Fic: Looking In, Giles/Wesley, R

[lostgirlslair]

Title: Looking In
Author: Lostgirl
Paring: Giles/Wesley
Rating: R
Spoilers: Set just after 'Doppelgangland', the same night, but after the action.
Summary: It's never easy to be on the outside.
Feedback: lostgirlslair@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: All things BTVS (and ATS) belong to Joss Whedon and various corporate entities. I own nothing.

Written for the Fuh-Q-Fest

Big thanks to the lovely kyrieane for the wonderful beta.



Wesley stumbled through the courtyard, cursing himself for a fool. He should have known better, but Cordelia had . . . looked at him as if, just maybe, she actually saw him, saw something anyway. She'd asked him to walk her to her car, being scared to walk by herself . . . without someone like him to protect her.

God, I'm an imbecile.

He'd offered to drive her, but she'd said it was a beautiful night and her car wasn't far . . .

Far enough to be attacked on the way back!

He was only glad Miss Chase had left by then. If she'd been injured . . .

So, now he went to the only place he knew to go. There was no way he was going to show up at the hospital with a vampire bite. He would not jeopardize the Slayer's secrecy, even if the embarrassment of going to Mr. Giles did, actually, kill him, and he wasn't sure it wouldn't.

I almost wish the blasted thing had finished me, Wes thought with a sigh as he knocked on Mr. Giles' door.

There was no answer. The blood had already soaked into his trousers, making them cling to his thigh and itch fiercely. He pounded on the door, flinching at the noise. He'd have gone somewhere else, nearly anywhere, if he could have. He certainly wasn't looking forward to facing the ex-Watcher. The man intimidated him, though Wes would never admit that aloud.

The door jerked open just as Wesley raised his fist to knock again. Mr. Giles stood there, glaring at him.

"What is it?" the older man sighed, rolling his eyes.

"I . . . I was uh, attacked by a vampire and, while it's dusted now, I didn't want to go to the hospital so--"

"Good lord man, you're bleeding," Giles stepped aside, but did not ask him in. Wesley had to approve of the caution, even if it seemed rude. He slipped inside, knowing he must look like an idiot, but the shuffling walk he'd adopted was the only way to keep his thighs from rubbing together.

"Go wait in the bathroom," Mr. Giles said, his tone pure exasperation. "I'll get the first aid kit out of the closet."

"The closet?" Wesley knew he shouldn't ask, but at the moment he needed something to take his mind off the pain as he limped into the bathroom.

"It's too big for the bathroom."

Sitting on the rim of the bathtub, Wesley stared at the rent in his trousers. They were ruined, of course, but it wasn't that which occupied his mind. Mr. Giles would have to cut the trouser leg off. The wound was on the back of his inner thigh, where he certainly couldn't reach it. The other man would have to . . .

He was quick to push the thought aside, unwilling to let the embarrassment win just yet.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"How did a vampire manage to bite you there?" Mr. Giles asked from the doorway, his head tilted, forehead furrowed.

"Well, uh, there was a tussle," he wasn't about to admit that he'd been tackled from behind while trying to run. He'd surely self-immolate from the heat of his blush if he did. "and none of it is very clear now, but, I, uh--"

"I'm sure it was fascinating," Mr. Giles cut him off, his tone dry and bored as he came to kneel next to Wesley. Wes might have bristled at that at any other time, now he chose to ignore it, given he really didn't want to explain. "Be sure to record it all for later generations of Watchers."

Wesley swallowed hard, his jaw clenching as he looked anywhere but at Mr. Giles. There was no way the man would be able to get a look at the wound from that angle, but he wasn't about to suggest that the older man kneel between his legs. Just the thought . . . Wesley bit the inside of his cheek to clear his mind and glanced back to find Mr. Giles looking at him speculatively.

"What?"

"I can't get to it from here," Mr. Giles looked away, but there was a bit of amusement in his voice that annoyed Wes.

"This isn't funny," he muttered, eyes following the older man as he retrieved a short step ladder from the hall closet.

"No, no, of course not." He couldn't see the man's face as he setup the ladder, but he suspected Mr. Giles was silently laughing at him.

Nothing new, but it always hurt.

"Put your foot up on that," the ex-Watcher instructed, totally businesslike as he once again knelt, this time exactly where Wesley had known he'd have to.

The Watcher couldn't help but . . . well, watch. The blunt edge of the scissors, just a little cool, slid over his upper thigh, raising goosebumps as the older man cut away his trousers to reveal Wesley's too-pale legs. He couldn't get a good look at the wound of course, especially not with Mr. Giles head . . . in the way. Wes suddenly wondered why Mr. Giles kept it so warm in his flat, but barely noticed the sting of the antiseptic. His eyes were fixated on the hand that held his thigh to the side so the wound was visible.

"I'm going to have to stitch this," Mr. Giles voice brought him out of his thoughts. It took him a moment for the words to sink in.

"You can do that?"

"I don't have much choice, do I?" Mr. Giles looked up at him and Wes' breathing picked up.

"But, uh, I, er--"

"Don't be a child about this," Mr. Giles rolled his eyes once again. "It'll only be a few passes with a needle."

"Needle? Uh, yes, stitches, right." Wesley tried to focus, tried to keep his mind on the topic at hand, but Mr. Giles' hand was so warm, still resting on his thigh as if it had every right to be there. "But you're going to do it?"

Mr. Giles glared at him. "I very much doubt you're flexible enough to do it yourself. You can't think I'm going to make it more painful then it has to be, can you?" The older man actually looked hurt by that thought.

"I have the power to channel my imagination into ever-soaring levels of suspicion and paranoia," Wes said, trying to laugh it off. Mr. Giles only raised his eyebrow, forcing the conversation back to a serious tone. "Uh, no, I . . . I don't think you'd do that. I just . . . are you sure you can"--Wes swallowed hard--"stitch it yourself?"

"I've done it before," Mr. Giles commented, pulling a needle and package of sterile surgical thread from the first aid kit. "I'll go get you some scotch."

Wesley opened his mouth to turn down the offer, but Mr. Giles cut him off.

"Trust me. You'll want it." The man left and Wes breathed a quick sigh of relief. It was hard to think with that man looking at him as if he were a bug under a microscope.

Oh, yes, it had nothing to do with his hands on your thigh. Wesley tried to ignore the small voice in his head, but that proved impossible. What is wrong with me? It's just a hand . . .

Wes looked down at himself, tempted to laugh, but fearing there might be a bit of hysterical edge to it. What wasn't wrong with tonight? His thigh was oozing blood, his suit was ruined and he was an utter mess.

Hoping the ex-Watcher wouldn't think him rude, Wesley removed his tie and coat, laying them over the edge of the tub. He even unbuttoned his cuffs. He was already only wearing half a pair of trousers, what did it matter?

Mr. Giles returned with several towels, two tumblers, and a bottle of scotch, seating himself on the edge of the bathtub, next to Wes.

"So, tell me what happened," he murmured, pouring drinks for both of them.

"Uh, there was a bit of a fight--"

"No, I mean, what were you doing out at night in the first place?" There was no actual reproach in the other man's voice, but Wes still felt as if he were about to be lectured, which never set well with him.

"I don't think that is any of your business."

Mr. Giles only raised an eyebrow at him, silent.

Wes refused to give into the tactic, instead turning his eyes to his glass and taking a deep pull of the scotch. He didn't drink often, but enough that the burn of it didn't make him cough or sputter, which he was sure Mr. Giles had been waiting for.

Damn him and his superior attitude, and the way the Slayers trust in him, never in me. Treat me like a party crasher when I'm only doing my duty. Probably thinks he can make me tell him, just because I happen to be in need of help. How courteous is that, I ask you? Wesley shook himself, feeling the scotch settle hot and heavy in his stomach. It was comforting in a way and he took another pull before once again meeting Mr. Giles' eyes.

There was a different look on the older man's face now, a smile of some sort, though it was small and well hidden.

"You're right. None of my business."

Wesley's jaw nearly dropped, but he controlled his surprised and only nodded. "Thank you."

"You're lucky," Mr. Giles commented after a sip from his own glass. "It's nowhere near as bad as it could be." The older man slid to the floor, propping his arms on his knees and leaning back against the side of the bathtub.

"Yes, lucky," Wesley murmured. The anger had fled with Mr. Giles' easy agreement and with it had gone the last of Wes' energy. He was tired, and in pain, and . . . okay, maybe he shouldn't have had so much scotch so quickly . . .

"Starting to feel a little woozy, Wesley?" There was that smile again.

Wes stared, opened his mouth to speak and then snapped it closed, unsure how to respond. Mr. Giles didn't seem to be laughing at him, but . . . it was hard to tell with the older man.

"You were wobbling a little," Mr. Giles explained when he didn't answer.

"I'm . . . I didn't get a chance to eat lunch. It's the empty stomach, I'm sure."

"Quite probably," Giles agreed, taking the empty tumbler from Wesley's hand. "I think you're as ready for the stitches as you're going to get. I've got some local antithetic, but it isn't very strong. This is still going to hurt."

"I'm not a child," Wes replied, though there was no real heat in his voice. He'd expected some comment about how quickly the scotch had done it's job, some snide remark questioning his age, or experience, or manhood. When none of those came he found himself at a loss.

"I've noticed," Giles' voice was dry, distracted, but the words caught Wesley off guard.

What was that supposed to mean? He almost asked just that, but stopped himself in time.

The actually stitching went by in a blur of pain and gritted teeth. He wasn't about to let out the groans or grunts that welled up in his throat, though, to his shame, he did whimper as the last stitch was drawn.

"It's okay, all finished." Mr. Giles said, patting his thigh. The touch was light and warm and Wesley's eyes snapped open. The older man was looking at him, studying him, hand still in place. Their eyes locked for a moment. Wes felt a rush of heat move through him and nearly whimpered again as the warmth pooled in his cock.

What is wrong with me! Yes. He is attractive, but he'd laugh in my face! Loudly!

"Well," Mr. Giles stood, clearing his throat as he gathered everything back into the first aid kit.

"Yes, I . . . I should get home."

Giles straightened, one eyebrow raised. "I'd assumed you'd be staying."

Wesley almost choked, his cock pulsing encouragement at the thought.

"What? Here?"

"Uh, you-you don't have to," Giles replied, forehead furrowing. "If you'd really rather not I suppose I can get dressed and drive you home."

"My car's outside."

"Oh, yes, because I'm going to shove you out the door and let you drive with a wounded, stitched-up thigh and a snoot full."

"I am not drunk!" Wesley tried to stand, but forgot to take his foot off the step ladder first. Mr. Giles caught him as he tilted, helping him to stand with those warm, strong hands.

They're quite large, aren't they? Some part of his mind, a part quickly told to shut up, had to comment.

"No, not at all," Mr. Giles agreed with a completely straight face, though there was a slight something in his voice that told of his amusement. "Really, Wesley, just let me make up the couch for you."

"Couch?" Wes blinked, trying to process this new turn of events. He was relieved. Of course, he was. Giles hadn't been coming on to him. What else would he be but relieved?

"Well, I'm not giving up my bed," Mr. Giles replied with a small laugh. "You wouldn't be good at navigating the stairs, anyway."

"Of-of course. Perhaps I'm a little more, erm, effected than I thought." It was more of explanation to himself then to Mr. Giles, but the right thing to say either way.

"That's likely, I'd say. Come on. I'll get you some linens and you can make up the couch while I fix us both a little something to eat."

"That's not necessary," Wesley immediately protested, his stomach disagreeing, rather loudly.

"Well, you don't have to eat it, but I find I'm a bit hungry myself."

Wesley kept silent, following Mr. Giles into the living room with an awkward gate that only seemed to make whatever numbing agent had been used wear off more quickly. He waited by the couch, decidedly not watching the older man bend to retrieve the linens from the bottom shelf of the hall closet.

Turning away when Mr. Giles straightened, Wes desperately sought something else on which he could focus his attention.

Why me? He thought with a little sigh that actually made it past his lips. Yes, he was well aware the Mr. Giles was an attractive man, it was fairly obvious after all. The last thing he needed, however, was a crush. There was absolutely no reason for him to start mooning over a man who already wanted little enough to do with him as a colleague. Especially not when Cordelia seemed more than simply interested . . . it wasn't as if he had no other prospects . . . and even if he hadn't . . .

Wes shook his head, silently accepting the sheets and pillow Mr. Giles handed to him. The man gave him a confused look, but Wesley ignored it. He was fairly certain the other man had said something, but he hadn't heard.

"Wesley?"

"Hmm?"

"I asked if sandwiches were all right."

"Oh, yes, um, thank you." Wesley didn't let himself so much as glance at the ex-Watcher, spreading the sheets with crisp flicks of his wrists that . . . didn’t' seem to do a damn bit of good.

God, I am useless. Wesley forced himself to concentrate, pushing away the haze in his head. Soon the couch was made up and he sat, with nothing to occupy him. He could hear Mr. Giles moving in the kitchen. Usually, he would have offered to lend a hand, but at the moment he didn't think that was such a good idea. The kitchen was so small . . . there were endless opportunities to bump into one another . . . to accidentally touch . . .

All that jostling wouldn't be good for his leg.

Trying to pull his suddenly quickening breath under control, Wesley thought about turning on the television, then shook his head. Not only would that be rude, but he'd never much cared for it. Sighing, he made to stand, to investigate Mr. Giles' books.

His foot hit against something under the coffee table. Sitting back down he reach under to find a small wooden box. It bore a lock, but the key was right there in it, just waiting to be turned.

Curiosity bloomed, drawing his hand toward the lid.

No! Wes chided himself, pushing the box back under the coffee table. He'd never noticed it there before, but it wasn't as if Mr. Giles invited him over for tea. He'd been in the flat only once before, quickly, to retrieve a few books. Still, he wasn't about to go snooping through Mr. Giles possessions . . . especially not while the man was just a few feet away.

"Ah, here we are," the older man set a plate on the coffee table before Wes, taking himself and his own plate to the recliner.

Wesley would have been hard pressed to say what exactly he ate. They made small talk, discussed the mayor briefly, engaged in a rather friendly, if distracted, debate over whether the Lumenious Cult had actually died out. If Wesley had been able to pay more attention, he thought it might be the most pleasant conversation he'd ever had with Mr. Giles.

"Well, I'm for bed . . . oh." Mr. Giles was looking at him again, studying.

Why does he do that?

Wes straightened, raising an eyebrow in question.

"You can't sleep in that."

Wes looked down at himself. He'd left his coat and tie in the bathroom and wore only his destroyed trousers and a button up. He could sleep in it if he had to.

"I'm sure I've got something you can change into."

Wesley made to object, but Mr. Giles was already making his way up the stairs and Wes couldn't deny that he'd rather not sleep in his current state. He wasn't that drunk. Though, after eating, he didn't feel so exhausted. It wasn't terribly late and despite feeling as if he'd walked through hell wearing a sign saying, 'I'm a good guy,' he didn't feel particularly ready for bed.

Lovely.

"Here," said Mr. Giles coming down the stairs with clothing in hand. "These will more than fit you. Feel free to use the shower if you like and you know where the kitchen is."

Wesley accepted the sweats with a nod and a tentative smile.

"Thank you," he murmured, looking away from Mr. Giles too-earnest eyes.

"You're welcome. Now, I'm off to bed."

Wesley sat for a while after Mr. Giles left, staring at the clothes though his mind was elsewhere. Replaying, over and over, the evening, wondering what he should have done differently.

Taking your cross and holy water when you left the school might have been a good start, chided a voice in his head. Strange how he couldn't tell who it sounded like anymore. Once, it would have been his father's voice, but now?

Wes sent a fleeting glance up to the loft and then shook himself free of those thoughts. Disturbed by the path they were taking. Sighing, he stood to go change and his wide-legged stance had his foot tapping against the box.

Wesley once again rolled his eyes to the loft, but this time for a different reason entirely, assuring himself that Mr. Giles was not, in fact, watching his every move. Pursing his lips, teeth chewing at the insides, he glanced down the box and his heart picked up a faster beat.

Slowly, quietly, he sat, wincing at the pain in his thigh before reaching under the coffee table and retrieving the thing. He knew he shouldn't be doing this. Not only was it an invasion of the man's privacy, and after Mr. Giles had been so kind to him . . . but it was also just something one didn't do. He was a guest in Mr. Giles' home . . . his fingers shouldn't be cautiously turning the key, his eyes shouldn't be darting from it to the loft and back again.

The key turned easily, the hinges opening without the slightest squeak. Wesley swallowed hard, watching the stairs for a long moment before finally turning his eyes to the box's contents.

His breath hitched, eyes widening.

There was a collection of things, but right there, right on top were pictures. Mr. Giles was much . . . younger in them and much more . . . naked and . . . very much more kissing another man.

Swallowing hard against the lump in his throat, trying to will away the heat between his thighs, Wes reached in with a shaking hand. The photo was only the first in a stack. He sent a quick glance at the rest of the contents and almost dropped the box.

Freezing at the sound he'd made, Wesley waited, absolutely certain Mr. Giles had heard and he was about to be caught . . . caught staring at the labels on a row of video tapes.

'Ethan and I, birthday, chains. Ethan, Thomas, and I, skinning dipping.'

There were more, but Wesley couldn't bring himself to look. After all, the photos were still in his hand and . . . he couldn't actually watch the tapes . . .

Cautious to the point of paranoia, Wesley set the box on the floor, glancing once again to the loft. Licking suddenly dry lips, he began shuffling the photographs, trying to control his ragged breathing and ignore the way his cock was hardening.

The pictures were in chronological order. In the first, both men were naked, Mr. Giles straddling the smaller, dark haired man. Their tongues were visible, if one looked closely enough, licking along each other. In the next, Mr. Giles had the smaller man's wrists held in one hand, pinning them.

There were some missing, or perhaps discarded. The next image was a close-up.

Very close, some part of Wes' mind commented as his cock twitched. Mr. Giles, laying between the smaller man's thighs, his lips sliding down the man's rigid shaft, his eyes closed and his cheeks hollowed.

Wesley closed his own eyes, trying to calm himself. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, filling the silence of the flat. His breathing was far too loud, too quick; each breath leaving his lungs almost as soon as he took it. Even the pain in his thigh seemed to have subsided, or perhaps was simply lost in the desperate ache of his cock.

The same question he'd been asking all night welled up, but barely even registered against his need to see more, to . . .

Biting his lips in indecision, Wes glance down at the picture once again. That made his mind up for him. He stood quickly, shuffling toward the bathroom after another glance to make sure he wasn't being observed.

Inside the bathroom, he quickly closed the door. He stared at the lock for a moment before tripping it. Then he froze, pictures still in hand. This was insane. It was . . . perverted and . . . and he was going to do it anyway.

He sat on the edge of the tub, pulling his trousers off, ignoring the brief flare of pain from his wound. It didn't matter, couldn't ease the tingling ache of his dick, and so was just an obstacle. Trousers taken care of, Wes slipped out of his boxers, hand closing around his swollen shaft.

He had to bite back a groan, had to be quiet. Mr. Giles might hear him otherwise, perhaps . . . come to check on him . . . Wesley's mind raced off down that path, the pictures forgotten, falling from his fingers as he gripped his upper thigh with one hand and his cock with the other.

He could see it in his head. Mr. Giles hearing his moaning. Worried . . . worried that Wesley was in pain or . . . having a nightmare. He'd be half-sleep, hair mussed, grabbing for his glasses as he threw back the blankets.

Wes gasped, stroking his thumb over the head of his cock. He tilted his head back, eyes closed as he imagined how Mr. Giles would hurry down the stairs, looking for Wes on the couch. There would be a moment of fear then. He'd think something had happened, that Wesley had left. Then perhaps Wesley would let another moan slip out, so intent on the way his prick throbbed in his hand that he didn't notice the footsteps or the door, which in his mind he'd left unlocked, opening.

Mr. Giles would stand there, Wesley unknowing of his presence. At first, he'd be shocked of course, finding Wes all but naked, cock pulled out, stroking himself. He'd be confused too. Then he'd see the pictures and he'd know. He'd know what Wes had done, how he'd been aroused by the sight, the thought of Mr. Giles' mouth on someone's cock, sucking . . .

"Oh, god," Wesley whispered, letting his other hand slip down to play with his tightening balls, skimming over them ever so lightly. He used just enough pressure to tighten what loose skin remained before letting his fingers slip lower and back.

Mr. Giles would know and he'd watch as Wesley pleasured himself. There would be a little anger, just a little, mostly drown out by arousal as his eyes followed Wes' hands. His cock would harden in his pajama bottoms, filling because of him, because of Wesley. And he wouldn't be able to look away, would only be able to stare as Wes used the pre-cum that leaked from his cock to smooth his strokes.

Mr. Giles' own hand would move to his cock, would stroke it through the fabric. So hard and thick and warm . . .

Wesley whimpered softly, his hips thrusting of their own will, one hand stripping his prick hard while the other squeezed lightly at his balls. He could feel the orgasm building, making his skin tingle, his blood rush with the sensations. It was never like this. He'd never stroked himself anywhere but the privacy of his own bed, the lights off so that he didn't have to know where he was. He never let himself think of anyone, or at least he tried not to, though sometimes some aspects would slip in; a face, a voice, a pair of olive eyes . . . a hand, large and strong . . .

Now he let himself see it all, see the way he wanted it. Mr. Giles wouldn't be able to just watch, men like him . . . they weren't the passive sort. He'd move closer, slow and soft. He'd lay a hand on Wes' face, but it wouldn't startle him. Even though he hadn't know Mr. Giles was watching, he wouldn't jump like a scared rabbit. No. He'd open his eyes, see--oh, yes, god, yes--see the look in those eyes, hand never losing its rhythm on his aching flesh.

'Let me.' He could almost hear Mr. Giles' voice, almost actually hear the words so low and husky he had to choke back a moan. Mr. Giles would bat his hands aside, slide his own fingers over Wesley's erection.

And Wes wouldn't stutter or blush or panic. He'd let that hand take over, let Mr. Giles' fingers play him.

He'd moan then, let himself make all the noises that were trapped in the back of his throat. Mr. Giles wouldn't let him keep them in, would want to hear the gasps, the whimpers, the pleading.

'Want me to make you come?' Wesley was so close now, his cock twitching and jumping in his firm grasp, balls so tight they hurt. Then his imagination added one last touch. Soft and deep, the words, 'beg me' growled into his ear.

Wes choked on his scream, managing to keep it a low moan as he jerked and came, hot seed shooting over his hand in thick streams. He rode out the orgasm, shuddering with the intensity of it. Every muscle in his body clenched and spasmed, pleasure sizzling along his nerve endings.

It took a long time for Wes to recover. He leaned forward, trying to catch his breath, his eyes catching the pictures scattered over the floor.

"Damn." Forcing himself to stand on rubbery legs, Wes hobbled to the sink. He stared at his hand for a moment, a flood of mixed emotions washing over him. Shame, mostly, with a good bit of amazement mixed in. He'd never come that hard, never felt his body scream that way. Letting out a shuddering breath, he washed himself before turning back to the pictures.

It took him long moments to get them back in what he hoped was the right order. Mainly because he stopped halfway through to stare at that one picture again. There was something about it, something about seeing Mr. Giles that way, with some anonymous man's cock in his mouth. His eyes were closed, his expression . . . blissful.

Shaking off the longing that rose in him, Wes changed into the sweats Mr. Giles had leant him and returned, quickly, to the living room. He sent more than a few looks toward the loft as he slipped the pictures back into the box. Yet, as he made to close the lid, he hesitated.

"Git," he muttered at himself, shaking his head. He wanted . . . too many things, things that people like him never got, no matter how hard they tried. The most he could hope for was that he served his duty, that he didn't embarrass his family too much along the way. Sighing, he ran a finger over the top photograph, using it to blot out the smiling face of the dark haired man.

Clenching his jaw, he reached in and slipped that picture out of the stack. Mr. Giles wouldn't miss it, or so he told himself, over and over as he slipped it into his pocket and shut the box.

He couldn't stay there, not after . . . he'd never be able to look the older man in the face again. Not that he was so very good at doing that anyway, but how was he going to handle being in the same room without blushing himself into oblivion?

There was a notepad by the phone and he wrote Giles a quick message, saying that he'd sobered up and gone home. It would probably on be a relief to Mr. Giles anyway.

He grabbed his ruined clothes, looked one last time to make sure the box was set exactly where, and as, he'd found it.

Except for one tiny difference. He'll . . . he'll never notice.

With that, Wesley left, limping to his car.

Next story 'Letting It Out'