No Going Home Part 1 by WesleysGirl Rating: NC-17 Wesley Warning: Contains non-con. Slash. To tell you the pairing might spoil the fun -- if you *have* to know, email me and I'll let you know. Many thanks to Yasminke for the extensive beta. He'd been there forever. Well, no. He knew he hadn't been there forever. A long time, perhaps, but not forever. If he'd been there forever, he wouldn't have had strange, half-memories of other places. Of the smell of woodsmoke, of gray skies and pouring rain. For that matter, he wouldn't even know what rain was, since it certainly didn't rain here. It was always hot. The sky held a tinge of red, no matter the time of day. Red sky at night, red sky at dawn, but the color never signified anyone's delight. It was always about the warning. In truth, it was easier not to try to remember where he'd come from. He accepted the snippets of memory when they came, but he didn't try to take it any further than that. Daily existence was miserable enough without thinking about something better. It was preferable to focus only on the current moment. The guards, their captors, were in charge. The rest of them were only creatures, beasts of burden, their names forgotten. Again, it was easier that way. He hadn't thought of his own name for a very long time, although he occasionally heard it in dreams. He was whipcord thin, wiry. When he relaxed, his bones stood out in sharp relief, but thankfully he didn't have to contemplate that very frequently, as the opportunity to relax didn't present itself often, and when it did, sleep followed within moments. It was like that for all of them -- worked hard, worked like animals. The stones that they mined had some purpose, but he'd given up trying to think about the details of what that might be and moved on to thinking about nothing. Thinking about nothing was highly preferred, when one could manage it. Water was scarce, washing not really an option. Some of those who died did so merely because hygiene was so far down on the list of concerns -- injuries became infected easily, gangrene setting in with frightening speed and racing through the body like a freight train. One night he'd sat up with a man who was dying. The man had been ill for less than a week, but in that time his entire arm had gone black to the shoulder, and toward the end he'd started to attempt to claw it off with his other hand. Thick dark blood did nothing more than ooze from the decayed limb, and the smell was... indescribable. Even then he'd known enough not to waste his own water on the man, not even to ease the poor creature's suffering. The man was going to die anyway. No point in making his own pitiful existence worse when it wouldn't do anyone any good in the long run. It was horrifying, and the last time he'd allowed himself to feel horrified. Really, when it came right down to it, he too might have been better off dead. It wasn't as if he had anything to live for, and there was little doubt that some time soon -- perhaps in a month, perhaps a year, but likely not more than two or three years -- he too would succumb to illness caused by overwork and near-starvation. But for some reason he soldiered on. He wouldn't have been able to put into words why he felt it was necessary. For that matter, words weren't easy to come by these days. He couldn't recall the last time he'd heard the sound of his own voice -- the workers didn't speak amongst each other, there was no point, and speaking to their captors wasn't something one did if one wanted to survive. He'd learned that rule very quickly, after only two attempts to ascertain where he was, and when. One of Them had backhanded him into the dust, then lifted a booted foot and kicked him in the gut, knocking the wind out of him and causing a bruise that had lasted nearly two weeks. You didn't talk back. If you wanted to remain relatively whole, you didn't talk at all. The guards were strict and the fences well-maintained. Not that any of the captives would think to run away in any case, as there was, rumor had it, nowhere to go. It left one with the question of where they were all coming from, if there was nothing outside the gates, but that was another thing that he really preferred not to think of. In some ways it was fortunate that the people -- the prisoners, whatever one chose to call them -- tended to die off so quickly, because it allowed the survivors to glean their clothing and footwear. His own trousers had fallen into threads within a relatively short period of time, and he'd taken a replacement pair from someone who'd died a day earlier. He actually thought the deceased might have been a woman, although by that time it had been difficult to tell for sure. Luckily, his belt lived on through multiple incarnations of trousers, leather being rather sturdier than cloth. Not all of the prisoners were human, of course, and some of them didn't require clothing at all. Or perhaps did require it, but chose not to wear it. The scorching heat was definitely an issue, but modesty was one which, it seemed, most held onto despite the other circumstances of their conditions. Regardless of the fact that he often heard, at night, the sounds of various people and creatures in the throes of a desperate sort of passion, he never encountered any females that were with child. It was almost certainly because their bodies couldn't support a pregnancy, given the meager food supply and exhausting work. The fact that the oxygen supply seemed just different enough that it took months for new arrivals to adjust might have been a factor. Perhaps in some cases it was merely that the creatures who were engaging in such acts weren't biologically compatible enough to create life between them. In any case, it was no doubt a relief for all concerned. A child, in a place like this -- it was too horrific to contemplate, so he did his best not to. It was already horrific, children or no. He supposed he should consider himself fortunate that so much time passed before he attracted the attention of one of his fellow captives. He'd lost his glasses long ago -- gone to sleep with them resting along the inside curve of his body and woken to find them missing, his heart pounding with the realization that the one thing that gave him some slight form of security in a place that offered none had been lost to him -- and therefore he hadn't discovered how truly loathsome the demon in question was until it was too late. Until the monster was upon him, weight bearing him down into the dust in the early morning light of the sun they never saw. He's struggled -- of course he had. Or so he told himself later, although in retrospect he might have admitted that the struggle was half-hearted at best, since even then he'd known that it was futile. That his best, strongest efforts would be of no use. That he no longer belonged to himself, and therefore nothing really mattered. Nothing except his survival, and he no longer remembered why that was important. He was also fortunate that the creature in question wasn't completely anatomically incompatible, and that it seemed to prefer its... pleasure in ways other than actual fucking, although unfortunately there was some of that as well. It was sheer luck that so far he'd managed to avoid contracting some sort of infection, especially considering the small amounts of internal bleeding he'd suffered. But primarily his partner chose to receive its sexual pleasure orally, thus saving him from the pain of repeated penetration. The flavor of the creature's semen was unbelievably disgusting and initially he'd chosen to waste two mouthfuls of his precious water supply in rinsing out his mouth afterwards. He'd then decided to try rinsing with only one mouthful, and when afterwards he'd exhibited no signs of illness, he'd given up on the practice altogether. He no longer even spat out the creature's foul semen, on the theory that, if it didn't harm him to swallow it, the extra liquid would do him some good. It was something he did to survive, just like everything else. Whether he liked it or not was of no consequence. And he did grow used to it after a time. There was no reciprocation, and he preferred it that way. Truth be told, he hadn't felt an arousal of any sort since shortly after he'd arrived, and he was no longer certain that it was even possible for him to achieve an erection. He was actually more than a bit afraid of what might occur if he did. There were never any words exchanged between the two of them, lack of a common language a lesser barrier than the fact that there was no point to it. He probably could have learned some words -- enough for a brief but sensical conversation -- but didn't bother. After a time, even gestures were unnecessary. The demon came to him in the early hours of the morning, touched him with one scale-covered hand, and he got up onto his knees, blinking exhausted sleep from his eyes, and provided the service as required. The creature's cock was enormous and, rather like a snake, covered all over with fine scales, supple but unnaturally hard, more like an actual muscle than a blood-filled organ. He couldn't take it all the way in, so the demon had to settle for the best he could do with lips and hands. The first time, the demon had tried to insist on a more thorough job, ramming itself down his throat, thrusting violently and choking him. Everything had gone dark, and he'd come back to consciousness some time later with a bruised palate and what felt like broken blood vessels in his eyes, although he had no way to check to confirm his suspicions. There had been a fetid, bitter taste in the back of his throat, and he'd known that the creature had completed its act even as he'd nearly strangled to death. But apparently the demon preferred him conscious and participating, and the next morning had been somewhat gentler, indicating with gestures that it would like him to use his hands as well as his mouth. He'd hesitated, then done the best he could, as no other options were open to him. When it had come in his mouth, he'd almost vomited, but he'd managed to lean to the side and spit the foul gel-like fluid into the dirt without losing the contents of his stomach. This had gone on for some time, a visit each morning before dawn -- the creature seemed to have an endless sex drive, sometimes wanting him to suck it to completion a second time immediately after the first -- before it had insisted on the penetrative act. He'd sensed its change in desire, had thought he could go through with it, but when faced with the actuality he'd panicked. The demon had turned him around and pulled clumsily at the waistband of his trousers -- even captives who didn't wear clothing themselves understood what a valuable commodity it was -- and he'd cooperated, undoing his belt and unbuttoning the front of his slacks with fingers that only trembled the slightest bit. It was the feel of the demon's clawed, rough hand on his hip that had pushed him over the edge, and he'd lurched forward away from the touch, struggling to get to his feet and failing because his trousers were still around his knees. The creature had growled softly in irritation and hit him across the back of the head in what it probably considered a rebuking cuff, but which had sent him sprawling. Before he had a chance to do anything at all, strong, scaled hands were on his hips, a bony knee shoving his thighs further apart and that huge cock that he'd come to despise forcing itself into him. He'd choked back a scream, because drawing attention to this sort of thing wasn't what one wanted, and had done what he had to -- shifted the angle of his hips to make the path easier, clenched his teeth, and taken it. The demon was well aroused enough so that his battering ram of a cock was leaking fluid copiously, and that did a great deal to minimize the damage that the lack of preparation and incompatibility of size caused. Still, the pain was considerable, a blossoming red fire that seared through him, threatening his consciousness as the creature on top of him thrust deeper, grunting its approval. He had spent the next few minutes silently praying that it would end soon, each second seeming to stretch longer and longer until finally he'd started to participate out of sheer desperation, moving with the demon, trying to encourage the climax that would signal an end to the torture. The final thrust, when it came, was a relief, despite the burning sensation caused by the creature's semen, which he suspected was undoubtedly the result of numerous, small internal tears. He'd had a hard time getting through the rest of that day, but by the following morning he'd grown more circumspect. It wasn't as if there weren't plenty of other things he had to endure. He could endure this as well. He'd stopped trying to mitigate any sense of fairness out of the circumstances. He fought for water and food just like the rest of them, without thought for what might be his "fair share" or for what might happen to those who were short-changed. It was kill or be killed, no matter how much he might prefer not to couch it in those terms. The reality was, the food that he ate was being taken from someone else's mouth, but that wasn't something he could allow himself to think about. He had to survive. He never forgot that, long after he'd forgotten exactly why that was. As the months passed, he'd grown talented at using the mining tools and discovering the crystals despite his hampered vision. He could hear the subtle difference in the click of a crystal versus a rock -- after a while he could almost feel the difference. Even with his sight as impaired as it was -- which was really only moderately -- his daily performance level was above average. In general, it didn't do to perform too well, because one couldn't maintain that level in the long term. A drop in performance, even from exemplary to average, would be punished severely. So, in general, he managed to work at about seventy-five percent of his actual ability, thereby giving himself some leeway if he had an off day. One morning, he woke with an unfamiliar tightness in his chest. A tightness that, throughout the course of the day, progressed into a cough that rattled his chest and caused a fear-inducing wheeze when he breathed. There was little doubt in his mind that this was the end for him. Captives got ill -- they didn't get better. It just didn't happen. There were no allowances made for illness; one worked until no longer able to stand, and then for the most part the ill were left to lie where they fell, unless someone took pity on them. The pity most often took the form of a sharp blow to the head, causing instant -- or, for the less fortunate, not so instant -- unconsciousness or death. He forced himself through to the end of the day, working at only somewhat less than his usual speed, then went to his sleeping spot and collapsed into a heavy, fevered sleep. He dreamed of mining tools and the small makeshift wheelbarrows they used to cart around the crystals. He dreamed of standing at the fence, which was made of a razor-sharp alloy that could amputate a finger or hand with truly frightening ease. Sometime later, his demon caller came for his early morning blow-job, and, in a haze of dreaming, he complied, despite the cough that interrupted on more than one occasion. When the creature came in his throat, he gagged and had to spit the thick liquid into the dirt -- his only other option was to vomit, and he didn't want to do that. Dying was one thing. The indignity of being sick was something else entirely. He slept again, in brief spurts, what felt like five minutes there and then another five, shivering with the chills that came with fever. He'd just made peace with the fact that he was going to die when he heard an unusual rucus -- the guards grunting in their untranslatable language, sounds of running footsteps. Screaming. Stumbling, barely able to remain upright and no longer sure if this was actually happening or just a dream, he made his way toward the sounds in time to see two strangers -- strangers who looked vaguely familiar -- cutting down guards left and right with weapons that were definitely out of place here. One of them was an axe -- shiny, gleaming, with odd cut-out markings in it. The other man wore the face of a demon -- ridged, eyes golden and glowing with rage, sharp fangs descended -- and fought with a huge great sword. Unsure how he even remembered the names of these weapons, he could only stand there and watch as the guards fell to the hard, compacted dust, until the two attackers were the only ones still standing. Other than himself, of course. He swayed on his feet, aware that the three of them were alone and not wondering at all where the other captives had gone off to -- everyone here had learned their lessons well, they knew to stay far away from signs of physical conflict. The demon-faced man shook his head slightly, and his demonic visage melted away, leaving only the human face behind. He must have heard the whistled breathing, because his gaze turned. Their eyes met and locked; neither of them could have looked away. He was lightheaded, spinning. There wasn't enough oxygen, and this time it wasn't because his body was still adjusting; he knew it was because he was ill. Deathly ill. He closed his eyes and waited to collapse. Waited to die. Strong arms wrapped around him, holding him upright, and when he opened his eyes again, soft brown ones were looking at him with so much concern that he didn't know what to do or how to feel. "Wesley?" the man said, and at the sound of that voice, everything overwhelmed him, taking his breath away more surely than illness or atmosphere ever could have. The last thing he said before succumbing to the dark -- the first thing he'd said in many months -- was a word that brought him more peace than he'd felt in the entire time he'd been there. "Angel." * * * * * Wesley's first thought upon waking was that it had been a dream. There was no doubt in his mind that that was the case. There was no other reasonable explanation -- it didn't matter that this dream of impossible rescue had been so much more vivid than the others. It didn't matter that his chest, even in this haze of half-sleep, was tight and aching with every attempted breath, because, after all, that part of the dream could very well be true. Was more likely to be true than anyone ever coming to find him. Not in this place. But something wasn't right. He sensed that even with his eyes closed. He took a rattling breath and realized that he was lying on his back, partially restrained by the weight of sheets and blankets. Immediately, instinct took over and he began to struggle, despite the fact that he was so weak that any attempt to escape was fairly futile. Just as quickly, a familiar voice said, "Shhh. You're okay, Wes. I'm right here." No. Wesley knew with as much surety as he'd ever known anything that this wasn't real. He was dreaming -- having some sort of nightmare, because it wasn't possible for this to be true, and when he woke and found that it wasn't, this would prove to be the worst, most beautiful nightmare he'd ever had. "You're okay. We got you out," Angel's voice said, and a strong, cool hand clasped his. Wesley opened his eyes. "Hi," Angel said, as his familiar features swam into view. "Just take it easy." The reassurance wasn't enough -- he looked around a bit wildly to find that not only was he lying on a bed, a clear liquid being dripped into his arm via a needle. Wesley forced himself to sit upright. The tightness in his chest hadn't eased, and trying to take a deep breath set off a round of heavy, wet coughing that felt like it was pulling apart his insides. "Can't," he managed to say, jerking his hand away from Angel's touch, causing the intravenous needle to pull sharply at his skin. Even with his trembling fingers, it was the work of a moment to yank the needle from the back of his hand. It didn't matter at all to him that this resulted in a torn, bleeding wound. What mattered was that he was indoors, somewhere, for the first time in what seemed like forever, and he couldn't breathe. Claustrophobia was shutting him down -- a panic attack, that's what it was, his mind reasoned. He needed to get away, but there was nowhere to go. Nowhere that wouldn't be closed in like this. And even if there had been somewhere, he was too weak to go far enough. There wasn't anywhere far enough. Angel was saying something to him even as Wesley got up and backed away from the vampire on shaking legs, but he couldn't quite comprehend what it was. He sank down onto the thin carpet in the middle of the room, trying desperately to catch his breath, telling himself that the attack would pass. His heart wouldn't race like this in his chest forever. It would pass. The tingling in his hands and toes, caused by lack of oxygen in his blood, was just a side effect. It would pass. Gradually, he realized that Angel was crouched on the floor in front of him, but a good four or five feet away, as if he could tell that Wesley needed the space. "It's gonna be okay," Angel was saying quietly, in a soothing voice. "We'll do this however you need to. Whatever you need to get better, Wes. It's okay." Wesley looked down and saw a small pool of blood soaking into the carpet beside him, then quickly, panicked, up at Angel. Blood and vampires weren't a good combination. But Angel wasn't looking at the blood at all, and in fact seemed oblivious to it. "You know where you are?" Wesley took a rattling breath, then another, before looking around the room. "This is the... " The words didn't want to come. Angel nodded. "Yeah, this is the Hyperion. You remember -- that's good." Under other circumstances Wesley might have been annoyed by the condescension, but currently he was more concerned with getting something to wet his dry throat, to make speaking easier. "Water?" he rasped. "Yeah," Angel said, getting up and moving over to the other side of the bed, where there was a pitcher and a glass on a tray. He poured some water into the glass and came back, slowly now, holding it out toward Wesley with the full length of his outstretched arm. "Here. Take it easy with it, okay?" Wesley intended to, but the water was actually cold, and it tasted better than anything ever had in his life. He started out with a few tentative sips, then drained the glass and set it carefully down on the floor next to him. It wouldn't do to break it. Somewhat reassured by Angel's demeanor, Wesley gestured at his bleeding hand ruefully. "Sorry." "Don't be sorry," Angel told him, moving away again. "Should have thought about it more." He came back with a handful of gauze squares and some medical tape. "Do you want me to... I mean, can I...?" Wesley hesitated, then shook his head and held out his uninjured hand for the bandages. Speaking out loud felt... awkward. Made him self-conscious. Aware of Angel's eyes on him the whole time, Wesley bandaged the ragged tear in the back of his hand. Chances were good it needed stitching, but he hadn't the patience for it, and honestly, it wasn't as if a scar was something to be concerned about at this point. None of this seemed real yet. "Go back to bed," Angel said, and it wasn't until then that Wesley realized he was trembling. He drew in a breath and began to cough again, drawing in desperate gasps for air in between spasms. Angel remained where he was, watching Wesley with obvious concern. When it had stopped, Angel repeated, "Come on. You should be resting." Wesley didn't think he could manage to lie in bed -- he felt too vulnerable there. The padded chair nearby, on the other hand... He got to his feet slowly, Angel hovering just out of reach, and cautiously crossed to the chair. It felt incredibly wonderful to sit down, to let the cushions support his weary body. Angel sat on the edge of the bed closest to him. "Can I get you anything?" Shaking his head weakly, Wesley whispered, "I'm just glad to be here. It's a bit difficult to believe that I am." "I'll bet," Angel said. "I just want to sit here," Wesley said, "and let it sink in." He breathed, trying to ignore the uneven rasping in his lungs, and sat there looking at Angel until his eyes closed against his will and he slept again. * * * * * One of the initial problems they encountered was Wesley's difficulty with letting anyone touch him. "You're dehydrated," Angel explained, glancing back over his shoulder at the hired nurse who was waiting with the intravenous fluids. "This is the fastest way to make you better. It's important." It wasn't a question of Wesley understanding how important it was -- he did. It was simply that he couldn't bear it. It didn't matter how many times he reassured his rational mind that he was basically home, that he was safe -- his body continued to react as if the threat was there. He wasn't capable of sitting still long enough for the woman to insert the needle, let along long enough for a bag of fluids to slowly filter into him. "I can't." It was so difficult to get the words out, and not only because he'd been essentially without speech for so long. He felt flushed with shame in addition to fever. "I'm sorry. I can't." "Okay." Thank God Angel seemed able to understand how hard this was for him. "What about a shot? Just one." The nurse's voice was gentle when she spoke. "It's a broad-spectrum antibiotic, to give your immune system a jump start. You'll want a general course of regular antibiotics too, but this will work faster." By gritting his teeth and looking in the other direction, refusing to acknowledge her presence, Wesley was able to get through the injection, which thankfully was given into the muscle of his upper arm and not in a more traditional and wholly unacceptable place like his buttock. He never would have been able to submit to that. As soon as the nurse had finished, Wesley was up out of the chair and pacing on the other side of the room. Despite the fact that he couldn't draw a proper breath, despite the fact that he alternately burned and shivered with fever, he was finding it difficult to stay still when he was awake. Angel watched him carefully, but let him be. "Thanks," the vampire said to the nurse, as she packed up her things, leaving behind a large bottle of water with the instructions that Wesley was to drink a minimum of two ounces every hour. When the door closed behind her, leaving them alone, Wesley sighed, feeling some of the tension ebb out of him. Not all of it -- not by a long shot -- but some. "You don't think it'd be a good idea to maybe sit down?" Angel asked. Wesley forced himself to pause and survey the room. It was just the two of them now, and despite everything, he did trust Angel. It wasn't easy to make himself go over and sit down on the edge of the padded chair, but he managed. "How long?" he asked, the words a struggle. Angel hesitated, seemingly reluctant to tell him. "Please." "Fourteen months." More than a year. Wesley wondered if couching the time in months was supposed to make it seem less significant. He'd known it had been a long time. He wouldn't have guessed quite that long, but that would have been because he'd have tried to assume that it had seemed much longer than it actually was. Which it had. It had felt as if he'd been there... well, forever. Or close enough to forever as to make no difference. Angel was watching him. "Drink something. There's food on the way-- " There was a knock at the door, and he went over to answer it while Wesley stood up again and moved to the far corner of the room. He could hear Angel talking softly to someone; his heart pounded in his chest. When Angel turned back, he was holding a covered tray. "Come sit down," Angel said gently, looking at Wesley with a patience and understanding that was almost physically painful. "You... don't have to stay," Wesley said. It wasn't that he wanted Angel to go -- it actually was a relief to have someone he knew there, a familiar, physical presence to remind him that he was home -- but he didn't want Angel to feel obliged. "I don't think you should be alone," Angel said, setting the tray down on the bed and stepping back, gesturing to show that Wesley could move without fear of him being too close. Wesley made it over to the bed and sat, shivering as a chill ran through him. He couldn't spare the energy to flinch away and only looked up gratefully at Angel when he settled a small blanket around his shoulders and removed the lid from the tray, revealing a bowl of thick, chunky stew and a slice of some sort of whole grain bread. There was also a tiny clear plastic cup with three pills in it. "Antibiotics and aspirin," Angel said. "And the nurse said to take it slow. Don't eat more than you want. Small meals frequently. She'll be back in a couple of hours to see how you are." "Thank you." Wesley spooned up some stew and lifted it to his mouth. It tasted incredible, but he only managed half a dozen bites before he had to put the spoon down, defeated. He took the pills and drank some water, then let Angel take the tray away and lay down again. Sitting took too much energy. "Tell me?" he requested, hoping that Angel would understand what he was asking for. "We got back from Pylea, and you were just... gone," Angel said. Wesley frowned. The name Pylea sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. Angel seemed to comprehend that he needed more. "You remember when Cordy got sucked through that portal at Caritas? And we went after her? She was a princess there." Yes, of course, now Wesley remembered, if only vaguely. It was as if everything in his life before had happened to someone else. "We came back, and somehow something went wrong. You ended up somewhere else. The place where we found you." "And you were looking all that time? Fourteen months?" Wesley didn't want to sound accusatory, and he didn't think he had. He thought he sounded fairly flat, actually, which was for the most part how he felt. "Yeah." Angel was sitting on the chair, watching him. "We thought we'd tracked you down three times before. Opened a portal, went through; found out we were wrong. The last one was five months ago." "But you didn't give up." Wesley's eyelids were heavy. "No; we didn't give up. It was Gunn that kept us going, though. He refused to quit." Angel was looking down at his hands. "I don't think he slept for the past two days, once we found out there was a new lead. That's where he is now," he added, turning his head toward the door. "Sleeping. I don't think he could have stayed on his feet another ten minutes." Wesley doubted he'd last much longer than that at this point. "I'm grateful. That you kept looking. That you found me." His throat felt raw, and another spasm of coughing tore through him. "You should get some sleep," Angel said. Trembling, Wesley nodded. He couldn't bring himself to turn his back on Angel -- not out of politeness, but because instinct wouldn't let him. He was incapable of relaxing, and trusting had become so difficult. Sleep came on slowly this time. As it overtook him, Wesley reminded himself repeatedly that his friends had gone to a great deal of effort to find him. There had to be comfort in that. * * * * * Wesley woke up to another coughing fit and rolled onto his side instinctively, grabbing onto the edge of the mattress like a lifeline even in his half-sleep. "Take it easy." It wasn't Angel's voice, but it was soothing, and Wesley let it wash over him as he coughed so violently that it felt as if he might bring up a lung. By the time it was over, he was gasping for air, his lips numb from lack of oxygen and his diaphragm aching. "Easy," Gunn said, as Wesley finally managed to take a breath that didn't seize up into a fresh round of coughing. "There you go. Easy." Wesley opened his eyes and looked at Gunn, sitting forward in the chair Angel had been in earlier. There was a space of three or four feet between them -- enough so that Wesley didn't feel immediately uncomfortable, but not enough so that he couldn't see Gunn clearly. Gunn's eyes were dark and sympathetic, and Wesley blinked and swallowed, taking another shaky breath. "Don't try to talk," Gunn said, just as Wesley was about to do so. "Just breathe. The talking can wait." Unsure that it could, Wesley just looked at Gunn some more, until finally Gunn shifted back in the chair again. "Let me guess; you want to know what's what." Wesley nodded, doing as Gunn had said and concentrating on keeping his breathing steady. It still rattled in his chest, but he already felt better than he had before. Before. He didn't know how long that had been. "You've been asleep for about... huh, six hours," Gunn said, glancing at a chunky wristwatch that Wesley couldn't remember. "The cough's pneumonia. Guess you probably knew that though." Again, Wesley nodded. The diagnosis wasn't a surprise, although he hadn't been able to put a name to it -- some of his vocabulary had obviously deteriorated from lack of use. He hoped it would come back. "The doc says the antibiotics will knock it right out; you don't have to worry about that." Gunn was very nearly staring at Wesley, studying him, as though he were infinitely interesting. It made Wesley wonder how he looked. "But yeah, I'm sure you know the rest. Malnutrition, dehydration. And you're underweight. We'll have to feed you up good." Wesley smiled faintly at that, and his stomach, responding to the idea, grumbled. "I could get you something," Gunn said, gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb. "No," Wesley said. His voice cracked on the word, and he cleared his throat. "In a little while." Gunn relaxed again, his legs falling slightly apart. "Okay. Um, let's see, what else?" He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck, and Wesley noted for the first time how tired Gunn looked. "Not all that much has changed. We had a case about, hm, eight months ago that paid pretty well, so we're doing okay. Fred's still here. Cordy's..." Gunn frowned at Wesley's expression. "Fred? Studying to be a physicist? She was trapped in Pylea for years. She came back with us. Skinny girl, big eyes?" Oh. Now he remembered. "Apple," Wesley said, pointing to his throat. "What? Oh, right. Yeah, that's her." Gunn watched as Wesley began to cough again, then got up and poured some water into a glass, offering it to Wesley as the worst of the attack passed. Cautiously, Wesley reached out and took the glass, his fingers brushing against Gunn's. He remembered... something. It was gone. "Gotta keep drinking," Gunn said. "That nurse Angel hired wasn't too happy about leaving you without the IV." Wesley had forgotten that, as well. He glanced down at the back of his hand and saw the blood-stained bandage he had applied himself, then sipped at the water. It was cool, and it didn't take long for him to drink the entire thing, although by the time he had, his stomach felt swollen and he was no longer hungry. He wanted to say something, to thank Gunn for not having given up on him, but the simple act of drinking a glass of water had exhausted him and he lay back against the pillows. Gunn seemed to understand. "It's okay -- go on back to sleep. I'll be here." Having no choice in the matter, Wesley slept. * * * * * It continued on like that; Wesley would wake up long enough to drink some water, to be soothed by the gentle, familiar sound of Gunn's voice, and then he'd sleep again. At one point when he woke the room was dark, but he could see Gunn still sitting there, dozing in the chair. He wondered briefly if Gunn shouldn't be sleeping somewhere more comfortable, but before he could do anything else, he fell back asleep. In the morning, with sunshine filtering in through the windows, Wesley woke to the smell of eggs and toast and the sound of Gunn shutting the door. The realization that it had been opened while he slept and he hadn't known set Wesley's heart to pounding, and he struggled to a sitting position. "Hey," Gunn said, stopping where he was, halfway between the door and the bed, holding a tray. Then, more softly, "Hey." Wesley nodded and forced himself to relax. His chest ached. "Sorry," Gunn said, coming closer without making any sudden movements. "I'm... a bit on edge," Wesley said hoarsely. "Yeah, I get that." Gunn gestured with the tray. "It okay if I put this down?" Shifting backward into a more comfortable position on the bed, Wesley patted the mattress beside his thigh. His hand was the only part of him that trembled visibly as Gunn came over and put the tray down, then backed up and sat in the chair. The food smelled wonderful. "You didn't have to sleep here," Wesley said, picking up a triangle of carefully buttered toast and taking a small bite from it. "I wanted to," Gunn said. "Well, okay, I didn't want to want to. Does that make me sound like Cordy?" The frown on his face was familiar in a way that made Wesley relax as he chewed. There were more pills to take, he noted, and swallowed them with a mouthful of what he suspected was freshly squeezed orange juice. "I was glad," Wesley said. "That you were here." It seemed like rather a lot to admit. "Good." Gunn looked pleased as he watched Wesley eat. He didn't manage much more than he had at the previous meal, but he could tell how badly he'd needed the food, and the last thing he wanted was to overdo it. The thought of being ill from eating too much too quickly was terrifying. "Doc said you'll probably sleep a lot for the next few days, while you're healing," Gunn said. Healing sounded an absurdly optimistic theory to Wesley, who felt shattered, as if he'd never be the person he'd been. Gunn got up and took the tray away, setting it on a table that was over near the wall. "There anything you need? Or want?" Wesley began to shake his head, then paused. "What?" Gunn said. "You name it, I'll get it." "Glasses?" Wesley requested, pointing to his eyes. He wondered if he'd continue to do things like that -- make unnecessary gestures to clarify words that required no clarification. Gunn seemed neither surprised nor offended. "Yeah -- Cordy tracked down your prescription and they're supposed to be done by tomorrow." Wesley raised an eyebrow. "Hey, I don't know and I don't ask. Sometimes it's just better to let women do their thing and not get too involved, you know?" "Thank you," Wesley said, because he felt he needed to say it. "Hey," Gunn said, sitting down again. "I'm just glad you're back." He hitched his chair forward slightly as Wesley rearranged himself on the bed, lying on his side with his head cushioned on his arm. Wesley studied Gunn's face for a while, unwilling to close his eyes. Slowly, he slid his hand out across the bed until it beside the edge of the mattress. Gunn looked back at him, and then, just as slowly, reached out and put his hand over Wesley's. Gunn's hand was warm and solid, reassuring. Wesley thought he wouldn't mind staying right where he was forever. * * * * * Cordelia came to see him in the afternoon, which went about as well as Wesley might have anticipated. She came into the room nervously, her hands twisted together, everything about her screaming that she was holding herself in check, trying not to be too exuberant. It was clear that Angel had spoken with her, because she didn't come any closer than the back of the chair Gunn was sitting in. "Hi," she said. "How's it going?" "Okay," Wesley said. It was the proper sort of answer. "How are you?" "Okay." Cordelia licked her lips. "I just... I wanted you to know that I'm sorry." Frowning, Wesley asked, "For what?" "Because it was my fault," Cordelia said earnestly. "If you guys hadn't had to come to Pylea to rescue me, you never would have..." She seemed to run out of words, and Wesley didn't have any to offer. "It's not your fault," Gunn said, turning to look at her. "How many times we have to tell you that?" "More than you have, I guess," Cordelia said, with some spirit. "It's not your fault," Wesley said. He wondered if it would be any different, coming from him. and saw her eyes fill with tears. "We tried to find you," she said. "We really, really tried." Wesley nodded, trying to be reassuring. "You did find me," he said. "But it took too long. Way too long." Cordelia was looking at him with an expression he wondered if he'd see a lot, as if he were some pitiable famine victim. He didn't know why he hadn't seen that look from Angel or Gunn. She made a visible effort to pull herself together. "But okay, you're back, and you're going to be okay. That's what matters, right?" Assuming that it wouldn't be polite to point out that there were more things that mattered than just that fact, Wesley just nodded again. "Gunn said you're getting new glasses for me?" he asked. "Uh-huh. I remembered where you went that time when yours got broken, and I went back and told them you needed new ones. They said they might not be perfect if you hadn't had your eyes checked in a long time..." Cordelia hesitated, then went on, "But they'd be better than nothing." "Anything would be, at this point," Wesley said. "Thank you for doing it." "I can get you more stuff, if you want," Cordelia said. "Clothes? I could make some guesses about the sizes..." "That would be a big help," Wesley said. It seemed better to agree and give her something to do, and he had no idea where any of his things from before were. Nor were any clothes that were left likely to fit him at this point. He was currently wearing some soft cotton trousers and a t-shirt that was more than a bit too large, and he wasn't certain where they'd come from. Cordelia seemed pleased. "Good," she said, heading for the door, and that was a relief. "I'll be back in a couple of hours." Relaxing again as the door shut, Wesley looked at Gunn. "She hasn't changed." Gunn didn't reply to that. "You want some lunch? I could go get you something." "I'm not nearly incapacitated enough to be distracted by something like that," Wesley said, a bit sharply. This touched off a round of coughing that made his eyes water and his throat burn, and by the time it was over, Gunn was sitting on the bed beside him, one hand rubbing the back of Wesley's shoulder. "Easy. Easy. Breathe." Gunn's voice was soft, his touch and presence soothing in a way Wesley hadn't expected. "I'm all right." As a lie, Wesley thought it sounded fairly convincing. He was wrong. "Liar," Gunn said, his hand moving lower, instinctively rubbing over the place where Wesley's ribs ached. "But you will be, if you stop pushing yourself." Wesley breathed. "The visions are kicking her ass," Gunn said, answering the question Wesley hadn't asked and saving him the effort. Wesley let that sink in, absorbing Gunn's physical comfort along with it. He wanted to know more, but wasn't sure he had the strength to deal with the information. He coughed again, his body curling in on itself, his forehead touching Gunn's thigh. Gunn was wearing jeans, the denim thin and soft against Wesley's skin. The fabric smelled, faintly, of laundry soap. Gunn's hand had slowed its gentle movements on Wesley's back, and Wesley became aware of how intimate their position was. He suspected that Gunn was aware of it, also, although the other man seemed perfectly relaxed, unconcerned. The coughing fit passed. Wesley cleared his throat experimentally, wary of setting off another round. He straightened, moving away from Gunn's thigh. He didn't know what to say, so he said nothing at all. * * * * * There was more sleeping, and another meal, and eventually the necessity of a trip to the bathroom. It wasn't until then that Wesley truly appreciated how dehydrated he'd been. He studiously avoided looking at himself in the mirror; he didn't want to see. His imagination provided a clear enough picture. Although, for the first time, he realized that his facial hair, which he'd grown used to long ago, must have been a shock to his friends. None of them had said anything about it, though. Perhaps they'd been surprised enough to have found him alive after all that time. "You okay?" Gunn called, from the other side of the door. "Yes," Wesley said, and let go of his hold on the edge of the sink. Walking was already easier than it had been; the broad-spectrum antibiotic he was taking was strong, but he suspected the regular meals were making the real difference. He opened the door cautiously, being careful of his sense of balance, and looked up into Gunn's worried face. "I'm okay," Wesley said. Gunn nodded. "Lookin' better all the time." Leaning against the door frame, Wesley rubbed at his beard ruefully. "I'd forgotten about this," he admitted. "Nothing stopping you from shaving it off if you want to," Gunn said. "Really?" Wesley lifted his hand and did his best to hold it steady, watching as it trembled. "Okay, maybe not," Gunn said easily. "We could get that nurse to do it, if that wouldn't make you feel a little bit too much like an invalid." Somehow, they were moving toward the bed. Wesley sank down onto it gratefully, but he was even more grateful that Gunn didn't try to pretend that the nurse shaving him was a real option. He'd managed to tolerate her presence when she'd needed to do things like take his temperature, pulse, and blood pressure, but he wouldn't be able to handle something as intimate as someone touching his face, let alone with a sharp instrument. "Or I could do it," Gunn offered. Wesley blinked up at him, surprised. "Hey, if you don't trust me..." Gunn said, holding up both hands in an 'I'm unarmed' gesture. Then, in a more gentle voice, "Maybe you're not ready to say goodbye to the scruffy look." Taking a deep breath, Wesley said, "No, actually... I think I am." * * * * * Gunn kept up a running commentary in a soothing voice. "Right. Think we'd better start with scissors. I'm just gonna put this towel down on the bed so we don't get it wet... be easier if you're lying down, I think. Less chance of you moving when you shouldn't." He smiled at Wesley and ran a hand over his bald head. "Least I've got plenty of experience, right?" Settling down on the towel-covered pillow, Wesley took slow, even breaths and counseled himself to stay calm as Gunn sat down on the bed beside him. "Ready?" Gunn asked, holding up the small pair of scissors he'd gone to retrieve. "As I'll ever be," Wesley said, his voice more than a bit shaky. He was glad that Gunn's hands were steadier than his own as the other man began to trim his hair as short as possible. The snips of the sharp scissors and the slight pull of his skin when a hair was tugged before it was cut were less disturbing than how close Gunn was. Most disturbing of all, although Wesley didn't care to think about it too carefully, was that having Gunn that close felt right. "Fred asked how you were," Gunn said over the *snip rasp snip* of the scissors. "Think she'd like to talk to you. When you're feeling better." "Better" was, Wesley thought, a nice way of putting it. Much kinder than the truth, which would have been phrased more along the lines of 'when the worst of your extreme social anxiety has passed.' "Here," Gunn said, gesturing with his left hand. "Turn your face like -- yeah, like that." He went back to work, being careful to touch Wesley gently when he had to at all. Wesley couldn't truly relax, but managed to stay still, using the opportunity to study Gunn's face without it seeming inappropriate or awkward. Well, at least not any more awkward than this already was from Wesley's point of view. Gunn's eyes were dark, his eyebrow slightly raised rather than furrowed as he concentrated. He was starting to get some stubble, himself, the shadow of it along his jaw line in particularly noticeable. "Look up for a minute?" Gunn requested. "I mean, not up, but..." Wesley tilted his chin toward the headboard, baring the underside of his chin so that Gunn could shorten the facial hair over his throat. He snipped the scissors a few more times and then said, "Okay. Think that's about as good as I'm gonna do with these." Trying not to tense up, Wesley looked at Gunn some more while he slid the chair holding the basin of water and a can of shaving foam closer to the bed. It didn't take long to moisten and lather Wesley's skin in preparation. Gunn looked up and met Wesley's eyes, razor in hand. His voice gentled when he saw Wesley's expression. "You okay with this?" "Yes," Wesley lied. There was a part of him that wanted to get up and run from the room, and it was fortunate that he really didn't have the strength to do so. Slowly, Gunn began to run the razor over Wesley's skin, the sensation familiar and utterly foreign at the same time. The rasp of it was almost soothing, and Wesley's eyes fluttered closed almost despite himself as Gunn continued. "You fallin' asleep on me there?" Gunn asked. "No," Wesley said, even though he suspected it wouldn't be true for long. "I wouldn't mind if you did." Gunn's voice was a low rasp like the razor. "As long as you didn't wake up while I was still going at it and jump, you know?" "I thought white men couldn't jump," Wesley said. The razor's slow slide paused for a second or two, and when Wesley opened his eyes, Gunn was smiling. "Wondered if you still had a sense of humor," Gunn said. "I haven't needed it for a long time," Wesley said, and a shudder so violent ran through him that Gunn pulled the razor away from his face. Quickly, Wesley reached up and caught Gunn's wrist, holding the other man in place in the only way he could. Gunn could have freed himself, of course, but he didn't even try; just remained where he was, waiting. "That can be it for today," Gunn suggested gently. "Want to call it quits?" "No," Wesley said. He was stubborn; he wanted the job finished properly, not interrupted in the middle because he didn't have the control to remain still long enough. "No. Go on." And slowly, very slowly, he released Gunn's wrist and Gunn continued. Wesley concentrated on the fact that this was just one moment in time, that it would be over very soon. When it was, Gunn went to wash his hands and leave the things in Wesley's bathroom. Wesley relaxed and got up, following Gunn so that he could look into the mirror. Seeing himself was a shock -- his face was white where the beard and mustache had been, and his eyes looked too big. There was one spot of blood along his jaw where the razor had nicked him so gently that he hadn't even felt it. "How'd I do?" Gunn asked. "Looks good to me," someone said, directly beside and behind Wesley. Wesley bolted, bumping into Gunn in his haste to get away from the unseen attacker. He careened off of Gunn's solid weight and into the edge of the bathtub, bounced off that as well, and crashed into the wall on the other side, arms up over his face to protect himself, heart beating at what felt like a thousand times a minute and his breathing high-pitched and terrified. "Jesus, Wes," Angel said. Of course Wesley hadn't been able to see him in the mirror, hadn't known he was there. The vampire was stammering, trying to apologize, but Gunn was shushing Angel, pushing him backward out of the bathroom and closing the door. Gunn kept his hands at his sides and didn't move closer. "Okay. Easy. It's okay." But Wesley's reaction was entirely out of his control. He drew his legs up to his chest and dropped his forehead down onto his knees, one arm up around his head. He knew rationally that he was safe -- he even knew it subconsciously, or he wouldn't take his eyes off the presumed danger -- but his body wanted only to hide. He could hear himself wheezing, and the inability to draw enough oxygen just made things worse. And then, somehow, Gunn's arms were around him, holding him. Holding him together. Gunn was murmuring reassurances the way one would to a child, and Wesley soaked them up in that same manner, as if he were six years old and had woke screaming from a nightmare. He found himself clutching the front of Gunn's shirt, pressing his face against it, inhaling Gunn's masculine scent, and gradually, so gradually that he barely noticed it happening, Wesley relaxed. "I'm sorry," he muttered into Gunn's shirt. "Hey, if he'd suddenly turned up behind me when I was lookin' in the mirror, I would've freaked, too," Gunn said easily, dismissing Wesley's appalling behavior as if it were completely normal. Wesley inhaled shakily. His chest hurt and he was as tired as if he'd walked a hundred miles, and he couldn't manage to make himself let go of Gunn's shirt. "I'm -- " he tried, but could get no further. "It's okay," Gunn said, one large hand patting the back of Wesley's shoulder with astonishing gentleness. "Take all the time you need. No rush." Only the knowledge that if he were to pass out Gunn would most certainly have to carry him to the bed kept Wesley clinging to consciousness. He forced his body to move, his thigh muscles to push him to his feet, not really aware of how much he was doing on his own and how much was with Gunn's assistance. Standing, he leaned against the wall, Gunn's body pressed against his, and he felt something he hadn't felt in so long that for a moment he wasn't sure what it was -- his body responding to the touch of another. It was just the tiniest stir, so faint that even Gunn couldn't have been aware of it, but it sent another jolt of sheer terror through Wesley, and he shoved at Gunn, pushed the other man away. "Get out of here," Wesley gasped, turning his face to the wall and hitting the paint-faded surface with his fist, then again as he began to slide to the floor, this time his knuckles striking cold tile. "Go! I don't want you!" As a choice of words went it was more revealing than he would have preferred. "Wesley, come on. I'm not going to -- " "Go!" Wesley said again in what was meant to be a shout. He couldn't look at Gunn -- didn't want to see the other man's expression, the slight downturn of his full lips and the sorrow in his eyes. "Please, just go." Gunn went, the click of the door like an ending, leaving Wesley alone on the floor with the realization that his life was shattered to pieces and there was no possible way of putting it back together. He wasn't certain how long he stayed there; he might have dozed at one point. But eventually he had to move; he managed to make it to his feet and then to his bed, where he curled up on his side and fell asleep within seconds. When he opened his eyes again it was dark outside and Gunn was sitting within his field of vision. Gunn's chin was down against his chest, and after a moment Wesley realized that the other man was sleeping. The emotions that welled up in Wesley were so powerful that they were nearly overwhelming; he curled his arm over his head and closed his eyes, bringing his knees up to his chest, making himself as small as possible. He wanted Gunn in the bed with him, holding him together, helping him find some sort of balance, and at the same time it was utterly impossible for him to have any of that: the balance, Gunn, the comfort of someone else's touch. He'd react the way he had to Angel's sudden appearance -- sheer terror wrenching control away from him. Destroying him. He didn't know how long he stayed in that position. There was light and darkness, but he felt in shadow, insubstantial. The prick of a needle in his arm. The scent of perfume, and although he couldn't have put a name to the scent, the soft, delicate hand stroking his hair back from his face. He thought there might have been someone's tears. Possibly his, but possibly someone else's. Voices that were practical and voices that were worried, soothing, and angry in turns. He didn't react to any of them. Sometimes he slept. Sometimes his eyes were opened, but nothing that he saw had any meaning. It was all nonsense, a jumble of blurred images, meaningless, out of focus motion. Light, then darkness. Darkness, then light. It was better like that, not being afraid. Not being anything. Voices again, determined, and the feel of something cool slipped onto his face, settling onto the bridge of his nose and over his ears. Wesley blinked behind his glasses, and the world became real again, edges sharp and distinct. "Wes?" Gunn asked, and Wesley swallowed, his throat painfully dry. "I -- could I have some water, please?" Wesley said, barely above a whisper. Gunn's sigh was audible, but it didn't sound as if he were upset; in fact, he sounded relieved. "Yeah. Hang on." There were more people in the background, talking, but Wesley didn't look at them. He was too busy watching Gunn's face as the other man held a straw to his mouth and let him sip tepid water through it. He cleared his throat -- it still hurt, but less so -- and closed his eyes. "Wesley?" Gunn said anxiously, and Wesley opened his eyes again. "How long?" Wesley asked. "Almost a week." Not as bad as he'd feared, but bad enough. "I'm sorry." "Don't be sorry," Gunn said, hand gripping Wesley's and squeezing. "Be here." His eyes were warm and worried and the most beautiful shade of brown Wesley had ever seen. "I'm here. I won't -- I'll try not to go away again." He hadn't meant to, although it was understandable considering the circumstances. Post traumatic stress. He tried to move, but a sharp pain in his arm stopped him. "Easy," Gunn said. "You think you could eat something? Then we could get this out of your arm." "All right." The next hour was confusing -- too much movement, and Wesley was painfully aware of hushed voices in the hallway outside the room, but other than the nurse coming in to remove the IV, he was left alone with Gunn, something for which he was exceedingly grateful. He only managed half a bowl of chicken soup; it tasted divine, the broth rich and warm as it slid down his throat. "I'm not sure how I feel about you going back to sleep," Gunn said, when Wesley was lying back against the pillows again. "Guess you've got to sooner or later, though." Wesley understood. "You're worried that it will happen again." "Yeah." Gunn nodded; his hand was on Wesley's knee, and the touch felt more intimate than it should have. He looked, Wesley realized, as if he hadn't slept in weeks. "You're tired," he said, concerned. "You should get some rest." Gunn shook his head. "Nah. I'm good." "You could lie down here," Wesley continued, not thinking about how it would sound out loud. "There's more than enough room." He hadn't expected Gunn to accept the offer, but was so weary himself that he couldn't muster up more than mild surprise when Gunn said, "Okay, if you're sure." Neither of them said anything as Gunn stood and walked around to the other side of the bed. He lay down on top of the blankets, on his back, and yawned hugely. When Wesley turned his head to look at him, Gunn's eyes were nearly closed, his face relaxed. "Don't go anywhere," Gunn said, and Wesley nodded. "I won't." * * * * * Wesley's sleep was deep but restless; he dreamt, shifted, dreamt again. None of the dreams were nightmares, but they weren't pleasant, either. They reminded him of dreams he'd had after days of doing nothing but working at a translation -- repetitive, stressful, exhausting. He dreamed of working in the mines, of dust covering his hands. It was the sort of grime that couldn't easily be washed away, even if he'd had the water to do so. He was thirsty, his throat dry, and he wanted -- no, needed -- someone nameless to comfort him. He could feel a warm hand on his stomach. His shirt had ridden up, exposing a strip of skin there, and he had an erection. He hadn't had one in so long that he'd thought his body incapable of arousal, and yet here was undeniable proof; his flesh swollen and hard, aching with the need to be touched. Someone's breath was steady and slow against the back of his neck, reassuring, and Wesley moved slightly, instinctively, needing more. A soft murmur, and the hand on his belly stroked over his skin. Wesley whimpered and there was another murmur, this one definitely an attempt at comfort. The hand slid lower, slipped beneath the loose waistband of his sweatpants, caressed the slick head of his cock. Wesley's breath caught in his throat; there was an unconscious pleading voice in the back of his head whispering Please, yes, please, and Gunn's hand closed around his erection and squeezed gently. Wesley trembled, unable to move. He was already so close to release, and yet part of him refused to let go because it was convinced this was wrong, not something he was meant to have. He whimpered again, and warm lips pressed to the back of his neck. "Shh, Wes," Gunn whispered, and Wesley thought he was still asleep. Wondered if they both were. "It's okay." But it wasn't, it was wrong, and Wesley was helpless to do anything to stop it, just like he had been before. Yet, for once it felt right, it felt incredibly good, with Gunn's hand wrapped around him, holding him just tightly enough to feel wonderful without being threatening. Gunn's lips kissed the edge of Wesley's ear, hot breath making Wesley's hair stand on end, Gunn's hand moving on Wesley's cock, stroking, caressing, encouraging, coaxing, until Wesley gasped and came, spilling out over Gunn's fingers and shuddering, tears in his eyes. Before he'd even finished, before he could allow himself to think, he twisted around in Gunn's embrace, shoving at the sheets that separated them. Gunn was startled, Wesley could tell, but the other man was also aroused inside his slacks, hard and eager as Wesley undid the button and slid down the zipper. He moved down the bed and took Gunn into his mouth, sucking at him and trying to be somewhere else entirely at the same time. Gunn cursed softly and pushed Wesley away. For a moment, Wesley was confused, almost bereft at the rejection. Before he could react, Gunn was pulling him up again, holding him, nose pressed to Wesley's. "Wes -- look at me. Wesley." Wesley did; he didn't know what else to do, Gunn was so gentle, so determined, that to refuse was unthinkable. "It's okay," Gunn said, and kissed him. It was so unexpected that Wesley froze, trembling, but Gunn was patient. Continued to kiss him, softly and almost -- could it have been lovingly? No, of course not, but with affection, at least, and that was more than Wesley had had in such a very long time that he melted, clinging to Gunn, kissing him back. Gunn's lips were like velvet, his tongue soft and wet as it urged Wesley's lips to part and let him in, and Wesley did. He sighed with pleasure and let Gunn do whatever he liked. The kissing went on for a long time. Gunn's hand rubbed Wesley's back, never straying anywhere that could even remotely be considered inappropriate, despite the fact that Wesley could still feel Gunn's erection against his hip. A part of him wanted -- but no. He couldn't possibly want that, could he? Wesley pulled back, troubled, and Gunn stroked his cheek. "What?" Gunn asked. Unable to answer, Wesley shook his head. "Hard to know what you're thinking," Gunn said. His thumb traced Wesley's lower lip, swollen and moist from their kissing. "You can trust me, Wes. You know that, right?" Wesley swallowed and nodded. "I don't... I don't know if I can -- " His throat tightened up with fear. "Hey," Gunn said, rubbing his shoulder. "That's what I'm here for -- to make sure you don't do anything you don't want to do." Somewhat relieved, Wesley nodded. He wanted to ask if Gunn knew what had happened. Had he talked about it? He couldn't remember. But maybe the details didn't matter. "I don't know if I'll ever want to," he whispered. "That's okay. You think I'm that selfish?" Gunn shook his head and kissed him. "It's not important. You being here, that's important." "Am I?" Wesley asked. "Am I here?" "You want me to pinch you?" Gunn asked, grinning, and Wesley relaxed and smiled. "Yeah, you're here. We're both here." Wesley took advantage of the moment and reached down between them, cupping Gunn's hardness, now carefully tucked back inside his pants. "Yes," he said, with something close to humor. "I do believe you're here, at least." "Wes," Gunn said, breathless, lips parted, eyes wide. "You don't -- " "Hush," Wesley said, and silenced him with a kiss. "I want to do this." He took his time; there was no hurry, which would have made the encounter different enough on its own for it to be reassuring. Wesley was lying down comfortably instead of kneeling on the hard-packed earth; Gunn's hands on him were warm and gentle; Gunn watched his face as he touched him. There were no expectations, and Wesley was just beginning to truly enjoy what he was doing, to enjoy the unfocused, far away look in Gunn's eyes, when suddenly Gunn's cock throbbed in his hand and slick fluid coated his fingers. And the sounds Gunn made... They were almost enough to make up for some of what had happened. "Wes," Gunn said. He was smiling, and he pulled Wesley closer in a warm embrace, kissing him again and again until Wesley was dazed with pleasure and comfort. "Wes." * * * * * Wesley was trembling, pacing. His palms were perspiring and his face itched with the re-growth of his beard and everything Gunn said or did irritated him to the point of madness. "Look, just sit down," Gunn tried, coaxing, and Wesley looked at him in disbelief. "I don't want to sit down," he said sharply. "I've been sitting for weeks." "Yeah, well, there's a reason for that," Gunn said. He watched as Wesley paced the length of the room again. "Okay, so you want to walk? Let's go." He went over to the door and turned the handle, cracking it open. Wesley stopped. This was a test; he knew that, just as he knew that failure of the test was unacceptable. "All right," he said, before he could let fear overtake him. There were shoes waiting for him -- Cordelia took her duties as his personal shopper very seriously. He slipped his feet into them and walked through the doorway without waiting to see if Gunn would follow. Truthfully, he knew the other man would, and somehow, that just made him more angry. But by the time he'd gone down the staircase and stepped out into the arguably less than fresh air of Los Angeles, Wesley was shaking with fatigue more than temper. He sat down on the bottom step and clenched his hands into fists, wishing there were something to hit, to break, to shatter into little pieces smaller than the ones he'd been left with. Gunn joined him, but sat on the low wall nearby, swinging the heels of his trainers against the stone and apparently enjoying the afternoon, although the occasional glance in Wesley's direction made it clear that he wasn't as relaxed as it seemed. "You don't have to watch me," Wesley said irritably. "I know." Gunn's voice was matter of fact. "I'll be fine here," Wesley said. "Uh-huh." Gunn didn't leave. Wesley sighed and stretched his shoulders, trying to relieve some of the tension. The door behind him opened, and he tensed automatically, turning to see who it was. "You guys okay?" Angel asked. He was using his foot to hold the door open, unable to step outside. "Yes," Wesley said. "Thank you." The embarrassment at his reaction to Angel's sudden appearance the day before his week-long collapse hadn't faded, he was sorry to note. Angel nodded, unsure. "I could have Cordelia go and get you something," he offered. "Some sandwiches, maybe?" "Thanks for asking me first," Cordelia called from inside, clearly annoyed. "It's not like I have any real work to do around here or anything." "I think we're good," Gunn said, and Wesley looked at him, met his gaze. "Right?" "Right," Wesley said. Angel went back inside, and they continued to sit. "Shortest walk I ever took," Gunn commented finally, after at least two or three minutes' silence. All of the anger went out of Wesley in a rush. "It felt long to me," he said ruefully. "We should start taking a walk every day," Gunn said, getting up and moving toward Wesley. "You gotta build up your stamina, but you can't do it all at once." "Obviously." Wesley took Gunn's proffered hand, allowing himself to be pulled onto his feet. They were standing very close together; so close that Wesley could feel the warmth radiating from Gunn's body. "I'm not angry with you," Wesley said, in case there were any question. "I know," Gunn said. His hand settled at Wesley's hip. "Wouldn't matter if you were. I'm not that easy to scare off." Wesley hadn't been certain of that, but he was, he reflected as they went back inside, very grateful for Gunn's continued presence. * * * * * The next two days were spent, for the most part, walking. The walks were short and didn't include leaving the hotel, but Wesley's body began to feel like his own again. That was enough of a relief that he would have attempted to walk to the east coast if it had been required of him. He and Gunn slept in the same bed those nights, although Gunn never touched him; Wesley had to admit that he was, for the most part, relieved about that as well. He had lunch with Cordelia one of those days, when Gunn had to go out and do something that Angel couldn't attend to. It was awkward at first, but in a strange way the familiarity of her manner left him no option but to relax, as the alternative certainly would have been to have heart palpitations for an hour straight. As they were finishing, with Wesley moving his salad around on his plate, wishing that he could eat more, he said, "Gunn told me that you haven't been feeling well." Cordelia froze, then set down her fork very slowly and deliberately. "He did?" It was said with a tone that Wesley remembered well, the one that hinted that she might happily disembowel whomever she was thinking about. "He's worried about you," Wesley said gently, hoping to disarm her. He might as well have hoped to disarm a nuclear device with a paperclip and duct tape. "Well, he doesn't have to be," Cordelia said. She added a wide, false smile, picking up her fork and stabbing a piece of lettuce as if it truly deserved to die. "I'm fine." "Anyone can see that you're not." Wesley took a chance and reached out, touched her wrist. "We care for you. We want to help." Cordelia remained utterly still for a few moments, then looked up at him. "It's not like there's anything anybody can do," she said. "The visions suck. End of story." "It's never that simple," Wesley said. He was beginning to wonder why he'd initiated such a serious conversation, but soldiered on. "There's research to be done so that we can find a solution to the problem." The look Cordelia gave him then might well have been a hopeful one. "You really think there's a solution?" "Of course there is," Wesley said. "But I'll need to know more. You can't keep pretending there's nothing wrong." "Okay." She nodded slowly. "But neither can you." It was a fair enough compromise, even though Wesley was unsure what she wanted of him. "All right," he said. Cordelia leaned back in her chair, watching him for long enough that he became uncomfortable with the directness of her gaze. "It was pretty bad, huh?" she asked finally. "Where you were." He stiffened -- he couldn't help it. He was aware of the tension spreading through every bit of his body as quickly as oxygen through his bloodstream, and he was just as powerless to stop it. After an even longer silence, he said, with difficulty, "Yes. It was." "Was it... I mean, were you...?" Cordelia seemed hesitant to put words to it, which was so very unlike her that Wesley was astonished. But he knew what she was asking. "Yes," he said, allowing the word to contain all the power it could in that moment, confident that she would understand. By the look in her eyes, she did. "Oh," she said in a small voice. "I kind of thought so. I had this cousin, and she... and after, she was..." It was remarkable, really, how complicated a conversation one could have in so few words. "It's getting better," Wesley lied. "Uh-huh," Cordelia said, clearly unconvinced. "Like the way the visions are for me?" She curled her hand around her bottle of diet iced tea, but didn't pick it up. "There are, like, therapists for stuff like that, you know. If you wanted." "I don't," Wesley said. "Most assuredly." He smiled grimly. "I'll work through it on my own." Angel came in, his shirt unbuttoned over his t-shirt. When he saw Wesley sitting with Cordelia, he stopped -- just for an instant, and he continued walking again so quickly that Wesley didn't think Cordelia noticed it. "Hey," Angel said. "I was just... I didn't mean to interrupt." "You didn't," Wesley said. Cordelia gave him a look. "Yes he did," she said. "You do realize that it's considered rude to admit something like that," Wesley said, frowning at her. "Even if it's true?" Cordelia asked, but Angel was already beating a hasty retreat, and Wesley didn't feel anything but relief. * * * * * Sometimes Wesley couldn't sleep. At first it had seemed that he hadn't done anything but sleep, but now there were nights when he lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling. Gunn's breathing was reassuring, his warmth and closeness enough to keep the worst of the demons -- figurative in this case rather than literal -- at bay. Still, Wesley couldn't sleep; he shifted his position half a dozen times, thinking that if he could just find the right one, he'd be able to drop off. One night he finally gave up and slipped from the room, careful not to wake Gunn. He went downstairs quietly, grateful for the silence in the hotel. In some ways, being alone like this was comforting. It was nice not to have to worry about anyone but himself, and he was starting to feel safe again, on the surface, at least. Deep down he wasn't certain he ever would. He was well educated. He knew all the terminology: post-traumatic stress disorder; adjustment disorder; panic attacks. Knowing the terminology, unfortunately, didn't allow one to get over past events quickly. He knew that seeing a professional would have helped, but explaining what he'd been through would have been impossible, let alone where he'd been and why. He did wonder if Lorne might have helped, but he had left L.A. shortly after Wesley's disappearance and no one knew where he was now. Angel had offered, haltingly, to try to find him, but Wesley had felt that it was best to leave things as they were. The hotel was quiet: Cordelia home with Phantom Dennis for the night; Fred no doubt asleep in whichever room upstairs she'd claimed as her own -- Wesley didn't need to know, nor did he particularly care. He wasn't hungry, but he went to the refrigerator anyway and opened the door, looking inside. There were leftover cartons of Chinese food as well as some other containers that held blood from the butcher's shop. Sighing, Wesley swung the door gently closed at the same time there was a sound from a darkened corner of the room. Heart pounding, Wesley jumped backward, nearly tripping over his own feet as Angel formed out of the shadows. "Easy," Angel said. "Sorry. Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you." If Wesley had had more strength, he might have fled. As it was, he groped blindly for the wall and leaned against it, waiting for his breathing and heart rate to calm. Angel remained where he was, waiting. "It's okay," he said soothingly. "It's just me." "I didn't... know you were up," Wesley managed. "I'm usually up," Angel said. "But yeah, I guess you wouldn't know. Things have been... different. Since..." Since Wesley had been gone. "I know," Wesley said. It couldn't be good for his heart to be pounding in his ears the way it was. "Are... are you all right?" It was an absurd thing to ask. "Yeah. I'm fine." It was dismissive, but the way that Angel was looking at him was anything but. "I'm sorry." "It's all right," Wesley said. "No, not about this." Angel waved his hand. "Well, yeah, about this, too, but... I meant about before. When I -- I should have thought. It was stupid of me not to realize. To, to startle you like that." Now Wesley knew what he was talking about. It was conversation he'd been dreading. "That wasn't your fault. It wasn't -- " Angel had crept toward him, just a tiny bit. "You couldn't have known. I didn't know." "I should have." Angel came closer still, watching him. "I just... I wanted to see you. I needed to. To know that you were okay." "I am," Wesley said, staring at Angel, unsure whether he wanted him closer or not. "I know." "I know you went through a lot, where you were." Angel's eyes were dark, soft, sensitive, the way Wesley remembered them. His face was the face of someone who would walk through fire for a friend; that was what had always drawn Wesley to him. Wesley wavered on his feet -- the adrenaline of the moment was passing, leaving him weak and shaken. "Hey, sit down," Angel said, starting toward him, then immediately backing away again as Wesley recoiled. "Okay, easy. Easy. Here. Sit here." There was a chair, and before he realized it, Wesley was sitting in it with Angel crouched beside him, not blocking his escape route should he need it. "You want me to get Gunn?" Angel asked. Wesley shook his head. "No. Let him sleep. We're all right." "Are we?" Angel was watching him closely. "Are we all right?" It was obvious what he was asking. "I think so. I think -- we will be. None of this -- none of it -- is your fault. You know that?" "We should have found you sooner," Angel said. "We never should have lost you in the first place." Angel was -- yes, he was trembling, and somehow that made Wesley feel stronger, capable of providing comfort instead of just taking it. Slowly, cautiously, he reached out and touched Angel's shoulder. "You did everything you could." Angel's mouth pulled into a grimace. "We should have done more. It wasn't enough." There were tears in his eyes, and his voice was shaky. "I'm so sorry, Wes." His head leant forward until it was bowed, touching Wesley's knee, and Wesley stroked Angel's hair without thinking about it. "It's all right," he said softly, repeating it, wanting Angel to believe that it was true. "It's all right." * * * * * That, like the walking, became a habit. Every night that he couldn't sleep, Wesley slipped from the bed, went quietly downstairs, and talked with Angel. Each night, it became easier. He wasn't quite as jumpy as he had been before; his heart didn't race every time Angel moved. He began to suspect that Angel was deliberately staying up in case he couldn't sleep, a thought that simultaneously warmed and worried him. Angel and the others had sacrificed enough to find him. More than a year. "You could talk to someone, you know," Angel suggested one night. "You've been listening to Cordelia," Wesley said. Angel looked down at his hands. "Everyone listens to Cordelia," he said. "Be kind of hard not to." That was true enough that it made Wesley smile. "I'm fine," he said, and, when Angel gave him a doubtful look, clarified, "All right, maybe not 'fine', but I will be." "I cleaned you up after we brought you back." Angel was sitting very still. Wesley felt faint and far away as realization sunk in, and leaned against the desk, grateful for its support. "Did you?" "Yeah. I think Gunn would have done it, but I... I don't know. I didn't want him to have to." Angel looked up, alarmed. "Not that it was bad! I mean, it was, but not like that. I just didn't think... anyway. I thought you should know. That, um... that I know." "What's that, exactly?" Wesley asked. "You don't want me to say it." Angel was looking at him now, steadily. "Not especially," Wesley said. "But I think you'll have to. For both our sakes." Angel nodded. "I know what happened to you. I've seen it before." With difficulty, he added, "I've done it. I know what it looks like." "I thought you might." Strangely, talking about it didn't make Wesley frantic. "You didn't tell Gunn?" "No," Angel said. "But I'm pretty sure he knows." "So am I." Wesley thought about it. What had happened where he'd been... it had been another life. Angel was slouching, his elbows on his thighs, legs spread wide. It was, as positions went, rather distracting, or it would have been had the conversation not been serious. "You don't want to talk about it." "Of course I don't," Wesley snapped, surprised at the surge of anger that went through him. "Why on earth would I want to talk about it? Why would I want to even think about it?" He was up off the edge of the desk where he'd been sitting, pacing. "You might not want to, but you are," Angel said. The fact that he was right didn't do anything to diffuse Wesley's anger. "You're not doing yourself any favors by pretending you're not." Wesley held himself completely still, willing the rage to drain out of him and leave him empty. "It won't change anything." Angel shook his head. "No, it won't. You can't change what happened, no matter how much you want to." "So you're giving me advice now?" Wesley asked, successfully forcing his lips into a strained smile. "I've been around a long time," Angel said. "I'm no stranger to wishing things had been different." "No, I suppose you're not." Wesley sighed and dropped his face down into his hands. He heard Angel stand up and walk toward him, slowly and hesitantly, and didn't look up. He felt Angel's hand settle on his upper arm and squeeze gently. "It's gonna be okay," Angel said, voice low and soothing. "Give it a little time." "I have," Wesley said, hopelessly. "I don't want to wait forever." Instinctively, he leaned closer to Angel. "You won't have to." Angel settled his other hand at Wesley's waist, giving him plenty of time to move away if he wanted to. Wesley didn't want to. "It won't take forever," Angel murmured. "It'll get better." When Wesley lifted his face, Angel was so close that their mouths were nearly touching. Wesley licked his lips nervously; it was clear from Angel's eyes what was coming, and enough of Wesley wanted it that he wasn't going to refuse, but that didn't stop him from being anxious. Angel waited, searching Wesley's eyes. "Tell me if this isn't okay," Angel said. Wesley didn't say anything, and Angel kissed him. Everything about it was gentle and slow and careful, from the press of Angel's mouth on Wesley's to his hand rubbing Wesley's arm. It went on long enough that Wesley felt a stir of arousal low in his belly. Angel moved closer, and he had sudden proof that he wasn't the only one; that made him shiver in combined lust and shame. He pulled away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and keeping his eyes downward. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "No," Angel said. "Don't be. It's okay." Wesley looked up and caught the ghost of a smile on Angel's lips. "I can wait. I've been waiting a long time." That stunned Wesley so that he couldn't speak, and in fact stood there unmoving until he heard Gunn's voice behind him. "Wes? You okay?" He turned then, nodded. He wondered if guilt were written all over his face. "I couldn't sleep." "Yeah, I know what that's like." Gunn and Angel looked at each other, but it was a fleeting look and one that confused Wesley. Had it been conspiratorial? "Come on back to bed; I'll read to you if you want." "That's not necessary," Wesley said. "You need the sleep, and so do I. I think I might be able to, now." He didn't look at Angel as they left the room, and his stomach was twisted into knots. * * * * * Strangely, after that night, Wesley slept better. It was odd; he would have thought that guilt and confusion would prevent him from sleeping, but instead he closed his eyes and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep until late morning. When he woke, he was groggy and useless for hours, wandering about the hotel still half asleep, barely able to answer questions until after his third cup of tea. There were hours, though, in the late afternoon, when he felt better, as if he were settling in, getting used to his old life again. He sat with Cordelia one evening after a vision, when Gunn and Angel had gone off to dispatch the demon responsible. She lay with her head in Wesley's lap and sobbed, and he, helpless, could only stroke her hair and murmur that it would be all right. It would be fine. Honestly. Afterwards, that evening, in their room -- and it was their room now, theirs together, he needed it to be -- he kissed Gunn fiercely. Gunn kissed him back, more tenderly, but it wasn't what Wesley wanted. Angry, he shoved the other man away and went to bed without saying goodnight. Gunn sighed and got in beside him, pulling the covers up. "I'm not gonna give you that," he said. Wesley said nothing. "You can be mad at me all you want. Not gonna change anything." Sleep crept over him unexpectedly. When he woke up, Gunn was gone, the room dark. It was so quiet that he knew it had to be about 3 am -- Wesley was very familiar with the sounds in the hotel and the city outside at all hours by then. He got up and went downstairs quietly, thinking that he'd find Gunn sitting, either alone or with Angel, maybe the two of them talking about him and the ways in which he was a disappointment. Before he'd even reached the door to Angel's office he could hear them. The sounds didn't register as anything in particular for the first few seconds, so alien a concept was it that Angel and Gunn might be kissing, touching, the fronts of both their trousers pulled open and down, erections slick in each other's hands. Wesley stopped where he was, just out of sight, and stared. Gunn's dark skin shone in the low light from the desk lamp, and his grip looked almost unbearably erotic around Angel's cock. Their mouths moved wetly, the noise soft, their mutual groans causing Wesley's own cock to swell in envy. Wesley knew he should move away if he didn't want to be discovered -- it already spoke of how distracted Angel was that he hadn't heard him -- but somehow he couldn't. He was caught, trapped, and he could do nothing but stand there and watch, listen. He couldn't even think, although he knew there were dozens of questions he should be asking himself. "Yeah, like that," Gunn breathed. His face was turned away from Wesley, but the tension in his shoulder was enough to reveal how close he was to release. "Jesus." Angel kissed him again, one hand along the back of Gunn's neck. The contrast of his pale, sun-hidden skin against Gunn's, darker and glowing with a hint of copper, was shockingly arousing; Wesley put out a hand and braced himself against the door frame. "I wanna fuck you," Angel murmured, the words soft against Gunn's mouth but still audible. Gunn moaned and jerked his hips forward. "Uhn-uh," Gunn said. "How many times I gotta tell you?" "I can still want to," Angel said. He slid the hand that wasn't on Gunn's cock down to Gunn's arse and rubbed it over the smooth flesh, then dropped to his knees and nuzzled between Gunn's thighs instead. Wesley could see Angel's face clearly as he took Gunn's cock into his mouth, lips pink as he sucked. Gunn's buttocks tightened; he trembled, and it sounded as if he were trying to stifle the short, harsh groans he was making as Angel licked and pulled at him. "Yeah," he sighed. "You can do that. Hell, yeah. Angel." For long moments Wesley stood there, watching -- it was his lot in life, he supposed, feeling no grief over what he was witnessing, only shock and painful arousal. Gunn's breathing grew quicker and rougher, Angel's big hand kneading on his arse; then Gunn stiffened, groaned more loudly, and Wesley could see the throb of his erection between Angel's lips, could see Angel swallowing, eyes closed, face surprisingly peaceful and pleased. And then Angel opened his eyes and met Wesley's gaze. Continued in Part 2 Fan Fiction Index   Feedback to WesleysGirl