Blinking away the blurriness, he reached carefully past the sleeping man for the glasses on the nightstand.
"Those are mine," came a familiar voice, "I doubt they'll do you much good."
"Giles?" Wesley sat straight up in the bed before he realized that would be a bad idea. "Ow."
"Well, that should teach you to take it easy," Giles said with some amusement, digging in the draw under the nightstand. "Here. These aren't actually yours, but we had your prescription on record."
"Er. . . thank you. What the bloody hell am I doing here?"
Giles snorted softly with amusement. "Well, that's rather the question, isn't it?" He looked chagrinned. "Once I realized Angel's true motives, I gathered what people I could to come help. Once...it was over, Illyria led me to Vail's home. You weren't there, yet she insisted that you'd perished
( ... )
"Angel is in serious condition, even for a vampire. We're doing what we can, but the dragon's venom doesn't respond to any known anitidotes . . . not even Slayer's blood, which we currently have in abundance. Gunn is . . . I'm sorry, but he's dead . . . and dusted. Spike is, annoyingly, fine . . . and annoying. Illyria has been a help, actually. She seems to find the Slayers fascinating and they love the challenge of trying to get the better of her."
Giles paused there, and his tone changed, though Wesley could exactly identify how. The older man switched on the bedside lamp and Wesley finally got a look at him. He looked exhausted, weighed down and older than he should
"You're rather lucky, Wesley. You were very dazed and if it hadn't been for Willow we might not have found you before you wandered into an alley and . . . well, best not to dwell on that, I suppose. Are you hungry?"
Wesley closed his eyes and clamped his jaw against the mingled tears of grief and gratitude that prickled behind his eyelids.
"I'll just get you some tea, shall I? Perhaps a sandwich?" Giles' voice was rich with understanding. Wesley managed to nod, and heard the rustle of Giles' getting out of the chair.
Giles' warm hand rested on his shoulder. "I know. Even when you're prepared, for it - it's almost too much to bear. Do remember you have friends." And with that, he left the room.
And who would have thought Rupert Giles was going to be a friend? Wes marveled. The man was right, though. Giles had known loss - of friends, lovers. His eyes stung again at the thought of Fred's death and Gunn's.
Wait. Gunn had been dusted. Bile rose in Wesley's throat. Gunn's worst nightmare - to be turned, like his sister. He closed his eyes again, this time letting the tears slip out from under his lids.
Fred. Gunn. Angel probably not going to make it. Cordelia. And by what strange luck, was he nearly the only one left? Why?
Giles realized his mistake the moment Wes' eyes swivled, surprised, toward his. Smiling his apology as he removed the errand hand and stuffed it into his pocket, he said, "I do apologize. Habit over the last few weeks. Of course you don't remember." He inclined his head - again in apology - and made his way to the chair at Wes' bedside.
"There seems rather a lot I don't remember." Wesley observed slowly. The weight of Giles hand felt oddly familiar, somehow, and comforting. Also the faint aroma of tea and...something else that came from the man's skin - loosened the knot of tension in his stomach almost instantly. It was very puzzling. It would explain how comfortable Giles seemed - they'd established some sort of routine, evidently. He was a bit worried at his reaction, though.
Kinetic Memory? Wesley thought, turning his attention back to his sandwich. He had to struggl to think - the pleasure of eating his sandwich drew his attention. Mealtimes might take a bit of getting used to. He thought ruefully of making an ass of himself
( ... )
"Hmmm. Yes, I suppose that would be a lot for anyone to digest so quickly. And, Wesley? The key word is 'thought'. I know what you've done since Sunnydale and I am not a fool." Giles' voice was soft with understanding and that bloody sympathy again. "As for the shower, if you think you can stand on your own, then I'll help you get to the shower
( ... )
Giles wasn't sure Wesley would take the hand, for a moment. He sat and stared at the it until Giles began to feel the need to check what he knew was a perfectly clean hand.
Having Wes lucid seemed like they were starting all over again. He'd helped Wes dozens of times - granted some quite interesting times for both of them - but they'd weathered through it, nonetheless. Giles bit back a sigh. Starting over at a disadvantage - Wes was now a bit uncomfortable around him. He wondered why.
Finally, with a look both stubborn and minutely fearful, Wes took his hand. Giles braced himself, and said, "Now, try it again. This is not how we've been doing it, but let's see what you've got, hm? Don't worry, you won't fall."
Weathering the slight glare Wesley gave him for the last bit, Giles let the man lean on him as much as Wes was comfortable with. In truth, he wished the man would just let him help, but he did understand. He wouldn't have enjoyed being in Wesley's position himself
( ... )
Grasping the handholds at either side of the shower seat, Wesley pulled himself up, and forced himself to stand erect. Well, more or less. Leaning heavily against the wall, he contemplated the tiles of the shower stall as he breathed deeply and willed his body to maintain balance, ignoring the tremors that seemed to be coming from every muscle
( ... )
Sighing, Wesley pulled the towel from his head and dried himself off, taking his time. That done, he took a deep breath as he stood on wobbly legs and wrapped the thing around his waist. Moving his arm around a bit he found that it hurt only a little worse than it had when he'd woken up and . . . strangely the pain didn't feel like a new one, so perhaps it had hurt because this wasn't the first time he'd done this
( ... )
Giles carefully looked elsewhere as Wesley dropped the towel. Not that he hadn't seen everything there was to see at one time or another during the last few weeks, but it wouldn't do to have Wesley turn around and find him gazing at his arse. He fiddled with the shaving implements he'd brought in and thought of the first, horrible attempt he'd made at getting Wesley to shave
( ... )
Stifling a sigh because the man had not asked for help, Giles hopped down from the counter. "Let me help?" He didn't take a step nearer the man, not even reach out a hand. He didn't want Wesley to feel pressured. However, it was clear that if he wanted to dress, Giles' help was going to be the only option
( ... )
Finding himself staring at the long line of Wesley's throat as she shaved, Giles decided his glasses needed a good polish. Spike and Illyria were billeted at the newly set up slayer home/traning ground/school. They'd been given guest rooms there once Illyria decided that seeing Wesley in this state was more difficult than not seeing him.
Giles worried a little about that meeting. From what Spike said, granted he didn't have anything else to go on but ramblings of a delirious man, Wesley had skirted the edges of madness after Freds' death - forced to oversee the creature that killed her. Giles sighed as he replaced his glasses. He knew how hard it was to look in the face of someone who'd killed your lover - Angel was just down the hall - but to have that face be your lover. It took extraordinary strength
( ... )
Giles reached out with little more than a thought, sliding off the counter as he grabbed Wesley around the waist. They stood there for a long moment, both looking at the other with wide eyes. Giles was fairly sure that had something to do with two half-hard cocks meeting and . . . well, suddenly, not being 'half' anything
( ... )
Time to beat a strategic retreat. Giles thought. "I'll just go make those phone calls, and er, get a wheelchair - if you feel as if you're still up to seeing Angel. Wesley, frankly, looked poleaxed. He just sat there, blinking
( ... )
Giles couldn't finish. Instead, he shook his head and continued with that strategic retreat he'd promised himself. Berating himself, aloud but under his breath, Giles weathered the raised eyebrows of the two on duty nurses and fetched the wheelchair.
He found himself wanting to talk to the women, but knew that for the avoidance that it was and instead went to make the call. Luckily, he had to talk to neither Illyria nor Spike, instead telling the receptionist who would then page them. It made things a lot easier, from his point of view anyway.
Now . . . time to take Wesley to see Angel, a visit Giles was looking forward to even less than the call. Sighing, he wheeled the chair into Wesley's room, finding the man sitting on the edge of the bed still, waiting.
"Ah, here we are," Giles forced his tone to be neutral and thank all the gods he'd managed to rid himself of his erection while he was gone. As long as he kept a fairly tight rein on his thoughts . . . he should be able to get through this.
The wheelchair reminded him all to much of when he'd been shot, trying to save Gunn - which of course, reminded him of Gunn. Wesley was ashamed to feel tears prickle his eyes again as he shut them against the sight of the wheelchair
( ... )
Giles bantered with him all the way to the door of Angel's room, where the older man suddenly fell silent. Wesley braced himself, knowing this was not going to be pretty. His insides churned with the thought of what he might find and . . . strangely enough, he detected a scent on the air that wasn't sitting well with him, though he couldn't quite identify it
( ... )
Comments 33
"Those are mine," came a familiar voice, "I doubt they'll do you much good."
"Giles?" Wesley sat straight up in the bed before he realized that would be a bad idea. "Ow."
"Well, that should teach you to take it easy," Giles said with some amusement, digging in the draw under the nightstand. "Here. These aren't actually yours, but we had your prescription on record."
"Er. . . thank you. What the bloody hell am I doing here?"
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Giles paused there, and his tone changed, though Wesley could exactly identify how. The older man switched on the bedside lamp and Wesley finally got a look at him. He looked exhausted, weighed down and older than he should
"You're rather lucky, Wesley. You were very dazed and if it hadn't been for Willow we might not have found you before you wandered into an alley and . . . well, best not to dwell on that, I suppose. Are you hungry?"
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"I'll just get you some tea, shall I? Perhaps a sandwich?" Giles' voice was rich with understanding. Wesley managed to nod, and heard the rustle of Giles' getting out of the chair.
Giles' warm hand rested on his shoulder. "I know. Even when you're prepared, for it - it's almost too much to bear. Do remember you have friends." And with that, he left the room.
And who would have thought Rupert Giles was going to be a friend? Wes marveled. The man was right, though. Giles had known loss - of friends, lovers. His eyes stung again at the thought of Fred's death and Gunn's.
Wait. Gunn had been dusted. Bile rose in Wesley's throat. Gunn's worst nightmare - to be turned, like his sister. He closed his eyes again, this time letting the tears slip out from under his lids.
Fred. Gunn. Angel probably not going to make it. Cordelia. And by what strange luck, was he nearly the only one left? Why?
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"There seems rather a lot I don't remember." Wesley observed slowly. The weight of Giles hand felt oddly familiar, somehow, and comforting. Also the faint aroma of tea and...something else that came from the man's skin - loosened the knot of tension in his stomach almost instantly. It was very puzzling. It would explain how comfortable Giles seemed - they'd established some sort of routine, evidently. He was a bit worried at his reaction, though.
Kinetic Memory? Wesley thought, turning his attention back to his sandwich. He had to struggl to think - the pleasure of eating his sandwich drew his attention. Mealtimes might take a bit of getting used to. He thought ruefully of making an ass of himself ( ... )
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Having Wes lucid seemed like they were starting all over again. He'd helped Wes dozens of times - granted some quite interesting times for both of them - but they'd weathered through it, nonetheless. Giles bit back a sigh. Starting over at a disadvantage - Wes was now a bit uncomfortable around him. He wondered why.
Finally, with a look both stubborn and minutely fearful, Wes took his hand. Giles braced himself, and said, "Now, try it again. This is not how we've been doing it, but let's see what you've got, hm? Don't worry, you won't fall."
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Giles worried a little about that meeting. From what Spike said, granted he didn't have anything else to go on but ramblings of a delirious man, Wesley had skirted the edges of madness after Freds' death - forced to oversee the creature that killed her. Giles sighed as he replaced his glasses. He knew how hard it was to look in the face of someone who'd killed your lover - Angel was just down the hall - but to have that face be your lover. It took extraordinary strength ( ... )
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He found himself wanting to talk to the women, but knew that for the avoidance that it was and instead went to make the call. Luckily, he had to talk to neither Illyria nor Spike, instead telling the receptionist who would then page them. It made things a lot easier, from his point of view anyway.
Now . . . time to take Wesley to see Angel, a visit Giles was looking forward to even less than the call. Sighing, he wheeled the chair into Wesley's room, finding the man sitting on the edge of the bed still, waiting.
"Ah, here we are," Giles forced his tone to be neutral and thank all the gods he'd managed to rid himself of his erection while he was gone. As long as he kept a fairly tight rein on his thoughts . . . he should be able to get through this.
Then, now that he's aware, ( ... )
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