of Rupert's blows.
It was then that Wesley noticed it. Whether it was manufactured or an actual chink in Rupert's defenses, Wesley couldn't tell at first, but he did know how to find out. He felt himself smile, and it was feral despite the way his limbs were beginning to feel heavy and tired. Rupert's answering grin was the same and predatory in that way that made Wesley's cock harden. There was a joy in this, something primal and honest. It filled him up from his toes, drove everything else away. The fear was gone, the thoughts gone, everything but the way his body moved and the way Rupert's moved in response.
Rupert came at him again, and Wesley dodged, checked to be certain of what he'd seen. Satisfied, Wesley pretended tiredness, pretended a moment of inattention, knowing Rupert couldn't help but take advantage. Rupert struck, and Wesley didn't dodge.
Instead, he brought his quarterstaff up and kicked out. He'd meant to trip Rupert, but his kick had been clumsy. Their legs tangled, and Wesley couldn't regain his balance. Rupert tried to steady them both, but they fell anyway, slamming back onto the mat with a thud that knocked away what little breath Wesley had left.
Panting, gasping, Wesley found himself staring up into Rupert's face. Rupert was winded as well, but it was the look on his face that caught Wesley's attention, caught it and held it fast. Rupert was staring at him hard, supporting his weight on his elbows, his body pressed along Wesley's all the way down. Wesley swallowed hard and licked his lips. He saw Rupert's eyes dilate, saw . . . he couldn't be seeing what he thought he was seeing.
Rupert's eyes flicked down to Wesley's mouth, the look so quick that Wesley could pretend he didn't see it at all, if he wanted to. The fear welled up, telling Wesley not to project, not to see just what he wanted. Rupert was his only friend now. If he ruined that, he'd have nothing again.
The problem was that he'd given over control to his body. For the last hour he'd moved on instinct, his mind having only slight control, and Wesley was sure his mind had no part of what he did then. He surged upward, pressing his lips to Rupert's so hard he felt his teeth against the inside of them. Rupert's lips opened beneath his immediately and there was still no thought in Wesley.
His hands moved to touch Rupert, to rub along his back and sides, to slip under Rupert's shirt and touch, greedily, all the skin he could reach. Rupert's mouth moved over his, his tongue sliding along Wesley's lips and coaxing them open. Wesley moaned into the kiss, his hips pushing up and finding an answering hardness. It was Rupert who moaned then, pushing his hands into Wesley's hair and thrusting his tongue against Wesley's.
Wesley's muscles were like rubber, but he couldn't stop himself. Even if he'd wanted to, it was beyond him. He could only move, respond to Rupert's moves, could only feel the slide of Rupert's tongue as it traced a line to his throat. Rupert nipped at the edge of the scar there, licking along it and pulling a gasp from Wesley. Wesley's hips moved in a restless rhythm. He wanted more contact, needed more.
"Please," he managed, the word scratching his dry throat. "Need." He couldn't manage anything more, but it didn't seem necessary. Rupert groaned against his neck and then pulled back, straddling Wesley's hips, pressing their cocks together. The contact pulled a whimper from Wesley, who couldn't stop touching any part of Rupert that was close enough.
Rupert pulled his own shirt off in one quick movement, tossing it aside. He was panting, his eyes focused on Wesley's mouth. Wesley let his fingers slide over Rupert's stomach, the feeling of the crisp hair there a revelation. Then Rupert's hands were on him again, tugging Wesley's shirt up, and Wesley had to stop touching long enough for Rupert to get it over his head and off his arms, but no longer. Rupert thrust his hips forward and Wesley threw his head back, his hands sliding to Rupert's hips and then under the waistband of Rupert's sweats.
Rupert groaned, and they were kissing again. Wesley's muscles complained as he sat up to get more, but he couldn't care when Rupert's lips were hard against his and he could feel the scrape of almost invisible stubble along his cheeks. It drove him on. They moved against one another like wild things, and Wesley could never get enough of it, never enough skin, never enough touch. He whimpered again as Rupert bit at his throat, as Rupert's hands tugged at his hair. He thrust up against Rupert's body, his cock so hard it ached.
"Up on your knees," Rupert said, sounding hoarse, as he moved off of Wesley. Wesley wasted no time in kneeling. He reached out for Rupert, and Rupert was there at once. Wesley dove forward, lapping at Rupert's neck and then nipping his way down Rupert's chest, tasting him. Rupert's skin was salty with sweat, but underneath it, barely discernable, was another taste, something Wesley couldn't describe as anything but 'Rupert'. Wesley licked over Rupert's nipple, and Rupert's hands squeezed Wesley's shoulder blades. Rupert groaned, and Wesley felt the sound, felt Rupert's rapid breathing in the movement of his chest.
Then Rupert was pulling him up, and they were pressed together. Rupert's mouth was on his, the kiss hard and urgent and forcing Wesley to give back as good as he got. There was no hesitation, no second guessing, no thought at all. Wesley slipped his hands down, pushing them to Rupert's thighs and Rupert did the same with his. That first contact, bare cock against bare cock, was almost too much. Wesley buried his face in Rupert's neck, gasping in breath after breath as Rupert ground against him, Wesley pushing back just as hard.
"Please." It was almost a sob against Rupert's skin. He needed so much, though it was beyond him to say exactly what. He needed release, but a simple orgasm, no matter how mind-blowing, wasn't enough. Wesley couldn't define it, couldn't stop long enough to think.
Rupert's fingers dug into his hips pulling them tight together. "Want me inside you?" Rupert's voice in his ear was dark and deep and Wesley wanted to wrap it around himself, get lost in it.
"Yes," Wesley hissed out, rubbing his cheek against Rupert's and reveling in the burn of stubble against stubble.
"Weight bench," Rupert said, nodding toward the equipment with a quick jerk of his head. Wesley moaned, nodding against Rupert's shoulder and then scrambling to comply.
Rupert's gym bag was on the floor next to the bench and Wesley watched, barely restraining his need to touch, as Rupert dug through it until he found lotion. "Bend over it." Rupert looked at him as he said it, his gaze hot. Wesley swallowed and laid his chest along the bench, his knees on the floor. Rupert was behind him a moment later, those rough hands sliding along his back. Wesley pushed against them, arching his back and letting his forehead drop to the bench.
Slick fingers slid along his crease, and Wesley whimpered, his hips jerking against air, seeking friction for his cock. Rupert's fingers slipped lower, circling Wesley's entrance slowly. Wesley moaned and bucked against them, and Rupert seemed to get the point. One finger slid inside and Wesley pressed back hard, wanting the burn. Rupert slicked him, but didn't prepare him too much; Wesley wouldn't let him. He kept clenching around the fingers inside him, kept pushing back.
"Please. Please. Please." His hoarse voice was muffled as Wesley pressed his mouth against his arm, arching back, needing more.
Rupert groaned, withdrawing his fingers. For too long, neither of Rupert's hands was on him. Before Wesley could draw in enough breath to speak, he felt the blunt head of Rupert's cock against his entrance.
"God, yes," he groaned, and then Rupert was pushing into him, hard and fast and so perfect that Wesley thought he could live in that moment forever. Small, needy sounds were coming from his lips, and Wesley pushed back, taking Rupert fully inside. Wesley closed his eyes, feeling Rupert's forehead against his shoulder as Rupert began to thrust.
"God, Wesley, so good," Rupert was panting, that dark voice in his ear again. Wesley moaned, reaching his hands out and grasping the weight bar, using it as leverage to push back harder. "So--God--so tight."
Wesley knew there were more words, knew Rupert was still talking to him, but the words themselves were lost in the haze of feeling. Rupert's hands, Rupert's body, Rupert's voice, Rupert's cock pressing into him at that perfect angle.
"Close," Wesley gasped out. "Just need--" Rupert's hand moved from his hip and closed around his cock, "--Oh, God, Rupert!"
Wesley's entire body tensed, arched with the force of his orgasm. For a heartbeat, he couldn't breathe, couldn't move, could only feel the rush of it, surging through him and pouring out. Then Wesley was gasping, whimpering, his body alive, every feeling enhanced as something new filled the air. Rupert's magic was heavy around him, warm and soft and deep. Wesley closed his eyes, clench hard around Rupert's shaft. Rupert made a sound, deep in his throat, and then Wesley felt him come. The sense of Rupert's magic deepened, engulfing Wesley and carrying him away.
His next, solid, thought was that Rupert was draped over him. Wesley couldn't remember when that had happened, but he let himself enjoy the solid press of Rupert's weight. His hands had slipped from the weight bar at some point, and Wesley crossed them, resting his head on them and basking in the languid feel of his body.
It was a moment before Wesley realized Rupert was still inside him, pressed tight against him. Wesley clenched around Rupert's softening shaft and Rupert groaned against his shoulder, sounding even hoarser now.
Rupert made to move off of him, but Wesley pressed back and murmured, "Stay."
A moment later Rupert relaxed against him. Rupert's arms circled him and Wesley sighed, leaning his head to the side so that it pressed against Rupert's. And then Rupert whispered in that deliciously dark voice and Wesley felt himself smile at the words. "As long as you want me here, Wes."
Sequel: Exhaustion