Fic: Life Is What Happens When You're Making Other Plans (Giles/Wesley)
I wrote a back-up fic for the recent AU round (#28) of maleslashminis.
For bethynyc
Giles/Wesley, 2800 words, PG-ish.
Many thanks to kageygirl for the beta and very helpful library advice!
Life Is What Happens When You're Making Other Plans
by WesleysGirl
There's a small back room in the library. It's where Wesley works, eight hours a day, making repairs to books so old that they'd be delicate even if they weren't torn, dirty, spines broken. He mends pages with Japanese paper and wheat paste, silently cursing the people who haven't the sense or respect to treat antiques with the dignity they deserve.
This sort of work doesn't do a great deal to strengthen his love for his fellow man, and it doesn't do much for his social life, either. It's a tiny library, part of a small university, with only two full-time employees and a handful of student volunteers. It isn't as if the students would be appropriate friends for him -- Wesley is much older than they are -- and his co-worker, Mr. Giles, doesn't seem to want anything to do with him.
* * *
Rupert Giles likes his job well enough, he supposes. Even on the days when there are few visits from students, there are always the books themselves to occupy him. The weeks and months turn into years, and before he knows it, he's well past middle-aged and his hair is dusted with grey. It doesn't trouble him, but it's still a bit of a shock.
That's around the time when the university inherits a "small" number of books from an alumnus. It would be a tiny percentage of a larger library's total collection, of course, but to Rupert it's a vast donation, two hundred boxes of books to be evaluated and catalogued and, unfortunately, in many cases, repaired. The oldest of the books are in horrid condition -- some of them beyond repair, he fears -- but in a moment of generosity, the Dean authorizes the hiring of a second full-time employee for the library, a preservationist who specializes in making the types of repairs needed.
Rupert is given jurisdiction over the hiring process. He interviews two men and three women and finds fault with each of them before Wesley Wyndam-Pryce walks through the door, slender and wide-shouldered as if he forgets to eat properly, or perhaps as if he hasn't the money to buy enough food. Indeed, his eyes are hungry in ways Rupert understands, and before Pryce leaves Rupert's offered him the job.
He expects having his territory infringed upon will be unsettling at first, but finds that even once he's grown used to Wesley's presence, he's restless, uneasy. Wesley is perfectly pleasant and keeps to himself for the most part; he's so quiet that it should be easy to forget that he's there.
But Rupert doesn't forget.
* * *
Mr. Giles brews proper tea every afternoon at three o'clock. There's a kitchen at the back of the library, beside Wesley's workroom and smaller by half. It can't be easy to make even something as simple as tea in that tiny space, yet Mr. Giles manages it. Just after three, Mr. Giles knocks on Wesley's door and waits for him to answer.
"Yes? Come in."
"Tea?" Mr. Giles never waits for Wesley to accept or refuse, just comes in and sets a cup down. Wesley leaves a space clear for it now; on his second day, he'd accidentally knocked three books off the side table in his haste to make room for the cup and saucer, and suspected his face would never stop burning.
"Thank you, Mr. Giles," Wesley says, as always.
"You're welcome." Today, Mr. Giles hesitates, then says, "Wesley..."
"Yes?" Wesley says.
Mr. Giles clears his throat. "You could call me Rupert. We are colleagues."
Wesley is so surprised that he doesn't know what to say. He has assumed that the tea ritual included him solely because it would be impolite not to do so, but this... this sounds like a more meaningful offering. Like, dare he consider it, an offer of friendship? He feels his cheeks flush and blinks away any possibility of hopeful tears, and stammers, "Yes. Right. R-Rupert. Of course. Thank you."
Like any sensible person, Mr. Giles -- Rupert -- smiles and goes away, leaving Wesley to drink his tea, which he does before it's cooled. He scalds his tongue, which tingles painfully for hours, yet he can't bring himself to actually care.
* * *
Rupert notices -- it would be difficult not to -- that Wesley often works all day without eating. On the days Wesley does bring a lunch for himself, it's some pitiful thing like a slice of cheese pressed between two pieces of bread. It's no wonder he's so thin; there are moments Rupert thinks the man's clothes weigh more than he does.
He puts some careful thought into the matter before deciding what course of action to take. He knows Wesley's salary is both laughably small and barely adequate to pay rent even at the address provided on Wesley's resume. The Dean had insisted it was all they could afford, especially considering Wesley hasn't completed his library sciences degree; he isn't technically a librarian, although his skill in repair work, chronicled in detail by his previous supervisor, is more than sufficient.
So Rupert decides to start bringing in lunches that will feed both of them. It takes some doing. He suspects Wesley will refuse if he's too obvious about it, so he begins to experiment with recipes and brings them to the library under the guise of needing Wesley's opinion.
"I wondered if you might do me a favor," he says casually just before noon, having knocked on Wesley's door.
Wesley looks nervous, but says, "Yes, of course."
"I'd like to serve a meal to some friends, but I'm not much of a cook." That's truthful enough, Rupert thinks. "I made a casserole last night -- I'm not sure it's any good. Would you be willing to try it and tell me what you think? It's meant to be an updated version of shepherd's pie..."
Of course Wesley says yes. Rupert heats the food up in the tiny microwave he gave in and bought a few years before, then they sit on opposite sides of the table shoved back behind the front desk where Rupert usually eats alone.
"It's very good," Wesley says, around a mouthful of savory lamb and potatoes with, Rupert thinks, not quite enough garlic in it.
"I think it's a bit bland," he says.
Wesley shakes his head. "No, not at all. Of course, I'm not much of a cook myself. You might be better off asking someone else's opinion. Someone who knows more about it than I do."
Handing Wesley a napkin, Rupert says, "If I'd wanted a professional chef's opinion, I'd have asked... well, I don't know. I don't think I know any professional chefs." He laughs a little bit, and Wesley smiles. When he smiles, his face is transformed, his delight as all-encompassing as a small boy's.
That thought reminds Rupert of the age difference between them; no doubt Wesley views him as too old to be a potential partner. But still, that's all right, isn't it? It's not as if Rupert expects anything to come of this. He doesn't think about Wesley in the evenings, doesn't imagine him loosening his tie and rolling up his shirt sleeves, forearms bare. He certainly doesn't imagine what Wesley looks like when he's undressing to take a shower. That would be... inappropriate.
* * *
Wesley doesn't know what to think when Mr. Giles -- Rupert -- begins to bring in food for them both. At first, he's not suspicious, but when it continues, he starts to be. He doesn't ask, because he feels certain Rupert won't lie to him, and he doesn't really want to have his suspicions confirmed. He hates to think that Rupert knows how close to the edge he's living as far as his budget is concerned.
When they eat lunch together, they talk. At the beginning, it's rather awkward small talk, but as time goes on, it becomes more relaxed, and they start to learn things about each other. Personal things. Rupert shares, for example, that he's had relationships in the past with both men and women. He says it so casually that Wesley is able to admit that he's had thoughts along those lines himself, although he immediately afterward worries that he shouldn't have.
He's working one afternoon, carefully fixing a loose hinge, when he hears the crash of broken china and a muffled curse from the tiny kitchen next door. Wesley stops what he's doing immediately and goes to see what happened.
Rupert is rinsing his fingers under the tap; when Wesley glances over his shoulder, he can see bright red blood welling from a cut on Rupert's index finger.
"All right," Wesley says, taking charge. "Here, let me see."
"I broke one of the tea cups," Rupert says through clenched teeth, as Wesley takes his bleeding hand in both of his own for closer inspection.
Shards of china crunch under his shoes; he turns Rupert around and reaches for the roll of paper towels, tearing off several and pressing them to the cut firmly. Rupert swears under his breath. "Sorry," Wesley tells him. "It'll be okay. I don't think you need stitches." He lifts Rupert's hand a few inches, so that the cut is at shoulder height. "Do you need to sit down?"
"No," Rupert says. "I'm all right. Just irritated at myself."
"It was an accident," Wesley says mildly. "Was it special, the cup?"
Rupert shakes his head. "No. Actually, I bought it up the street at that little secondhand shop, along with the others. Years ago. I should be surprised I didn't break one before now." He winces when Wesley tightens his grip on the wound, which is still bleeding.
Wesley becomes aware of how closely together they're standing. He looks up at Rupert's face, into his eyes. One is a slightly different color than the other, and Rupert's mouth is right there, his lips --
Taking a hasty step back, Wesley fumbles for Rupert's uninjured hand and wraps it around the other, keeping the paper towels in place. "Yes," he says. "Right. Just -- keep some pressure on that, and I'll -- er. I'll take over at the desk in case anyone needs help." As far as he knows, they're alone in the library just then, but students -- the more serious ones, at least -- can be eerily quiet at times.
He leaves Rupert alone in the kitchen and goes out front to the desk, hands shaking.
There's a student curled up in one of the chairs near the windows; it's Willow, of course. She's in the library more often than any of the other students. Not only does she seem to be determined to study, but she behaves as if she views the library as a safe haven, and Rupert and Wesley as her friends. It's not uncommon for her to knock tentatively on the door of Wesley's room just to say hello.
"Hey," she says now, seeing Wesley. Then, frowning. "Are you okay?"
"Yes, fine," Wesley says.
"You don't look it," Willow observes. Marking her place in the book she's reading, she sets it aside and gets up, coming over to lean against the desk. "What's up?"
Wesley's first and second instincts are to deny everything, but instead he finds himself explaining, in hushed tones, what's just happened. "And I don't know what to do."
"Well, you have to do something," Willow whispers back, glancing toward the kitchen from which Rupert still hasn't emerged. "What about flowers?"
Startled, Wesley says, "What about them?"
"You could bring him some," Willow says, sounding exasperated. "That's what people do, to be nice to other people when they want to date them. It's romantic."
He nods. "All right. Yes. Flowers."
Apparently approving, Willow goes back to her book, and Wesley flees to his room, closing the door, when he hears Rupert coming.
It isn't until he gets home that evening, under the light of the harsh, unshaded bulb in his bathroom, that he discovers he's gone the rest of the day with Rupert's blood under his fingernails.
* * *
Rupert goes home with a bandage wound tightly around his finger and a lingering sense of frustration. Dropping the tea cup had been an accident, but for a few moments he'd thought it might be a fortuitous one. Wesley had been so close, so bloody close, the opportunity had been right there. They'd been poised on the verge of something, and then Wesley had seen it, too -- seen it and fled.
It's an answer to the question that has been running around in Rupert's head for weeks.
It's also, unfortunately, profoundly depressing.
He has a drink after dinner and for the first time in a fortnight doesn't spend the next hour preparing his and Wesley's lunch for the following day. He's tired and his finger is sore, and there just doesn't seem to be any point to it, somehow. That thought adds to his depression, and he slips gratefully into sleep.
The sun is bright and strong the next morning, and Rupert lets routine carry him along and to work. He's only two minutes early instead of his usual ten, and Wesley comes running up to the small brick building as he's unlocking the door.
Wesley looks hopeful. He's holding a bouquet of flowers; it's clutched rather too tightly in his fist, the stems bruised through the layer of paper around it. "Good morning," Wesley says, gasping for breath.
"I hope those aren't to make up for something you did wrong," Rupert says, and regrets it immediately when Wesley's expression goes stiff.
"No," Wesley stammers. "No, I just -- I thought they'd look nice. On the desk. Cheer the place up. Er, not that it's gloomy -- not that any place you are could possibly be gloomy. It's --" He stops himself, swallows, and lifts his eyes to meet Rupert's. "Actually, they're for you." It's all there on his face.
"For me?" Rupert says, feeling a smile starting.
Wesley nods and smiles uncertainly in return. It's the kind of smile that could be easily wiped away with the slightest error on Rupert's part, he can tell.
"Thank you," Rupert says gently.
They go inside, and Rupert finds a small jug in which to put the flowers.
"I'm sorry, I didn't think about anything to put them in," Wesley says, sounding frustrated with himself.
"No, it's fine. This will do." Rupert puts water in the jug and takes the flowers from Wesley. "Thank you again. It was... very thoughtful of you."
"I know that, yesterday, I wasn't --" Wesley stops and fidgets in the small space. "I'm not very good at this. At any of this, really. Talking to people, I mean. It's so awkward, and I worry about saying something stupid, and then I do say something stupid, and it's all, well, rather dreadful, actually. But I didn't want you to think it was because I didn't -- because I don't --"
"Wesley," Rupert says, interrupting; he can't bear to listen to any more.
Wesley looks at him, wide-eyed. "Yes?" he whispers.
"I'd like to take you to dinner this evening. If you don't have other plans."
"Other plans?" Wesley echoes. "What other plans do you think I might have?"
Clearing his throat, Rupert sets the jug of flowers on the counter top. "Was that an answer?"
"Oh." Wesley looks horrified. "No! Er, I mean, no, that wasn't an answer. Yes -- my answer is yes. I'd love to have dinner with you."
"Good," Rupert says. He steps toward Wesley, who steps backward automatically as if getting out of his way. He thinks, This won't do at all. He reaches his hand out and closes his fingers around Wesley's tie, just below the knot. Tugs. After a moment's hesitation, Wesley moves toward him. "Take a deep breath," Rupert advises.
Wesley does, then lets it out shakily. "I did warn you that I'm not very good at this," he says apologetically.
"I think you underestimate yourself," Rupert says, and takes Wesley's chin in his other hand and tilts his face up to kiss him. Wesley trembles and tries to say something against Rupert's lips, no doubt something else self-deprecating, but Rupert is determined. He opens Wesley's mouth with his own, tastes tea and lemon, and Wesley's hand settles, tentatively, on his waistband. "There, see?" Rupert rubs his thumb across Wesley's lower lip. "You're quite good."
"So are you," Wesley says, sounding more confident.
Rupert sees a whole vast world of opportunities for the two of them, a world bigger than this little university library. A sort of life he'd never thought possible until that very moment; the sort of life he'd never thought to want.
Just then, the front door opens, and a moment later Willow appears, her red hair tousled. She stops when she sees them, her eyes going wide. "Oh!" she says. "I didn't -- are you...?" Her mouth widens into a delighted smile. "You are!"
"We are," Rupert tells her.
"Yay!" Willow bounces and claps her hands together. "Wow, it's about time."
"Yes, thank you," Rupert says dryly, but, to his surprise, Wesley says, "Yes, Willow, thank you," and smiles at her, and Rupert understands that he's missed something.
Somehow, with Wesley standing there close to him, with the taste of Wesley still lingering in his mouth, he can't bring himself to care.
End.
Request:
The pairing you want: Wes/Giles
The setting/scenario you want: Both are librarians (anywhere) who have
a hard time getting past the British Reserve and into a relationship.
Maybe one has a matchmaking kid or student? That would be nice, but
not a requirement.
Two things you don't want: BDSM, unequal relationship
Preferred maximum rating: R
For bethynyc
Giles/Wesley, 2800 words, PG-ish.
Many thanks to kageygirl for the beta and very helpful library advice!
Life Is What Happens When You're Making Other Plans
by WesleysGirl
There's a small back room in the library. It's where Wesley works, eight hours a day, making repairs to books so old that they'd be delicate even if they weren't torn, dirty, spines broken. He mends pages with Japanese paper and wheat paste, silently cursing the people who haven't the sense or respect to treat antiques with the dignity they deserve.
This sort of work doesn't do a great deal to strengthen his love for his fellow man, and it doesn't do much for his social life, either. It's a tiny library, part of a small university, with only two full-time employees and a handful of student volunteers. It isn't as if the students would be appropriate friends for him -- Wesley is much older than they are -- and his co-worker, Mr. Giles, doesn't seem to want anything to do with him.
* * *
Rupert Giles likes his job well enough, he supposes. Even on the days when there are few visits from students, there are always the books themselves to occupy him. The weeks and months turn into years, and before he knows it, he's well past middle-aged and his hair is dusted with grey. It doesn't trouble him, but it's still a bit of a shock.
That's around the time when the university inherits a "small" number of books from an alumnus. It would be a tiny percentage of a larger library's total collection, of course, but to Rupert it's a vast donation, two hundred boxes of books to be evaluated and catalogued and, unfortunately, in many cases, repaired. The oldest of the books are in horrid condition -- some of them beyond repair, he fears -- but in a moment of generosity, the Dean authorizes the hiring of a second full-time employee for the library, a preservationist who specializes in making the types of repairs needed.
Rupert is given jurisdiction over the hiring process. He interviews two men and three women and finds fault with each of them before Wesley Wyndam-Pryce walks through the door, slender and wide-shouldered as if he forgets to eat properly, or perhaps as if he hasn't the money to buy enough food. Indeed, his eyes are hungry in ways Rupert understands, and before Pryce leaves Rupert's offered him the job.
He expects having his territory infringed upon will be unsettling at first, but finds that even once he's grown used to Wesley's presence, he's restless, uneasy. Wesley is perfectly pleasant and keeps to himself for the most part; he's so quiet that it should be easy to forget that he's there.
But Rupert doesn't forget.
* * *
Mr. Giles brews proper tea every afternoon at three o'clock. There's a kitchen at the back of the library, beside Wesley's workroom and smaller by half. It can't be easy to make even something as simple as tea in that tiny space, yet Mr. Giles manages it. Just after three, Mr. Giles knocks on Wesley's door and waits for him to answer.
"Yes? Come in."
"Tea?" Mr. Giles never waits for Wesley to accept or refuse, just comes in and sets a cup down. Wesley leaves a space clear for it now; on his second day, he'd accidentally knocked three books off the side table in his haste to make room for the cup and saucer, and suspected his face would never stop burning.
"Thank you, Mr. Giles," Wesley says, as always.
"You're welcome." Today, Mr. Giles hesitates, then says, "Wesley..."
"Yes?" Wesley says.
Mr. Giles clears his throat. "You could call me Rupert. We are colleagues."
Wesley is so surprised that he doesn't know what to say. He has assumed that the tea ritual included him solely because it would be impolite not to do so, but this... this sounds like a more meaningful offering. Like, dare he consider it, an offer of friendship? He feels his cheeks flush and blinks away any possibility of hopeful tears, and stammers, "Yes. Right. R-Rupert. Of course. Thank you."
Like any sensible person, Mr. Giles -- Rupert -- smiles and goes away, leaving Wesley to drink his tea, which he does before it's cooled. He scalds his tongue, which tingles painfully for hours, yet he can't bring himself to actually care.
* * *
Rupert notices -- it would be difficult not to -- that Wesley often works all day without eating. On the days Wesley does bring a lunch for himself, it's some pitiful thing like a slice of cheese pressed between two pieces of bread. It's no wonder he's so thin; there are moments Rupert thinks the man's clothes weigh more than he does.
He puts some careful thought into the matter before deciding what course of action to take. He knows Wesley's salary is both laughably small and barely adequate to pay rent even at the address provided on Wesley's resume. The Dean had insisted it was all they could afford, especially considering Wesley hasn't completed his library sciences degree; he isn't technically a librarian, although his skill in repair work, chronicled in detail by his previous supervisor, is more than sufficient.
So Rupert decides to start bringing in lunches that will feed both of them. It takes some doing. He suspects Wesley will refuse if he's too obvious about it, so he begins to experiment with recipes and brings them to the library under the guise of needing Wesley's opinion.
"I wondered if you might do me a favor," he says casually just before noon, having knocked on Wesley's door.
Wesley looks nervous, but says, "Yes, of course."
"I'd like to serve a meal to some friends, but I'm not much of a cook." That's truthful enough, Rupert thinks. "I made a casserole last night -- I'm not sure it's any good. Would you be willing to try it and tell me what you think? It's meant to be an updated version of shepherd's pie..."
Of course Wesley says yes. Rupert heats the food up in the tiny microwave he gave in and bought a few years before, then they sit on opposite sides of the table shoved back behind the front desk where Rupert usually eats alone.
"It's very good," Wesley says, around a mouthful of savory lamb and potatoes with, Rupert thinks, not quite enough garlic in it.
"I think it's a bit bland," he says.
Wesley shakes his head. "No, not at all. Of course, I'm not much of a cook myself. You might be better off asking someone else's opinion. Someone who knows more about it than I do."
Handing Wesley a napkin, Rupert says, "If I'd wanted a professional chef's opinion, I'd have asked... well, I don't know. I don't think I know any professional chefs." He laughs a little bit, and Wesley smiles. When he smiles, his face is transformed, his delight as all-encompassing as a small boy's.
That thought reminds Rupert of the age difference between them; no doubt Wesley views him as too old to be a potential partner. But still, that's all right, isn't it? It's not as if Rupert expects anything to come of this. He doesn't think about Wesley in the evenings, doesn't imagine him loosening his tie and rolling up his shirt sleeves, forearms bare. He certainly doesn't imagine what Wesley looks like when he's undressing to take a shower. That would be... inappropriate.
* * *
Wesley doesn't know what to think when Mr. Giles -- Rupert -- begins to bring in food for them both. At first, he's not suspicious, but when it continues, he starts to be. He doesn't ask, because he feels certain Rupert won't lie to him, and he doesn't really want to have his suspicions confirmed. He hates to think that Rupert knows how close to the edge he's living as far as his budget is concerned.
When they eat lunch together, they talk. At the beginning, it's rather awkward small talk, but as time goes on, it becomes more relaxed, and they start to learn things about each other. Personal things. Rupert shares, for example, that he's had relationships in the past with both men and women. He says it so casually that Wesley is able to admit that he's had thoughts along those lines himself, although he immediately afterward worries that he shouldn't have.
He's working one afternoon, carefully fixing a loose hinge, when he hears the crash of broken china and a muffled curse from the tiny kitchen next door. Wesley stops what he's doing immediately and goes to see what happened.
Rupert is rinsing his fingers under the tap; when Wesley glances over his shoulder, he can see bright red blood welling from a cut on Rupert's index finger.
"All right," Wesley says, taking charge. "Here, let me see."
"I broke one of the tea cups," Rupert says through clenched teeth, as Wesley takes his bleeding hand in both of his own for closer inspection.
Shards of china crunch under his shoes; he turns Rupert around and reaches for the roll of paper towels, tearing off several and pressing them to the cut firmly. Rupert swears under his breath. "Sorry," Wesley tells him. "It'll be okay. I don't think you need stitches." He lifts Rupert's hand a few inches, so that the cut is at shoulder height. "Do you need to sit down?"
"No," Rupert says. "I'm all right. Just irritated at myself."
"It was an accident," Wesley says mildly. "Was it special, the cup?"
Rupert shakes his head. "No. Actually, I bought it up the street at that little secondhand shop, along with the others. Years ago. I should be surprised I didn't break one before now." He winces when Wesley tightens his grip on the wound, which is still bleeding.
Wesley becomes aware of how closely together they're standing. He looks up at Rupert's face, into his eyes. One is a slightly different color than the other, and Rupert's mouth is right there, his lips --
Taking a hasty step back, Wesley fumbles for Rupert's uninjured hand and wraps it around the other, keeping the paper towels in place. "Yes," he says. "Right. Just -- keep some pressure on that, and I'll -- er. I'll take over at the desk in case anyone needs help." As far as he knows, they're alone in the library just then, but students -- the more serious ones, at least -- can be eerily quiet at times.
He leaves Rupert alone in the kitchen and goes out front to the desk, hands shaking.
There's a student curled up in one of the chairs near the windows; it's Willow, of course. She's in the library more often than any of the other students. Not only does she seem to be determined to study, but she behaves as if she views the library as a safe haven, and Rupert and Wesley as her friends. It's not uncommon for her to knock tentatively on the door of Wesley's room just to say hello.
"Hey," she says now, seeing Wesley. Then, frowning. "Are you okay?"
"Yes, fine," Wesley says.
"You don't look it," Willow observes. Marking her place in the book she's reading, she sets it aside and gets up, coming over to lean against the desk. "What's up?"
Wesley's first and second instincts are to deny everything, but instead he finds himself explaining, in hushed tones, what's just happened. "And I don't know what to do."
"Well, you have to do something," Willow whispers back, glancing toward the kitchen from which Rupert still hasn't emerged. "What about flowers?"
Startled, Wesley says, "What about them?"
"You could bring him some," Willow says, sounding exasperated. "That's what people do, to be nice to other people when they want to date them. It's romantic."
He nods. "All right. Yes. Flowers."
Apparently approving, Willow goes back to her book, and Wesley flees to his room, closing the door, when he hears Rupert coming.
It isn't until he gets home that evening, under the light of the harsh, unshaded bulb in his bathroom, that he discovers he's gone the rest of the day with Rupert's blood under his fingernails.
* * *
Rupert goes home with a bandage wound tightly around his finger and a lingering sense of frustration. Dropping the tea cup had been an accident, but for a few moments he'd thought it might be a fortuitous one. Wesley had been so close, so bloody close, the opportunity had been right there. They'd been poised on the verge of something, and then Wesley had seen it, too -- seen it and fled.
It's an answer to the question that has been running around in Rupert's head for weeks.
It's also, unfortunately, profoundly depressing.
He has a drink after dinner and for the first time in a fortnight doesn't spend the next hour preparing his and Wesley's lunch for the following day. He's tired and his finger is sore, and there just doesn't seem to be any point to it, somehow. That thought adds to his depression, and he slips gratefully into sleep.
The sun is bright and strong the next morning, and Rupert lets routine carry him along and to work. He's only two minutes early instead of his usual ten, and Wesley comes running up to the small brick building as he's unlocking the door.
Wesley looks hopeful. He's holding a bouquet of flowers; it's clutched rather too tightly in his fist, the stems bruised through the layer of paper around it. "Good morning," Wesley says, gasping for breath.
"I hope those aren't to make up for something you did wrong," Rupert says, and regrets it immediately when Wesley's expression goes stiff.
"No," Wesley stammers. "No, I just -- I thought they'd look nice. On the desk. Cheer the place up. Er, not that it's gloomy -- not that any place you are could possibly be gloomy. It's --" He stops himself, swallows, and lifts his eyes to meet Rupert's. "Actually, they're for you." It's all there on his face.
"For me?" Rupert says, feeling a smile starting.
Wesley nods and smiles uncertainly in return. It's the kind of smile that could be easily wiped away with the slightest error on Rupert's part, he can tell.
"Thank you," Rupert says gently.
They go inside, and Rupert finds a small jug in which to put the flowers.
"I'm sorry, I didn't think about anything to put them in," Wesley says, sounding frustrated with himself.
"No, it's fine. This will do." Rupert puts water in the jug and takes the flowers from Wesley. "Thank you again. It was... very thoughtful of you."
"I know that, yesterday, I wasn't --" Wesley stops and fidgets in the small space. "I'm not very good at this. At any of this, really. Talking to people, I mean. It's so awkward, and I worry about saying something stupid, and then I do say something stupid, and it's all, well, rather dreadful, actually. But I didn't want you to think it was because I didn't -- because I don't --"
"Wesley," Rupert says, interrupting; he can't bear to listen to any more.
Wesley looks at him, wide-eyed. "Yes?" he whispers.
"I'd like to take you to dinner this evening. If you don't have other plans."
"Other plans?" Wesley echoes. "What other plans do you think I might have?"
Clearing his throat, Rupert sets the jug of flowers on the counter top. "Was that an answer?"
"Oh." Wesley looks horrified. "No! Er, I mean, no, that wasn't an answer. Yes -- my answer is yes. I'd love to have dinner with you."
"Good," Rupert says. He steps toward Wesley, who steps backward automatically as if getting out of his way. He thinks, This won't do at all. He reaches his hand out and closes his fingers around Wesley's tie, just below the knot. Tugs. After a moment's hesitation, Wesley moves toward him. "Take a deep breath," Rupert advises.
Wesley does, then lets it out shakily. "I did warn you that I'm not very good at this," he says apologetically.
"I think you underestimate yourself," Rupert says, and takes Wesley's chin in his other hand and tilts his face up to kiss him. Wesley trembles and tries to say something against Rupert's lips, no doubt something else self-deprecating, but Rupert is determined. He opens Wesley's mouth with his own, tastes tea and lemon, and Wesley's hand settles, tentatively, on his waistband. "There, see?" Rupert rubs his thumb across Wesley's lower lip. "You're quite good."
"So are you," Wesley says, sounding more confident.
Rupert sees a whole vast world of opportunities for the two of them, a world bigger than this little university library. A sort of life he'd never thought possible until that very moment; the sort of life he'd never thought to want.
Just then, the front door opens, and a moment later Willow appears, her red hair tousled. She stops when she sees them, her eyes going wide. "Oh!" she says. "I didn't -- are you...?" Her mouth widens into a delighted smile. "You are!"
"We are," Rupert tells her.
"Yay!" Willow bounces and claps her hands together. "Wow, it's about time."
"Yes, thank you," Rupert says dryly, but, to his surprise, Wesley says, "Yes, Willow, thank you," and smiles at her, and Rupert understands that he's missed something.
Somehow, with Wesley standing there close to him, with the taste of Wesley still lingering in his mouth, he can't bring himself to care.
End.
Request:
The pairing you want: Wes/Giles
The setting/scenario you want: Both are librarians (anywhere) who have
a hard time getting past the British Reserve and into a relationship.
Maybe one has a matchmaking kid or student? That would be nice, but
not a requirement.
Two things you don't want: BDSM, unequal relationship
Preferred maximum rating: R