Cascade

(Rated NC-17)

Authors' Notes: This story was originally part of an RPG which - don't ask. You will never see. But this story was a sort of interlude, and we've edited out the RPG plot to make it a stand-alone. Hopefully it works. ;-) This story diverges from canon after Wesley tried to kidnap Connor. It takes place approximately one year following those events, but without any of that nasty canon stuff getting in the way.

~~~~~

Wesley had sat in the living room all evening, reading -- a book he'd borrowed from Daffodil's Books as he'd read his own a hundred times over already. It was one of the few benefits to working at a bookshop -- one of the disadvantages was not being able to keep all the books he enjoyed. But it was, at least, a job and one he couldn't complain about having. He was lucky to have employment, given that he had no workvisa and no reason to return to the country where he could legally live and work.

He supposed he might have worked for himself, been the demon hunter he'd once pretended to be. But the thought of fighting evil held less appeal than he'd have expected. Not only was it difficult to think he might make a difference, but there was too much chance of running into Angel and the others.

Until he found a way to get to the Quor-toth dimension and rescue Connor, he wanted to stay as far away from Angel as possible.

For the last few weeks, he'd found himself in a rather unlikely correspondence. Rupert Giles, after returning to England some months before, had contacted him to inquire about a scroll Wesley had once drafted a report on for the Watcher's Council. It had been a minor, mostly uninteresting scroll -- so everyone had thought. Rupert had discovered it might be relevant to some new, upcoming apocalypse, and had sent email to ask Wesley what he remembered.

Somehow, after Wesley had shared what he knew, they'd continued corresponding. They'd...Wesley wouldn't say grown fond, but they'd come to understand one another better. Rupert had even nagged him about staying up all night doing research, and cajoled him into agreeing to eat dinner more regularly. It was fast becoming a standing joke between them, Wesley felt. Signing off email, and ending telephone conversations, with promises to eat, sleep, and look after himself.

Of course, there had been nothing at all for the last three days. Rupert had left his place in Bath to go to London to pick up some journals he'd thought would help Wesley in his search for Connor. While there, he'd been contacted by the daughter of an old friend, asking for help with some unspecified trouble. Wesley suspected it was demonic trouble, but Rupert had made it sound less dangerous than "demonic" might have been. That bit of information had come the first day; Rupert had said he would ring or email again with an update. So far, he hadn't.

Wesley was sitting by the phone, and had left his laptop on so he could check his email periodically. But there was still no word from Rupert. It was probably unnecessary, and no doubt foolish, but Wesley was freely admitting now, that he was worried.

He tried telling himself he need not be -- but he'd tried calling again, sent email, and hadn't heard a thing. He'd even tried calling the Council Headquarters and been told quite succinctly that they didn't know where he was, didn't care if Wesley wanted to leave a message, and good day. He was sitting on the couch, now, wondering who he might contact in England who could...well, do anything. Track Rupert down? Track this Clarissa down? Call the hospitals?

Wesley told himself quite firmly that he was over-reacting. There was nothing *wrong*. If there were.... Would anyone think to tell *him*?

Wesley glanced up at the clock and sighed. It was nearly midnight, and far too late to call simply because he was worrying. Over nothing, he told himself again. It was just... demons, and Rupert not calling three evenings in a row after he'd said-- Wesley chided himself. There was no reason to assume anything simply because Rupert hadn't *called*. Though he'd said he would, that didn't mean he would never become too busy to call at a decent hour. Perhaps he was even home, now, and thinking it was too late for *him* to call Wesley.

His hand crept towards the phone, and he snatched it back. Surely Rupert would answer his email, though, if he thought it too late to ring. Only he hadn't, as of fifteen minutes ago. Wesley set his book aside to go check again, when the phone rang. Wesley jumped, and grabbed the receiver. "Hello?"

"Hello, Wesley."

"Rupert!" Wesley sat up straight, in his relieved surprise. "You sound exhausted -- did you just get back from London?"

"Yes. Just now." He sounded more than exhausted -- he sounded tired down to the bone.

"Are you all right? What happened?"

"The encounter with the Alznoch demons did not go quite as planned." Rupert's voice was a monotone that was beginning to alarm Wesley.

Then he registered what Rupert had said. "*Alznoch* demons? Good lord -- are you all right? Is...is Clarissa all right?" Wesley tried to loosen his grip on the receiver.

There was a long silence that gave away the answer before Rupert spoke. "She's dead."

"Oh my lord. Rupert, I'm sorry." Wesley fell back on the couch. "Is...there anything I can do?"

"I...Thank you, but no. There's nothing anyone can do." He heard Rupert sigh deeply. "She's dead," Rupert repeated in a softer voice.

"I'm sorry," Wesley repeated. He set his book aside, not even bothering with any sort of bookmark. "What happened?" he asked carefully, not sure if Rupert would want to talk about it, or not.

"I...miscalculated. Let my guard down too soon. We managed to take care of the main nest but I missed one."

Wesley didn't know what to say to that -- he knew perfectly well what it was like. A miscall, finding out the other side was simply stronger or faster or had one more body on their side than you'd planned for. "You're all right?" he asked again.

Rupert was slow in answering. "I'll survive," he finally said.

"What happened?" Wesley asked again, stressing the words. If Rupert wasn't going to tell him -- either it was incredibly minor, or...he didn't want Wesley to worry.

"A broken arm, a couple of cracked ribs...and it tagged me with its claws."

"It *what*?" Wesley was on his feet before he realised he was standing up. "Are you all right? Did they have the antidote for the poison? Rupert -- god, are you going to be all right?" He fought to urge to grab his jacket and run for the door -- Rupert was in England, there was nothing Wesley could do for him that a hundred others couldn't do as well, and had probably already done.

"I'm going to be fine," Rupert was quick to reassure him, though the exhaustion in his voice made it less convincing than it might have otherwise been. "I didn't get a lethal dose."

"You keep saying 'going to be'. Where are you?" Perhaps he was calling from hospital, and there was no need to be alarmed. He realised he was gripping the phone tightly, again. He tried to calm down, telling himself if Rupert were talking to him he was, by default, alive. Alive. Oh, god. He could have been -- "Where are you calling from?" he asked again, hoping his voice would hide the tremble within it's scar-induced growl.

"I'm at home. I checked out of the hospital this morning. It's all right, Wesley, really."

"If it's all right, why do you keep saying you're *be* all right?" Wesley had to lower his voice, to avoid shouting over the phone at him.

"Because it is and I will be." Rupert sighed. "The poison does take some time to recover from."

It certainly did. Wesley remembered everything he'd learnt about Alznoch demons, and their poison. The poison was fatal in large doses, and even in the tiniest of doses could knock a person off their feet for days. Rupert *should* have been in hospital for the week, unless -- "Who's there with you?" If someone were caring for him, he'd be more comfortable in his own flat. Wesley thought if he could get that person on the phone, he could find out how Rupert was really doing.

"Here with me?" Rupert echoed. "No one. I'm alone."

"Who's helping you?" Perhaps whomever it was had stepped out for a moment?

"Helping?" It was clear from the guilty surprise in Rupert's voice that the answer was once again 'no one.'

"You were discharged after being poisoned by Alznoch demons and there's no one to take care of you?" Wesley couldn't believe it. "What the fuck did they think, you'd simply lie on the couch and slowly starve to death when you couldn't get up?" He was furious -- how could the doctors have let him leave?

"Wesley, really, it's all right. I'm not that much of an invalid. I was able to make it home from London and everything."

"You're certain?"

"Am I certain I made it home?" There was a hint of amusement in his voice, but only served to underscore how exhausted he sounded. How much he must have been hurting.

"That's you're all *right*," Wesley snapped. At this rate he was going to have to fly over to England just to get a straight answer out of the man.

"Oh. Yes, of course. I said so, didn't I?"

"Then say it so I believe you. Explain to me exactly how all right you are, and how you're not lying on the couch too tired and sick to move should you get hungry or need to go to the bathroom, and tell me who's going to be 'round in the morning to check that you haven't died during the night, then I won't come over there and make you explain it to me in person." Wesley didn't bother trying to hide the fear in his voice -- he didn't know why he was convinced Rupert wasn't telling him the truth -- but if he were truly, honestly all right he would have said so, right off. Not talked around it and insisted he'd *be* all right.

"Wesley, I..." Rupert paused. "What do you mean you'll come over?"

"I'll come over. I'll pick up my passport from the Hyperion, drive out to LAX and get on a plane to England." He hadn't ever been permitted to return to the hotel, not even to get his things from the office. Books, papers, all left there. Who knew what Angel had done with them?

Perhaps he would visit someone he knew who could draw him up a fake passport.

Meanwhile, Rupert was sounding stunned. "You -- you can't be serious."

"Of course I'm serious. If you're not going to tell me how exactly you plan on surviving the next few days without making yourself worse than you already are, then the only thing I can do is come over there and mind you, myself." Wesley paused, and in a much less angry tone, he offered, "Unless you'd rather someone else came. I could call Buffy, or...any of them. If you'd prefer."

"No," Rupert said quickly. "I don't want to make them worry. In fact, please... don't mention this to them."

As though Wesley ever spoke to any of them? Wesley didn't say that out loud. "Then I'm coming over." Carrying the phone with him, Wesley headed towards the bedroom to start packing.

"Wesley, you don't have to--"

"Then tell me who is going to be there. Or explain to me exactly how you're going to manage alone." Wesley was willing to be convinced -- he hoped Rupert could convince him that it wasn't as serious as he was letting Wesley believe. That his health wasn't such that he needed any assistance at all. He continued to search out his suitcase, though, and began to dig out clean clothes to put in it.

Rupert was silent for a long moment, long enough for Wesley to make up his mind. "I can manage on my own, really, Wesley. I've done it before."

"Yes, that was very convincing," Wesley told him. "Next you should tell me I've won a television and all I have to do is attend a lecture on time-shares." He threw a pile of clothes into the suitcase -- four days' worth would be plenty. He could do laundry easily enough while he was there if he had to stay longer.

"I have, you know." Rupert was sounding just a little bit sulky now. "If I didn't think I could, I wouldn't have checked myself out of the hospital."

Wesley sighed. "I'm not talking about every other time. I'm talking about *now*." He paused in his packing, and said quietly, "Tell me, then. Tell me honestly that you don't need assistance, and I won't fly over."

There was another long silence, then Rupert sighed. "You...really are willing to do this?"

Wesley finished putting his clothes in the suitcase and headed to the bathroom for his toiletries. "As I recall, you were willing to fly out here to hold my hand so I could sleep." Just two weeks before, Rupert had made that threat. Wesley hadn't been sleeping again, lost in the grip of research. Obsession, Rupert had called it. Desperation, what he hadn't said. But Wesley had been close -- so he'd thought at the time -- to finding a way to travel among the dimensions.

He'd since discovered that it had been a dead end. But for a few days he'd dared hope -- and Rupert had had to threaten him to stop reading long enough to sleep.

"Well, yes, but that's--"

"What? It's all right if it's me?" Wesley continued towards the bathroom, then stopped. Unless it was just *him* Rupert didn't want flying over. He'd said he didn't want to worry Buffy and the others, but he hadn't precisely said he wanted *Wesley* visiting, either. He realised he might be making things very awkward for Rupert -- forcing him to decline the offer without saying he simply didn't want Wesley there. He froze where he stood, shirt in hand, half-folded for the suitcase. "If...if you would prefer, I could simply call your doctor's surgery and arrange for a District nurse to come by. If--"

"No." Rupert interrupted him firmly. "I don't... not a stranger, please. I...if you really don't mind coming all this way..."

Wesley smiled. "Of course I don't mind. I can be there in the morning. If you'll give me your address, that is?"

Rupert gave it to him. "Wesley? Thank you."

"You're welcome." Wesley sighed, glad to feel a respite from the anger and fear-induced adrenalin rush he'd been trying to ignore. He started to ask a question, decided it was silly -- then asked it anyway. "Will you be all right until I get there?"

"I'll be all right," Rupert assured him again.

"Finally, I believe you," Wesley said, lightly.

"Good."

"I'm almost packed -- I have to pick up my passport, which shouldn't take long." Henry prided himself on a two-hour turnaround, and thank god he owed Wesley a couple of favours. But there was something else that would require purchase. He hated to ask, but it wasn't as though he had the funds to do it, himself. Working at the bookshop paid his rent and utilities, but not much else. Since his father had cut him off the moment he'd been fired from the Council some years back, he had no access to what should have been his inherited money either.

There was no other way, but he suddenly wasn't certain he should. But the alternative was to leave Rupert alone.

Steeling himself to ask, Wesley said, "Could you...that is, my ticket. I can't... I don't have a credit card."

"I'll have a ticket waiting for you at the airport." There was a bit more life finally seeping back into Rupert's voice. "I think I can manage that much."

"Thank you. I hate to impose, after trying so hard to talk you into letting me come," Wesley teased, hoping to disguise the actual chagrin he felt. "I'll pay you back as soon as I'm able. It would have to be in installments; I can pay you a bit when I get to England--"

"It's all right," Rupert interrupted. "I...will be glad of the company."

Wesley smiled. "Then I'd better get going. I'll call you in an hour and you can give me the flight details."

"I'll be waiting."

Giles woke up, clawing his way out of a jumbled nightmare that involved Eyghon, Alznoch demons, torture, and listening to Clarissa scream long after she had been killed. Reality, he found, wasn't much better. His arm and ribs throbbed and his whole body ached with the least little movement. He swore he could feel the poison burning through his veins, making him uncannily aware of every millimeter of his circulatory system. Tiny little demons riding the wave of his blood, biding their time, looking for his weakest spot to attack.

He could be, he reflected, just the tiniest bit delirious. With a groan, he got himself to a sitting position on the couch, but then had to stop and catch his breath. His mouth felt like something had crawled in there to die. He didn't think he could eat anything, but he probably could hold down a cup of tea.

Giles eyed the kitchen which was the impossibly long distance of twelve feet away. Then again, just sitting was an accomplishment he shouldn't underestimate. If he did everything now, what would he have to look forward to tomorrow? Perhaps he'd save the triumph of making tea for the morning.

He sat there for what must have been several hours, before there came a sound at the door and he realised what had woken him. He had a dim memory of a doorbell, and he looked across the room towards the front door. Perhaps it was a salesman, and he could ignore it without feeling guilty. While he sat there, the sound came again and he realised someone was unlocking his front door with something small and metallic and much too scratchy to be a key.

Well. A burglar, then, and he'd have to settle for looking very stern to try and scare him off. As the door swung opn, Giles tensed -- and Wesley stepped inside. He blinked at the younger man, wondering if he was still asleep. Wesley couldn't be here, he was in California. He vaguely recalled a phone conversation and some business with reserving tickets, but that had been part of his dream too, hadn't it?

Perhaps it was a dream, because this wasn't exactly the Wesley he knew. This was an older, more worn version of the impossibly young, well-dressed man he'd met in Sunnydale. There were lines on his face and a scar across his neck -- of course. He wasn't dreaming, this was simply the first time he'd seen Wesley in person since the night after the children had graduated.

Wesley looked at him, a concerned expression on his face, then he stepped further inside the door, set a suitcase on the floor, and closed the door behind him, turning around to lock it securely. "Sorry about breaking in. I rang the bell, but when you didn't answer I thought you might have been asleep." As Giles simply stared at him, Wesley stared back. Then he looked around a bit, frowned slightly, and walked over. "You've slept on the couch all night, haven't you? Have you had supper?"

Supper? Giles frowned. "I was going to make tea," he finally offered. "Eventually."

"Oh, yes, I can quite see how able you are to care for yourself." Wesley frowned harder, and had crossed his arms. He looked rather like Giles' Uncle Stewart, when he'd caught young Rupert tracking mud into the house after he'd sworn he'd keep his nice clothes clean if he could just go out for a moment to play. Wesley came over and glanced at the floor, then picked up a blanket from somewhere, and spread it over Giles. "Lie down. I'll make some breakfast. Then you're going to bed."

"I just sat up," he protested.

"Yes, and you've been sitting for nearly five minutes. I'm sure you're exhausted. Lie down." Wesley pushed very slightly on Giles' shoulder.

"Maybe just a bit tired," he admitted as he let Wesley push him back down. "But I could've continued sitting. I'm quite good at it actually. Sitting and watching. Used to do it for a living."

"Did you, now?" Wesley's voice came to him from a distance, and now he was reminding Giles of his Great-Aunt Margaret, listening to Rupert as a very young boy tell her childish things with the upmost sincerity. She'd always nodded, and said things like 'Did they, now' and 'Really? My word.'

"Yes." He started to nod, but then thought better of the extra movement. "Sitting and watching. And getting hit on the head. Though that wasn't really part of the job, it just seemed to happen quite a bit." He frowned again. "And I think I might be a little bit delirious."

"Really." Wesley didn't sound surprised. In fact, if Giles could trust his slightly muddled thinking, he rather thought the younger man sounded sarcastic. He thought about a good retort, but before anything came to mind, Wesley called out from the tiny kitchen. "Do you want some toast? Or are you actually up for something stronger?"

"Something stronger?" he repeated, visions of toast with slayer strength patrolling his kitchen and keeping it safe from evil foodstuffs appearing in his mind. Yes, he was definitely delirious.

"I'll just make toast, then. Lie down," Wesley repeated.

Giles frowned; hadn't he done that already? Then he realized he'd sat back up again to try and see Wesley when he answered the question about Slayer toast. "Sorry," he muttered as he laid back down. He felt exhausted.

"It's all right. Close your eyes." Wesley sounded very industrious in there. It was an easy command to obey so he did so. Immediately after, Wesley was saying in a very quiet, very nearby voice, "Rupert? Are you awake?"

"Hmmmuh?" Giles managed, opening his eyes. His eyelids felt like they'd gained an extra stone.

Wesley was crouched down, looking at him. Beside him was a tray with tea and toast with jam. "Are you awake?" he asked again, very quietly.

It took him a minute to assess. "I think so," he finally answered.

"Excellent. Do you recall the unterrenecis of the calberflan?"

Giles blinked at him. "What?"

"The caberflan. Did you remember to unterici it?" Wesley was looking at him rather seriously, though the corner of his mouth was flickering.

Giles stared at him for a moment and in a sudden burst of clear thought, realised what he was doing. "Wesley," he said, "it's not nice to mess with the delirious man's mind."

"Ah, but now I'm certain you're awake, and won't choke on your tea when I try to give it to you." Wesley smiled, not sounding very repentant as he held out a cup.

Tea. Giles reached for the cup eagerly. At that moment if someone had given him a choice between a cup of tea and the answers to every mystery in the universe, he would've chosen the tea. Wesley said nothing as he raised the cup to his mouth, watching with a rather sardonic expression that Giles thought he might ask about later. After tea.

It was just this side of too hot and prepared just the way he liked it, which surprised him until he remembered just how closely Wesley had watched him back in Sunnydale. It felt so good going down his throat, each swallow seeming to clear his mind a little bit more. Wesley was still crouching beside the sofa, watching him, holding the plate of toast at the ready as soon as Giles let go of the tea cup long enough to be distracted by food.

Which he was only willing to do when he had drained it. "Thank you," he said, handing the cup back and reaching for the toast which he thought he could handle now.

"You're welcome." Wesley -- still balanced on the balls of his feet -- reached over and poured a second cup of tea, then held it while Giles started on the toast.

Giles looked at it and hesitated for a minute before deciding to finish the toast first, which he did as quickly as he could. Then he reached for the second cup of tea.

"It isn't going anywhere, Rupert. There's no need to choke on the toast," Wesley remarked as he handed over the cup, taking the plate away so Giles wouldn't have to juggle everything with his one good hand. He felt mildly chagrined at that, but not enough to slow down consuming his second cup of tea.

When the cup was empty, he found Wesley taking it from his hand as soon as he lowered it, and setting a piece of toast in its place. He ate this piece more slowly as some of the painful fog was lifting from his mind. "You put something in the tea."

Wesley blinked and looked surprised.

Giles wasn't quite up to sorting through his knowledge of demon poison antidotes to figure out what exactly Wesley had put in, but he was sure he had put something. "It's helping. Thank you."

"Good. I did notice that you didn't have any Msagruin root. Rather a good thing I brought some." Wesley gave Giles a somewhat scolding look.

"Yes. Well. Thank you," he said again. He was starting to feel like that little boy being faced down by his uncle, again.

"You're welcome." Wesley just sat there, distinctly not scolding him. Not unless you considered that look in his eyes which told you he remembered exactly what you'd said that was now so blatantly not true that he doesn't think you would even have the courage to insist it was or ever had been true.

He wasn't quite prepared for that conversation, so instead he asked, "What time is it?"

"It's mid-morning. Ten thirty two, to be precise.'

Giles frowned. "I seemed to have lost a few hours." A thought occurred. "What day is it?"

The quivering in the corner of Wesley's mouth came back. "Wednesday."

"Oh." He tried to think back. "Are you certain?"

"Which of us is delirious?"

"Actually I'm feeling much less...foggy. But point taken." He frowned again. "I seemed to have lost Tuesday altogether." He thought about it for another few seconds. "Or perhaps it was Monday I lost."

"Yes, I can see there really was no need for anyone to come over and assist you during your recovery." Wesley said, very dryly.

Giles sighed, accepting the 'told you so' with as much good grace as he could muster. "I didn't want a stranger. And...there really isn't anyone here I could have asked."

Wesley reached for Giles' hand -- Giles noticed belatedly that Wesley was holding a cup filled with tea. "I understand," Wesley said quietly. For a moment Giles thought he might even be off the hook. Then Wesley said in a hard tone, "Next time, call."

"I did," he pointed out meekly, taking the cup and drinking the tea a bit more slowly than before.

"The moment you realised what had happened, how badly you were hurt, and what your options were?" Wesley pressed.

"The moment I realised how badly I was hurt, I was a bit preoccupied with the girl dying in my arms." His voice was harsher than he had intended, but the memory and the pain accompanying it were still far too fresh.

He saw Wesley flinch, though he blanked out his expression almost immediately. Wesley stood smoothly, picking up the teapot as he did so. "I'll make some more tea," he said quietly, and there was a distance there that hadn't been since the first time they'd spoken.

Damn. Smooth move, Rupert, he thought. Like he hadn't hurt enough people lately. "Wesley, wait. I'm sorry. It's not you."

"It's all right," Wesley replied, and his tone sounded much more informal, as though the comment were already forgotten. But there was still something. "I misspoke; the error was mine."

"No, the error was mine. I..." He trailed off, the weekend replaying in his mind. He looked down at his hands, but all he could see was Clarissa's trusting face. "I promised her that I would protect her."

"I know," Wesley said, simply.

"We were on our way out when it attacked. We thought it was all over and then..." Giles trailed off, the images of those chaotic, terrifying few minutes stealing his power of speech.

There was a soft clink of ceramic from the kitchen, the very normalcy of it drawing him back, a bit, from the memories. "Then what happened?" Wesley asked calmly.

"It went for me first. I was the bigger threat, you see." He closed his eyes, seeing it all play out again. "It had me down on my back and was about to finish me when Clarissa jumped it."

He heard Wesley walking back towards him. "She saved your life."

"Yes. At the cost of hers. I was supposed to protect *her*."

"I'm sorry."

Giles ran his good hand over his face wearily. When he looked, he found Wesley giving him a carefully composed look of sympathy. Genuinely felt, but proper and polite all the same. Giles sighed. "I am so tired of the dying."

"Yes." Wesley poured another cup of tea, and held it out for him.

"Thank you," he said softly, taking it. Wesley set the pot down, and busied himself with tidying up the now empty plate of toast, and taking it back to the kitchen. Giles watched him, realizing how good it felt to not be alone. It had been so long he had gotten used to the emptiness, but now... "I'm glad you're here."

"I'm glad I could come," Wesley answered. "Is there anything else you need?"

"I..." He blanked on anything beyond, "Stay?"

Wesley looked over at him, looking slightly startled. "Of course. I thought that was clear -- oh, but that was last night when we talked. I'm sure you were a bit feverish. I'll be staying to the end of the week, at least." Wesley was moving things about in the kitchen, either tidying up or simply trying to disguise nerves.

Giles watched for a moment, trying to figure out what exactly was bothering him. "Why does it feel like you're trying to leave already then?"

"Already...? I'm not leaving." Wesley put down a rag he'd been using to wipe the counter clean and walked back into the living room. "I'm sorry. I...suppose--" He looked around the room, though what for Giles couldn't fathom. Then Wesley simply sat in one of the chairs and looked at him. "Did you want to talk? You said you found some journals while you were-- in London." He flushed guiltily.

"Yes, I did. I'll show them to you when I'm feeling better." He regarded Wesley with a frown, wondering why it felt like he was further away now, than when they'd been talking on the phone from opposite sides of the world.

There was the barest smile, and Wesley asked, "You don't trust me to look at them while you're sleeping?"

"Of course I do," he protested, leaning forward toward the other man, then grunting a little at the pain of his ribs.

Wesley was out of his chair in an instant, and coming over to the couch. "Let me -- what do you need?"

"A new set of ribs," he gasped out as he gingerly leaned back again.

"I'm afraid I haven't brought any." Wesley remained standing there, hand out. "Would you be more comfortable in bed?"

"Not alone." The words were out before he thought.

There was no reaction, however. Wesley simply stood there, hand out. "I could read over the journals while you get some rest," he offered as though Giles hadn't made any sort of untoward suggestion.

"It that's what you want to do," Giles acquiesced with a sigh. "Though I'm beginning to think you came more to see the journals than me."

"I came here to make sure you didn't lie on that couch unable to make yourself tea," Wesley said in a quiet voice.

Giles sighed again. He couldn't be hurt too badly as he still seemed to be maintaining a talent for putting his foot in his mouth. "I know," he said quietly, holding Wesley's gaze as he spoke. "And I appreciate it, truly."

"Do you need any more?" Wesley incanted his head slightly, towards the cup in Giles' hand.

He looked down at the empty cup. "Not at the moment, thank you."

"Do you want a hand up?"

"So you can put me to bed?"

"I thought after four cups of tea, you might need a trip to the toilet."

"Oh." He blinked and considered. "Couldn't hurt." What he really wanted was a shower but he didn't think, even with the Msagruin root his legs were quite up to that yet and wasn't sure what Wesley's reaction would be if he asked for help. Wesley held out his hand to help him stand up. He clasped the hand and let Wesley pull him up, wincing at the movement to his ribs.

"Which way is it?" Wesley asked.

"Down the hall." He nodded in the proper direction. "Beside the bedroom."

Wesley nodded, and keep his firm grip on Giles' arm. Slowly, they began walking towards the loo, Wesley taking as much of Giles' weight and providing as much balance as Giles allowed. And Giles hated it. Not having Wesley here and certainly not having Wesley help him, but feeling like a bloody invalid.

Feeling helpless. It wasn't something he'd ever taken to well. Every step in which he tried to take back some of that weight and balance, he felt Wesley letting it go -- only to reabsorb it immediately with the next step as Giles began to falter.

It was making him tense and cranky and he had to bite his lip to keep from taking it out on Wesley. Finally they reached the bathroom, and Wesley paused. "Do you need--"

"No," he cut Wesley off. Then took a deep breath and moderated his voice. "Thank you. But there are some things..."

"A man must do for himself?" Wesley completed the thought, in a more friendly and understanding tone than he'd been using before. He let go of Giles, though he made sure Giles had a firm grip on the doorjab, before doing so.

"Indeed. Thank you," he repeated, ignoring the faint dizziness he was feeling as he took a step unassisted.

Wesley remained outside the bathroom, watching for a moment, to make sure Giles didn't fall over onto his face.

"I'm fine," Giles told him pointedly when it seemed like he wasn't going to leave. Wesley nodded, and left, heading back towards the living room.

He managed to use the facilities without doing any more damage to himself, even if the floor seemed to be tilting as he did so. When he was done, he looked at the door and considered calling Wesley to help him back out. But it wasn't that long a walk and he could lean against the wall.

He got halfway to the door before his legs gave out and he fell into a heap on the floor. He couldn't prevent the small, pained cry as he landed. There was nothing for a moment, then the sound of someone walking closer. Wesley stopped in the doorway for only a second, before coming over and crouching down, reaching for Giles' arm. "Come on," was all he said.

Giles let Wesley help him back up, fuming the entire time at his weakness.

"Bed, or back to the couch?" Wesley asked, in an even tone that managed to not sound condescending.

Giving in to the inevitable, he growled, "Bed."

Wesley said nothing, merely took nearly all of Giles' weight as he helped him walk the few feet into the bedroom and to the bed. When they reached it, Wesley had Giles turned around and sitting, before he could argue that he could do for himself. Wesley knelt in front of him and began unlacing Giles' shoes.

It was gradually dawning on Giles that Wesley was not scolding him. He frowned. "Wesley?"

"Yes?" Wesley lifted Giles' foot and slipped off one shoe, then did the same with the other.

"You're not...saying anything."

"There's nothing to say," he said easily. He stood up, and looked down at him. "Do you want your shirt and trousers off?"

"You're not scolding me." He wasn't aware exactly how much that was bothering him until he heard the hurt in his own voice.

Wesley looked surprised. "There's nothing to scold you for. You're injured, and recovering from Alznoch poison. Of course you're going to find it difficult to stand for long."

"You scolded me before," he pointed out.

"You were momentarily feeling better. When you've had some rest, I'll scold again if you want." Wesley stood there, waiting patiently. "Did you want to lie down and rest? Or do you prefer to sit up and read?"

"Neither." He wasn't quite up to reading yet, and resting would only mean more nightmares.

Wesley paused, obviously thinking. "I could turn on the radio? Or...read aloud?"

He hesitated briefly over the offer to read aloud, but shook his head. He wanted to feel more connected than that, wanted to know, soul deep that he wasn't alone. "Just...talk to me?"

Wesley nodded. "Do you mind if I go get myself a cup of tea?"

"No, of course. I'll..." He managed a sardonic smile, "wait here."

Wesley smiled for just a moment, and it lightened his face in a way that made Giles' heart clench. "You do that. Shall I bring you anything?" he asked as he headed for the door.

"If you happen across a new set of ribs or a new, much younger body I wouldn't turn it down. Other than that, I'm fine."

With a faint grin, Wesley nodded again, and left.

Sitting at the end of the bed, Giles realised he couldn't easily scoot himself back towards the headboard. Carefully, he lay back where he was, staring at the ceiling as he waited for Wesley to return. He tried to still his mind, tried to think of nothing, but wasn't particularly successful.

He worried. About Wesley, about Buffy and the others. About Angel, surprisingly enough. Wesley had told him a great deal about the events of a year ago, about the infant, Connor, who was lost. Giles had promised Wesley to do all he could to help find him. Giles worried about failing them, about having more deaths on his conscience. In the back of his mind, the events of the weekend kept playing over and over, his mind unable to stop looking for what he could have done differently to change the outcome. Each loop ended with Clarissa, dead in his arms.

The repeating memory was disturbed when Wesley came back into the bedroom, holding a cup. He stopped just inside the doorway and looked around. There was no place to sit other than the bed.

"I don't bite," Giles assured him.

"Are you going to stay there on the edge of the bed?" Wesley asked, hinting at the fact that it might not be the most comfortable spot to spend the afternoon. Wesley, however, did not move from the doorway, yet.

"I might be persuaded to move," he responded, carefully not saying that he wasn't sure if he would be able to by himself without pain.

He saw Wesley regarding him, considering the way Giles was stretched out on the lower half of the bed, knees bent over the edge of the bed and feet still on the floor. Finally he shook his head. "I'm not certain it can be done without...causing you pain." There was the slightest smile on his face as he spoke.

"I am becoming resigned to the fact that there's very little at the moment that won't cause me pain," he replied, then held out his good hand to Wesley and said two words that were very difficult for him to utter. "Help me?"

Wesley set his cup down on the top of the dresser, and walked over. He took hold of Giles' hand, and slipped his other hand underneath Giles' other shoulder. Then he braced himself and pulled. It hurt, but Giles was able to keep the groan of pain from escaping. He collapsed back against the pillows when Wesley had gotten him straightened around and waited for everything to stop throbbing.

"Do you want any painkillers?" Wesley asked in that same, quiet, conscientious tone.

He shook his head. "Not with the Alznoch poison in my system."

Wesley cleared his throat. "I actually did not *mean* conventional painkillers."

"Oh. I suppose...I should have realised that."

"Mm. Do you want something for the pain?" Wesley asked again in a leading tone.

Looking at Wesley's expression, Giles decided that there was only one correct answer that wouldn't get him scolded. "Yes?"

Wesley nodded, half-smiling -- and walked over to the dresser, picked up the cup of tea sitting there and brought it over.

Giles raised an eyebrow as he took it. "I thought you had gotten that for yourself?"

"I poured myself a cup before I added the hruvia leaf. I left it in the kitchen to cool."

He sipped at the tea, noting that it had been sweetened enough to offset the bitter aftertaste of the leaf. "Thank you."

Wesley gave him a nod, and left the room again. Giles slowly drank his tea and waited for Wesley to return, already feeling the hruvia leaf taking effect. By the time Wesley came back carrying his cup -- and the pot in the other hand -- Giles was beginning to feel noticeably better. "Did you want more?" Wesley asked, indicating the pot of tea.

He held the cup out for Wesley to refill. Wesley came over and poured out, as neatly and precisely as any Englishman of good breeding. Then flipped the teatowel off his arm with two fingers of the hand holding his own cup of tea, dropped it flat onto the nightstand and set the pot there -- all nicely within Giles' reach. He took his own cup of tea to the foot of the bed, where he carefully perched, managing to look comfortable and relaxed as he sat down without jostling the bed any more than humanly possible.

Giles watched him for a moment. "This wasn't how I was hoping to get you to come for a visit."

It had come to a surprise to him, as their correspondence had progressed, that he'd grown to like Wesley. Granted, the younger man had changed until the Watcher who had come to Sunnydale to replace him was almost unrecognisable in the person Wesley was now. Giles had supposed it was shared experience that made it so easy to get along with Wesley -- someone raised to be a Watcher and all that entailed, and who had grown disillusioned with the sanctity of the Council. Wesley was the only other person who truly understood what Giles meant when he called the Council a bunch of prats.

But beyond that, he'd found himself enjoying conversation with Wesley, and looking forward to the times when they'd talk. They were, in fact, the high point of his days which were otherwise filled with the utter inanity of working again for the Council he'd once been fired from.

Giles had only begun toying with the idea of inviting him to visit, when such had been necessitated by his own injuries. He hadn't brought the subject up to Wesley, yet, and had no idea what he would have said if the invitation had been for purely social reasons. Even now he'd given no answer, just sat there smiling again. It was a friendly smile. Pleasant. And as distant and formal as a stone.

It was quickly going to drive Giles out of what was left of his mind. "Would you feel more comfortable if you went in the other room and I called you?" he asked, a touch dryly.

He saw Wesley give a tiny start of surprise. "I'm sorry?"

"Wesley, having -- literally -- picked me up off the floor and put me to bed, I think we can lose the formality, don't you?"

Wesley didn't reply immediately -- opening and closing his mouth twice, attempting to answer, but no sound came forth. Finally he looked down at his hands, and said, "I didn't want to...disturb you. Do anything else improper."

"Well, stop it. Because *that* is disturbing me."

"I--" Wesley gaped for a moment, looking even more surprised. "I wasn't...I'm sorry. I wasn't-- didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"It's all right." Giles sighed, too tired to deal with this. "Just be yourself, Wesley. I'm rather fond of you, remember?" That he had said aloud, before. More than once, because Wesley had initially responded with disbelief far too strongly for Giles' comfort. It had taken some time before he felt Wesley believed him when he said he enjoyed Wesley's friendship.

Wesley nodded, lowering his head again to stare at his tea. "I'm sorry. I suppose I'm tired. I... Would you rather go through the journals?" He looked up as he asked, and the formal mask had dropped, showing Wesley's emotions clearly. And yet there was so little change in expression that Giles was hard pressed to believe he'd been wearing a mask at all.

"I'd rather leave the journals until we're both a bit more..."

"Cognizant?" Wesley offered with faint amusement.

"Indeed," he replied, managing a tiny smile in response. He shifted slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position. "Just...talk to me?"

"Do you need another pillow...or anything?" Wesley asked, brow furrowing in concern. "I know how difficult it is to be comfortable with broken ribs, but...please don't keep silent if there's anything I can do."

"I'm fine," Giles assured him. "Or as fine as I can be," he quickly amended when he saw Wesley frown.

Wesley nodded. He opened his mouth, paused again, and Giles despaired of ever actually getting an entire sentence out of him without tugging it out with a rope. He watched the other man sigh, and it seemed as though he let go of something. "I'm sorry. About behaving -- like a prat," he said with a self-mocking smile. "All the way over, all I could think of--" He stopped and looked away again.

"What?"

Another sigh. "What I would find. How badly hurt you really were. If...if anything had happened during the night." He looked up, and Giles saw the fear in Wesley's eyes that had barely been echoed underneath the steady voice. "You're not--" He stopped as his voice deepened, roughened by use and emotion. "You're not to do that again, is that understood?"

Giles felt warmed by Wesley's obvious caring and guilty at the worry he'd caused. "I'm sorry," he said softly.

"I don't mean you're not to get yourself injured," Wesley continued, surprising him. "We lead the sort of lives...it's inevitable. But I'll not have you lie to me about what's happened. If you have to tell me you're dying, every limb torn off and bleeding to death on the spot -- or simply broken a single toe and are hoping I'll hop on a plane to come tend you again -- Promise me. You won't lie about it. Or mislead me by refusing to say just exactly what has happened."

Giles studied Wesley's expression for a long moment, seeing clearly how serious he was. "I promise."

Wesley returned the long look, apparently taking note of how sincere *Giles* was in making the promise. Then he nodded, and some of the tension seemed to run out of him.

"And I am sorry," Giles repeated.

Wesley nodded again. He suddenly looked -- old. Worn. He took a drink of his tea, seemingly at a loss for anything to talk about. But that was all right -- what tea was for, after all.

Giles cast about for some topic. "So how was your weekend?"

Wesley laughed once. "Research."

There was a flicker of something in Wesley's eyes, but it was gone to quickly for Giles to make anything of it. "How did it go?" he asked carefully.

"It might be possible to get someone to Quor-toth. But not to get them back."

He blinked in surprise. "Well, that's progress." For months Wesley had struggled to find even this much. Giles didn't understand why he didn't seem more encouraged by the information.

"Yes. Assuming the translations are correct and not the result of drunken ramblings." Wesley's voice grew bitter, as though he believed he knew what the truth would turn out to be. It was, after all, the second time he'd found something which promised to be an answer. The time before he'd found a spell which was impossible to cast anytime after the 14th century. Wesley continued quietly, "But at least even if we don't find a way to bring him back, someone can go...help him." He looked guilty, all of a sudden.

"If there's a way there, there has to be a way back," Giles told him, letting his own determination color his voice.

"I hope so."

"We'll find the answer, Wesley."

There was a pause, before Wesley nodded. He didn't say anything, just sat and stared at his cup of tea. Giles watched him for a moment, then, grimacing against the movement, leaned forward enough to take the cup from Wesley and set it on the nightstand. Then he turned back to Wesley and tugged gently on his hands, urging him forward.

"What--" Then Wesley moved forward; though Giles suspected it was more from a desire to avoid making Giles cause himself pain by resisting.

Ignoring the everpresent aches, Giles gingerly wrapped his arms around Wesley, enfolding him in a careful hug. There was a tremor as Wesley shook, once. His entire body trembling with...something, before he bent his head towards Giles' chest and wrapped his own arms gingerly around Giles to return the embrace. Giles sighed, feeling some emotional ache within him ease at the close contact. "I've been wanting to do this for quite some time."

"I--" Wesley stopped, and turned his head towards Giles, pressing his face closer to Giles' chest.

"Much better than just a phone call." He raised his good hand to stroke Wesley's hair gently.

He felt more than heard Wesley sigh. Then he shifted, and to Giles' dismay he began to carefully extract himself to sit up. He reluctantly let him go, but missed the contact immediately. "Wesley?" he murmured softly, letting the name ask all the questions he had.

But Wesley wasn't moving away. Just sitting there, twisting halfway towards him, a uncertain expression crossing his face for only a moment. Then he said, "If it's needed, I'll apologise now." He sounded as confused and worried -- and almost as distant and polite as he'd been since he arrived.

Before Giles could ask him what the devil he was on about, Wesley leaned forward just enough to place a light kiss on Giles' mouth. For the first few seconds Giles was frozen in surprise, but then he once again raised a hand to Wesley's hair, holding him in place as the kiss deepened and lengthened.

Wesley pressed himself closer, though not quite touching any of Giles' injuries. He placed one hand on Giles' cheek, caressing it gently as he finally broke the kiss. Giles leaned slightly into the touch, meeting Wesley's gaze questioningly.

Very slowly, Wesley smiled. It became a wide smile, happy and unself-conscious. The happiness even crawled up into his eyes, which Giles could see even more clearly when Wesley reached up and removed his glasses before settling back down to his previous position, cuddled at Giles' side. "Would you be offended if I go to sleep?" Wesley asked, his low voice easy, and informal. The same tone he'd finally begun to use on the phone, once he'd accepted that Giles meant what he said about wanting to call him for no other reason than to talk.

Giles laughed, carefully wrapping his good arm around him. "Considering how many times I've badgered you to go to sleep, I could hardly say no now," he teased with a soft smile.

"Do you need me to get you anything?" Wesley asked, sounding wide awake and happy to leap up to do so. It was completely at odds with how he seemed to be sinking into the mattress beside Giles, body growing limp and motionless.

"No, I think I have everything I need right here." He felt his own body relaxing as well, Wesley's presence giving him reassurance against the nightmares he feared.

"Mm. All right. Let me know if you need something." Wesley was rapidly tumbling towards sleep, if his soft, lazy voice was any indication.

"I will," he assured him, while privately determining to let Wesley sleep as long as he would.

"Hmm," Wesley replied. Then there was no sound from him at all, except the soft hush of his breathing.

Giles let it lull him into dreamless sleep.

Wesley woke slowly, a gradual dawning of awareness that spoke of deep, long, contented sleep. It didn't occur to him that was a thing to be marveled at until he woke more fully and realised he was still wrapped in someone's arms. For a moment his tired brain thought it must be Cordelia, taking her self-appointed task of making sure he got some rest a bit too seriously. But memory caught up with him before he opened his eyes. He was in England, Rupert was relatively non-seriously damaged -- he would, as he'd insisted, be all right -- and they'd fallen asleep together after Wesley had kissed him.

He realised he had been much more exhausted than he'd realised, that he had done so without even making an attempt of talking himself out of it. Perhaps that was the key, he thought: not having the energy to second guess himself. Of course that didn't mean he wouldn't do so later when he was more rested -- like now. The one or two hours' sleep he'd had proved just enough for his conscience to start working again, and explore just what on earth he must have been doing. Wesley felt a stab of...something. Guilt, embarrassment, confusion? Rupert hadn't objected to the kiss, but in his condition he might not have even realised he ought.

He could tell by Rupert's slow, even breathing, that the other man was still asleep, so Wesley cautiously moved and opened his eyes to look at him. He looked tired, and in pain. There were lines on his face that Wesley wanted to reach out and soothe; he stayed his hand by telling himself it would wake Rupert and he needed his rest. The fact that he shouldn't want to touch him...even if he already had, already kissed him and held him.

At the moment, he couldn't remember why he wasn't supposed to want this. Wanting didn't mean having, or demanding. If Rupert woke up and told him that it was comforting and wonderful and they were still just good friends -- it wouldn't change anything. Wouldn't change how much Wesley wanted to stay right where he was. Gradually, he realised he didn't even mind wanting it. Even if reality was much more complex, and reminded him that there was simply no way for what he wanted to be more than this fleeting moment. But for now, lying here in bed, it felt nice to want it.

But he really ought to get up. Find the journals and start reading. Stop indulging himself and let Rupert get the sleep he needed.

He withheld a sigh, and carefully began to extract himself to sit up. It proved to be a harder undertaking than he thought. As soon as he tried to pull away, Rupert's arms tightened about him and the lines on his face deepened as he frowned. It became clear to Wesley after a few moments that he was not going to be able to extricate himself without waking Rupert up. He took a deep breath, steeled himself -- and decided what the hell. He could wait.

Wesley laid back down and snuggled closer. If it meant Rupert got the rest he needed, he was willing to sacrifice. As he grinned to himself, he reasoned that it was just bonus, if *he* felt comfortable and fell back asleep.

He lay awake, though, head resting on Rupert's shoulder, arm across his chest, Rupert's arm underneath him. He could feel every rise and fall of Rupert's chest, could smell the hruvia on his breath. If he turned his head just the tiniest bit, he could hear the distant thump of Rupert's heartbeat, through the veins in his arm.

It took a while before Rupert awoke, but when he did it was same slow gradual process that Wesley's had been. Wesley waited until he thought Rupert was more awake than not, and tried to sit up again. Rupert's grip still tightened refelxively around him, but this time it was accompanied by muddy green eyes blinking sleepily at him.

"I just need to get up for a moment," Wesley assured him.

Rupert stared at him for a few seconds, then let him go. "Sorry," he said, the word carrying amusement in his sleep-husky voice.

"That's all right." Wesley smiled briefly and got up, and headed for the bathroom. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and realised he looked completely horrid. Left cheek pressed with lines from having slept without moving an inch, eyes bloodshot, and his entire face thinner than he'd remembered it being. As he washed his hands, he rinsed his face, and thought that what he most wanted a cup of tea and a shower.

When he headed back to the bedroom, he found Rupert standing -- or more accurately, leaning -- and looking pale and a little sheepish.

"Should you be standing?" Wesley asked, though he was fairly certain he knew the answer. He hurried over to be within reach to catch Rupert if he started to fall.

"Probably not," Rupert admitted ruefully. "But I needed to use..." He nodded in the direction of the bathroom.

"Of course." Wesley nodded, and moved quickly to take Rupert's arm, placing it over his shoulders.

"Thank you. I'm sure I didn't show the proper gratitude earlier--"

"There's no need," Wesley interrupted him. "You've been injured and poisoned; you're entitled to not be on your best behavior."

Wesley remembered being shot -- coming home to Cordelia and Gunn and Virginia all hustling about the flat, trying to make sure everything was taken care of, popping in on him every time he'd just got to sleep or got into his book to see if there was anything else he needed. Even at their most intrusive and overbearing, their care had been the best part of the whole sordid affair.

He tried not to think about the months that had gone by after he'd taken Conner, when his friends refused to even speak to him. Cordelia had finally come around -- literally -- a month ago, and they were on their way to patching up their friendship. He'd gathered that Cordelia was also conversing with Rupert occasionally, and he suspected Rupert's hand in Cordelia's attention to his welfare. Gunn was more reluctant, and the fact that Wesley couldn't fault him, made it all the harder. Wesley pushed his thoughts away, and back to Rupert.

"Yes. Well. I apologise for any....crankiness I have or may subject you to, just the same." Rupert was silent for a few seconds and then in a softer voice, admitted, "It does mean a lot to have you here."

"I...I'm glad I could be here. But you're allowed to be cranky. One of the perks of being injured," he teased, then immediately wished he'd bitten his tongue. He counseled himself again to be more considerate. What had happened was no joking matter.

However, Rupert merely smiled and remarked dryly, "Well, there has to be one or two perks, else no one would do it."

Wesley smiled, but said nothing as they reached the bathroom. He stopped outside the door, not letting go until he saw that Rupert could manage on his own. Rupert, bracing himself on the doorframe, leaned over and gave Wesley a quick kiss before moving into the bathroom and closing the door.

Wesley blinked, staring at the door. After realising he was gaping in what must be sheer idiotic stupefication, he managed to close his mouth and step back a bit to wait, without being right on top of Rupert as soon as he stepped out.

He had a sudden image of being on top of him. Back in bed, naked.... He shoved the thought aside roughly and looked down at the floor and prayed whatever embarrassed flush was on his face had gone by the time Rupert emerged.

It took long enough that Wesley was starting to get worried by the time the door did open again. Rupert looked even paler than before and on the verge of collapse. Wesley hurried forward, taking Rupert's arm immediately and practically lifting him up to half-carry him. The couch was the closest, so he headed for that.

Rupert remained silent until they had reached the couch and he was sinking back against the cushions with a pained groan. "I do believe...the hruvia has worn off."

"I've plenty more," Wesley said instantly. "I'll make more tea." He recalled leaving the pot in the bedroom, and went to fetch it. The bedroom was dark; what little light had come in the windows just minutes earlier was already waning. That gave him some impression of the time and let him know they had a few hours yet before he could reasonably attempt to get Rupert back to bed so he could sleep through his pain for the night.

He glanced at Rupert as he went by, heading for the kitchen to make the requested tea. The man was resting his head against the back of the couch, eyes closed, a faint grimace of pained concentration on his face. He hurried as much as he could, preparing the tea as quickly as was possible. He wished faintly for the power of magic to speed the boiling water, dispensing the wish as always with a careless scoff. As soon as it boiled, he snatched it up and poured, adding just a bit more of the hruvia leaf than he had the first time. It was not dangerous except in much larger doses over a much greater period of time than Rupert would need it, now. He paused only to sweeten the tea, then brought it quickly over to Rupert. "Here."

Rupert opened his eyes and looked blankly at him for a few seconds before awareness came back into them and he reached for the cup. "Thank you," he said as raised it to his lips and drank as quickly as he could.

As soon as Wesley saw he had a steady enough grip on the cup, Wesley stepped back to return to the kitchen to get the teapot. Rupert would be ready for his second cup by the time he returned, it looked like. "Do you care for any dinner?" he called out.

"Ask me again when this has taken effect," Rupert replied with a grimace. He paused and added, "Feel free to get something for yourself though."

Welsey didn't answer; he wasn't hungry, worried about Rupert and wondering what else he could be doing to help him. The hruvia would take the edge off the pain well enough, and once it had receded Rupert's appetite would probably return. What would be best? Broth, perhaps? He retrieved the teapot, and took it back into the living room.

Rupert held out his cup for a refill. "Thank you."

Wesley poured a second cup, then set the teapot down on the floor, within reach, directly next to the sofa so Rupert wouldn't accidently kick it over. Then he told himself he was hovering, but he didn't really know what else he should do.

Rupert looked at him over the brim of his cup and smiled when he lowered it. "Wesley, please sit down," he said, indicating the spot beside him.

"Sorry. I just-- I'm hovering," he admitted, letting amusement color his words. He sat down on the couch, not quite the spot Rupert had indicated, but not too far away, either.

"I had noticed," Rupert replied with a smile.

"Another perk of being injured," Wesley said lightly.

"Any others I should know?"

Wesley pretended to think it over. "There's the being able to ask for anything from the kitchen or bookshelves you like, have it brought to you at your very whim," he said in a thoughtful tone. "There's getting someone to go to the shops for you by simply saying how nice it would be if we had something -- actually you could classify all those under 'personal servant'."

"And getting another kiss before the year is up?" Rupert asked, grinning widely but watching him closely.

He had no idea what Rupert meant by the flirtation. Offered as a joke? Laugh away the earlier kiss? He decided to answer in the same vein -- rather than admit he would very definitely like to do so. He said, very primly, "You haven't even offered to carry my books. I realise that, injured as you are you can barely walk." Wesley held his frown easily, giving Rupert a stern look and tried very hard not to think about kissing him again, regardless.

"I'd gladly carry your books," Rupert protested. "Of course I would probably fall down trying, but..."

Glancing at Rupert, Wesley gave him a shy look. "I hardly know you," he said lightly. It was frighteningly easy to fall into this. Teasing, flirting, acting as though either of them were serious. But it was also easy to go too far. But playing was easier than saying 'no, we shouldn't.'

Or saying 'yes.'

"Then we should see if we can remedy that. Is there anything you want to ask me?" Rupert answered casually, just as lightly -- but with a hint of seriousness that said he would probably answer honestly.

Wesley considered him, wondering what sort of thing he could ask -- something that would make Rupert smile, but not laugh. His ribs would hurt tremendously, hruvia leaf or no. He knew he'd waited too long trying to think of something when Rupert's expectant expression grew slightly confused. "Do you want any dinner?" he finally asked, letting the game end. It was safer this way, anyhow.

Rupert sort of half smiled, though there was something like disappointment in his eyes. "If I eat, will you join me?"

"What would you like?" Wesley stood up from the couch.

"Whatever you feel like making is fine." He shrugged.

"Are you hungry for something substantial? Or will soup and toast be sufficient?" He wondered if he ought tease Rupert by saying something about not going to the trouble of cooking if he wasn't going to eat. But he felt uncomfortable, treading on a line of assumed domesticity, so he said nothing.

"Soup and toast would be about as adventurous as I can handle right now," Rupert said with a grimace. "But feel free to make something more substanctial for yourself."

Wesley nodded. "I'll be sure and make some very bland and quite boring soup, for you." He tentatively gave Rupert a smile, before heading back to the kitchen.

"Make enough for two, because I don't want to eat alone," Rupert called after him.

"Yes, mum," Wesley called back. He wasn't hungry, but there was no reason he couldn't sit with Rupert for the meal.

It didn't take long to rummage through the cupboards to find a can of condensed soup and get it to heating. He made toast and prepared more tea for himself, and a few minutes later was carrying it all on a tray back to the living room. He looked around, wondering if he should set it on the table and help Rupert over, or drag a chair over to serve as a table and let Rupert remain on the couch where it might be more comfortable.

Rupert took the decision out of his hands by getting to his feet and starting a painfully slow, careful walk over to the table. Wesley quickly set the tray down and started forward to help. "I'm all right," Rupert declared, not quite waving him away but clearly wanting to do it himself. Wesley was struck by a memory of his two year old cousin Beth, looking equally determined to "do it herself". He hid the smile, certain Rupert wouldn't appreciate the comparison.

"Did you want more of your tea?" Wesley saw the teapot still sitting on the floor, and went to get it without waiting for an answer, keeping a close eye on Rupert. He didn't want to hover, didn't want to move too far away -- actually what he wanted was to curl back up with Rupert in his arms, and rest. Let him sleep until the pain went away forever.

He'd settle for pouring tea.

Rupert made it to the table and with great care lowered himself into a chair, smiling a little in satisfaction at accomplishing the feat. Bringing the teapot over, Wesley sat it on the table, and helped Rupert remove the dishes from the tray. He was careful not to do anything for him that Rupert could do well enough. It was obvious Rupert didn't care to be forced to admit to weakness, no matter how blameless the weakness was. He supposed he couldn't really fault him for that.

Rupert pointedly waited until Wesley was seated as well and had picked his own spoon before he started eating. "So..."

"So. Um." Wesley picked up a piece of his toast, and tore it in half to spread a bit of butter on it. "Lovely weather you're having?"

"Well, weather at any rate," Rupert replied, smiling slightly. "Not like California."

"Mm. Yes, it's amazing how quickly you forget what it's like to never see the sun for months at a time." Wesley set the toast down, and stirred at the broth. He wasn't hungry at all. If anything, he was wishing he had something to drink. He didn't know if Rupert had any alcohol in the flat, or if it would be wrong of him to ask.

Rupert was watching him closely. "You were right, you know."

"About what?"

"I couldn't have managed alone." It was obviously a hard thing for Rupert to admit.

Wesley set his spoon down, and reached over to take Rupert's hand, briefly giving it a squeeze. He'd meant to take it right back, but Rupert held on. "I'm sorry."

Rupert shook his head. "Having you here is the one good thing that's come out of this mess."

The sincerity in the other man's voice made him nervous. To hide it, he said, "Next time you could simply invite me, without the preceding injuries."

"Consider yourself in possession of a standing invitation."

He smiled. "I'll do that." Much, much too easy to go too far. He took care not to hold Rupert's hand too tightly.

Rupert smiled back, briefly squeezing the hand he still held before letting it go and reaching for his spoon again. "Eat your soup before it gets cold," he said, amusement making his eyes twinkle.

Wesley rolled his eyes, and picked up his spoon. He managed one bite, before deciding that he *wasn't* hungry, and the thought of eating was rather turning his stomach. He was, however, thirsty. He set his spoon down and took a sip of his tea, only to reaffirm that that wasn't what he wanted. Surely Rupert had a bottle of whiskey, around. "Do you have anything stronger?" he asked, as he set the cup down.

"Something stronger than soup?" Rupert frowned concernedly at him.

Wesley half-smiled. "Stronger than tea. It's all right, I just-- It's been a long day."

Setting down his spoon, Rupert offered, "I'll make you a deal. Finish the soup and I'll tell you where the whiskey is."

Sighing, Wesley picked his spoon back up. "I'm not very hungry," he said, wincing at the whining in his voice. He scolded himself -- it was rude, and no matter how friendly Rupert was, he was still a guest here. He could hear his mother's words as though she were sitting at the far end of the table. Eat what you're given. Don't slouch. Say thank you. Don't *embarrass* us for god's sake, Wesley.

He took another swallow of the soup to show that he wasn't going to argue.

"Humor me." Rupert smiled slightly at Wesley. "One of the perks of being injured is that you have to humor me."

"Indeed," Wesley replied, giving Rupert a slight smile in return. He continued eating his soup, Rupert watching him for five full spoonfuls before he returned to his own dinner.

"Thank you," Rupert said a few minutes later, when Wesley had finished the entire bowl. It was sitting in his stomach, uncomfortably. But he was beginning to feel slightly less exhausted.

"Do you want any more?" he asked, standing up and gathering the empty dishes onto the tray.

"I'm fine for now," Rupert replied, then nodded toward a cabinet that was covered in piles of books. "Whiskey's on the second shelf."

"I'd offer to pour you a glass, but it would completely counter the effect of the hruvia," Wesley apologised. He carried the tray to the kitchen and set it by the sink. Taking up a small glass from the cupboard, he returned to the indicated cabinet and found the whiskey Rupert had mentioned. It was half empty, and a fairly decent brand.

"Yes, I know." Rupert watched from his seat at the table. "You'll have to have a glass for me."

"Another of your perks," Wesley teased. He poured the glass and took a sip, then another. He could feel it burn his mouth, then his throat, then with a third sip it burned down into his chest and along his collarbone. Much better than soup.

"Just remember that I'm in no condition to carry you to bed."

"One drink isn't going to do that much damage," Wesley replied. "I don't intend on getting drunk." He paused. "Not unless you want me to read Soucians' Masterpiece to you. Then I'm afraid I may insist."

"I'd have to be drunk for that too," Rupert replied wryly. Carefully he got to his feet and began his slow progress back to the couch.

"Do you need--" Wesley halted as he'd started forward reflexively. Rupert would ask. Would probably ask, if he needed assistance.

"You to join me on the couch?" Rupert completed the unspoken question, as he carefully lowered himself onto the couch cushions. "Absolutely."

Wesley swallowed his real question -- knowing he did not *need* to ask if there were anything Rupert needed, or wanted, or faintly desired. He realised he'd drained his glass but for one swallow, and emptied it. He refilled the glass, only two fingers' worth, before recapping the bottle and replacing it. He carried the glass with him to the couch, curious at the expression he thought he could see in Rupert's eyes.

Rupert waited until Wesley had settled back in the same position beside him as before then asked, "Have you thought of anything you wanted to ask me yet?"

"Do you want to look through the journals you found?" was the first thing out of his mouth, before he realised this was part of the conversation from earlier, and he was meant to tease Rupert about the chance of kissing him, again. He couldn't take back the question, though, nor ignore the urgent need to know. Personal issues could wait -- forever if required -- until Connor was found. Or until all avenues of rescue exhausted. Just thinking of it that way made him regret having wasted so much time already. Sleeping, for god's sake. Sitting around chatting as if there were nothing in the world to be concerned with.

Rupert's mouth quirked up into a half smile and the look he shot Wesley was affectionate. "You're not going to be able to relax until we do, are you?"

Wesley felt himself jerk back a bit, and glanced down, guiltily. "I'm sorry. Of course we needn't read through them tonight. You must be tired; research wouldn't be terribly relaxing." He scolded himself -- Rupert had been asking to sit and talk all evening -- casual conversation, no doubt all he felt up for. And Wesley had barely spoken two words to him.

"It's hard to let go of, even for an evening, isn't it?" Rupert asked softly, knowingly.

Wesley shrugged. "It's all right. We can talk about other things." He gave Rupert a smile, to let him know he didn't mind. Once Rupert was asleep for the night, he could easily stay up and begin reading.

Under other circumstances, he would have loved to spend an evening doing nothing but just talking about whatever they wished. He suspected it would eventually be all research and work-related topics, but it had been years since he'd had the luxury of just sitting back and discussing and debating academic issues with no pressure on any of them to come up with the right answer before the monsters attacked.

Rupert nodded, then seemed to search for a topic. "So you and Cordelia -- you've made up? You mentioned she'd apologised, that you were seeing her again."

Wesley felt his cheeks flush, and took a quick swallow of whiskey. "Yes. Well, yes. It turned out...I'd misunderstood something she'd said, right after--" he stopped, and forced himself to say it. "Right after I'd taken Conner. She'd said rather horrible things, but it turned out she was speaking of Holtz. 'Despicable man who steals other people's babies,'" he quoted. He'd been lying in his hospital bed, trying to concentrate on breathing. Angel had been wrestled away only a few hours before, and he'd woken to hear Cordelia spitting fire.

He'd avoided her after that, not willing to give her any reason to repeat the words to his face. Finally, though, she'd been forced to come to his door -- needing his help to fight something they couldn't identify. He'd flung the words back in her face out of viciousness, and instead of arguing back, she'd just looked at him in confusion.

"I'm glad," Rupert said. "You've a dearth of good friends at the moment, it seems."

"Yes." Wesley stared down at his glass. Surely they could think of something less depressing to talk about? He thought about their emails, their telephone conversations. Often they discussed topics which left him feeling light-hearted and looking forward to the next conversation.

But, he was beginning to wonder, if it weren't more the fact he had someone to converse with, than what they were discussing. Because even now, thinking back to the year he'd spent believing all his friends hated him, only to discover that it was his own fault -- he found he didn't mind. Talking with Rupert was still making him feel better.

But a change of topic wouldn't go amiss, regardless. Determinedly, he dredged up a more or less harmless case from years back, before Conner, before even Darla. There was no way to segue smoothly, but it didn't matter.

Rupert took his cue, and for some time they sat there and compared monsters. Taking turns, they soon tried to out do each other with the level of weirdness each had dealt with. When Rupert described being turned into a Fyarl demon, Wesley had to concede.

"I used to think--" He cut himself off quickly with another drink of whiskey. The last, and he set the glass down deliberately, on the cornertable. The reminiscing hadn't quite done the trick -- as he should have know. Reminding himself of what he'd lost.

"You used to think what?" Rupert asked, eyes watching him curiously.

Wesley could still feel the last drink burning in his chest, and he thought of brushing off the question. But there was probably no point in that. "I used to think we had strange cases."

Rupert chuckled. "You probably did. But," he shrugged, "life on a Hellmouth..."

"Yes. Strange indeed. Rich and strange," he added, remembering a line from Shakespeare. Why he was thinking of *Shakespeare*, he didn't know.

"There are more things in heaven and earth," Rupert quoted back at him.

Wesley looked at him, confused for a moment. Then he sniffed, and said primly, "I was quoting Tempest, not Hamlet."

"Yes, I was aware of that." Rupert had stretched out his arm against the back of the couch -- which brought his fingers into brushing contact with the back of Wesley's neck.

"Mm. A rather common quote, at that," Wesley added, hiding his grin. He kept himself from leaning back, toward Rupert's hand. Arguing about Shakespaere was much less fraught with bad memories.

Rupert frowned. "I'm injured, poisoned and drugged. I'm not operating at my best."

Wesley raised an eyebrow, judging from the level of amusement in Rupert's voice that this was not, in fact, a reminder. "You're not *that* injured."

"I'm not?" Rupert was smiling at him now and his fingers moved to caress Wesley's neck.

Wesley leaned into the touch, involuntarily. "Not unless you cheated in school." He felt a warm tingling, on the back of his neck.

Rupert half-smiled and his fingers began toying with Wesley's hair. "If I cheated in school I *am* that injured?"

"No. If you cheated in school and never actually memorised all the plays you were assigned, then you have an excuse for not recalling the Tempest." Wesley felt himself relaxing, and leaned back a bit more.

"And you have all the plays memorised?"

"Mm. No. Only two."

"The Tempest and...?" Rupert's hand was sliding up to cup the back of his head now. Parts of his body were tingling with goosebumps.

"King John. Nicely obscure, no one could ever tell me when I quoted out of context." Wesley turned his head, not moving it away from Rupert's hand, to look at the man sitting next to him. He supposed his next move was to slide closer.

Rupert was watching him, expression welcoming but not pressuring.

Wesley smiled, letting a tiny bit of his enjoyment show in his expression. "You've still not even carried my books. Or invited me to dinner." He was shocked that he said it so easily.

"Didn't I warn you that I have a problem following the rules?" Rupert asked with a smile.

"You did." Wesley gave him a stern look. "I've been warned about men like you. Not to be trusted." He pressed his head back into Rupert's hand, belying his words.

"Oh, I can be trusted on some things."

"I know." Wesley answered him seriously, not knowing if it were necessary or not. He slid over, though, to sit beside Rupert, leaning against him much as he'd done when they'd laid down together. It felt comforting, as though he could close his eyes and feel that hand on his head and listen to Rupert breathe softly, and he'd forget all about journals from London.

He felt as much as heard Rupert's sigh as Rupert moved his hand to caress Wesley's cheek. Sitting there, however, he knew he'd come to a point where he could go no further as they were. Teasing, flirting, half-serious moves were all well and good. Subtler seduction or enjoying the dance around the question was more than just friends, even good friends, should risk.

"You've tensed up," Rupert observed in a soft voice, coloured with concern. "If you don't want to-"

"I do." Wesley looked at him. "That's the trouble."

"It is?"

"I... this is going to sound terribly schoolgirl of me." Wesley grinned briefly, feeling extremely foolish. "But...what exactly do you want?"

Rupert met his gaze seriously. "Whatever you're willing to give. It doesn't have to be anything more than this, if you don't want it to be. But if you do want more..."

Wesley shook his head. "I don't mean...now. Tonight. Even this week. I mean -- why? Because we're friends, we care for each other and we might as well? Because we're both better off with someone, than alone? Because you secretly wish to spirit me away and marry me, forever?" Wesley didn't move away, though he thought it might be easier, if their reasons proved at odds, if he gave them both some distance.

"We *are* friends and we do care for each other." Rupert lowered his voice and the next wouldn't have been audible if Wesley hadn't been so close. "And I confess, I've had thoughts of spiriting you away for however long you would let me."

"Forever?" slipped out, and instead of trying to capture it again, he turned his head. Aghast at his own boldness, he nontheless did not turn his head away again; instead, tilting his face upright just enough that it took the barest motion forward to brush his lips against Rupert's.

Rupert's lips curved up. "Forever might be just long enough."

"I...that was a bit more forward than I'd expected to be. I'm still working my way up to admitting I want this at all." He tried to think of how to apologise. For what, he didn't know. But it felt so much better to be here than to think of leaving, returning to the occasional joke and flirtation -- how had he fallen so quickly and not even noticed?

"Do you hear me complaining?"

Wesley shifted, settling in more comfortably, turning more towards Rupert. Touching him more, facing him more easily where he could look at him, or kiss him again. "I should be--" Shouldn't be doing this. This can't be what you really want. Wesley heard the words in his head, and for once they angered him. "No. I shan't. I'm going to sit here and enjoy this and not ask stupid questions that lead me to doubt all of this," he said, stubbornly.

"Good," Rupert told him, smiling even more. "Is there anything I can do to help you enjoy this?"

But now that everything was decided, and he could have had more just for asking -- guilt reared again and he knew what he had to do. Wesley was unable to meet Rupert's gaze as he asked, "If I said 'tell me where the journals are', would you mind?" He hated to keep mentioning them, hated to keep bringing them up when it was so evident that Rupert did not want to study them tonight. "You needn't read with me, if you'd prefer something lighter."

Rupert chuckled -- the sound soft enough that it wouldn't hurt his ribs -- and closed the small distance between them to kiss Wesley one more time. For a moment, all he thought about was Rupert's mouth on his, warmth and the slightest moisture against his lips. It occurred to him they could sit on the couch and kiss, instead, and leave the research for tomorrow.

The image of the baby he'd stolen flashed behind his eyes -- trapped in in a place worse than Hell, and Wesley wished to leave him there an extra day in order to enjoy himself.

But before his guilt could make him pull back, Rupert did. "The journals are in the satchel by the door."

"I'm not sure if I should apologise again," Welsey said softly. He didn't move to fetch the satchel.

"Don't. You've used up your daily alottment of apologies."

"Ah." Wesley nodded. "I'll apologise tomorrow, then." He gave Rupert a quick smile, then got up to go get the bag.

When he brought the satchel back, Rupert merely held out his hand. Wesley gave him one of the books, took another for himself, and settled back on the couch -- pressed up against Rupert as before -- and began to read.

There was darkness, and shouting, and the smell of enraged demons. Languages he did not know, words he couldn't quite grasp -- and a girl's hand reaching for his own. The face was in shadows, and he knew it. A name kept slipping out of his reach as infuriatingly as did her hand.

He knew he had to grab it, knew it was the only way to save her. The growls all around them came closer, surging forward and he could feel the breath on the back of his neck....

A voice shouted his name, and it broke the darkness. As he latched onto the familiar voice, the demons fading into the shadows of his bedroom, then into his mind from whence they'd come.

"Are you awake? Rupert," the voice said, its tone low and urgent. There was a brush of a hand across his cheek, and again, "It's all right, now. Shh." There was a delicate kiss placed on his forehead.

"I'm awake," he finally managed to say, reaching a shaking hand up to caress Wesley's face.

Wesley leaned down and kissed him again -- a light touch that felt both warmly familiar, and surreal and brand new. He realised Wesley was holding him firmly, arms wrapped around him. The ghosts breathing on the back of his neck faded a little as he relaxed into that embrace. Wesley placed his hand on Giles' cheek, almost mirroring the touch he'd just been given. "Do you want the light on?" he asked softly, as if there were others in the room to be disturbed by the noise.

But then he was sure Wesley knew about living with ghosts. "Please," he said softly.

Wesley eased himself away so slowly that Giles was tempted to remind him that he wouldn't break. But as the movement didn't cause any pain, he elected to not bother. Wesley leaned back, and with a loud click in the darkness, the bedside lamp flared on. Wesley slid back towards him, pulling the sheet out of his way to press himself close against Giles once more.

"I didn't mean to wake you," Giles apologised, even as he wrapped his good arm around Wesley.

"I should hope you had," Wesley scolded, lightly. "Unless you prefer your nightmare?"

He shivered in reaction. "Good lord, no."

He felt a brief hug, and Wesley asked in a cautious tone, "Do you want to tell me about it?"

Images of blood and death and failure came to the fore of his mind and he shuddered. "That wouldn't be my first choice."

"We can talk about something else," Wesley replied with the ease of one who knew nightmares as well as ghosts. "You could explain how you're planning on getting out of carrying my books." The words, and their light tone, surprised him.

It took him a moment to be able to even attempt to answer in kind. "I don't recall admitting that I was trying to get out of carrying your books."

"But you've kissed me. Three times," Wesley protested. "And you've just admitted it by saying you didn't admit trying to get out of it, rather than protesting you weren't trying to get out of it."

"A slip of the tongue," he dismissed with a half shrug. "Besides, I rather think that we're going to end up sharing books, don't you?" There was a voice in the back of his head, asking him what the bloody hell. But it was late, he was tired and hurting, and there was no time to be wasted on logic or reason. It felt good, and that was what he wanted.

The sudden, shy smile he got at that was incredible. He could see Wesley searching for some tease in return, and unable to move past the claim Giles had made. Not that their intentions hadn't been made quite clear the previous evening -- but apparently the reality of it was still a bit of a surprise to the younger man.

It did more to chase the nightmares away than anything else. "Do I still need to ask if I can kiss you?"

"Will there be another slip of the tongue?" Wesley smiled, a mischevious glint in his eyes.

"There may be. Would you mind if there is?"

"You'll have to try it to find out, I think." Then Wesley was leaning over, moving close enough for Giles to kiss him without moving in all the way to initiate the kiss. He took the invitation with a smile, closing the rest of the distance and pressing his lips gently against Wesley's.

As the kiss progressed, Wesley kept his lips closed. He made no hints at moving away, at wanting the kiss to end -- nor did he open his mouth to encourage more. Testing the field, Giles darted his tongue out, brushing over Wesley's lips. He felt Wesley shiver, then his lips parted. With a soft sound he wasn't able to hold back, Giles slipped inside, losing himself in the taste and feel of Wesley's mouth.

He felt Wesley's tongue rub the underside of his, then the side, then the top -- feeling as though inspecting the intruder before allowing it in. It felt like another step further past Wesley's defenses. When Wesley pulled away from the kiss, Giles wasn't sure if it meant he'd been vetted and approved, or not. He searched Wesley's eyes for any hints.

Wesley was looking terribly amused. Trying not to grin, by the set of his mouth, but his eyes were shining with delight.

"I trust that met with your approval?" Giles asked, with a smile.

"Yes, quite. Though the re-application process can be rather vigorous." As soon as he'd spoken, Wesley's eyes widened and Giles watched him blush and look away.

Giles touched Wesley's cheek, turning him back to meet his gaze. "I will of course apply myself as dilligently as I can."

That only made him blush more. Wesley glanced away once, then his gaze flickered back before moving away again. He didn't try to shift out of the embrace, however, he just seemed incredibly embarrassed. But not, Giles suspected, because he hadn't meant what he'd said. He just hadn't meant to say it.

"Too much, too fast?" He wouldn't be able to blame him, if so.

"Oh, no, I just--" If anything, Wesley went even redder. He shut his eyes momentarily, and sighed. "I wasn't trying...I want to, but I wasn't trying to--"

Giles stopped the nervous babble by kissing him again. Wesley took his kiss easily, without hesitation. Once, twice, three times pressing their lips together, nibbling gently, teasing each other with the tips of their tongues.

"Well," Wesley said, sounding as though he'd regained his composure. "There's more where that came from, should you have another nightmare." He spoke quietly, meant to be soothing, no doubt. But his voice had begun to grow slightly rough with use -- and Giles was hard pressed not to react.

He'd started calling more often, lately, because he'd finally got Wesley over the self-consciousness of what happened to his voice when he talked too much. The hint of a growl, left by overuse of damaged vocal cords was, Giles had found, a heretofore unknown kink. He'd confessed as much to Wesley, when he'd been encouraging him not to stop talking just because his voice grew rough.

"That's not exactly encouragement to stop having nightmares," Giles replied, his own voice going huskier with his feelings. He wanted to grab Wesley and hold him down -- but he was sure Wesley wasn't ready for that, even had his own ribs been.

Wesley scowled at him, but the effect was marred slightly by the smile that was breaking through. "You can't fake a nightmare, just for a kiss." He sounded as stern as a headmaster -- except for the growl in his voice.

It was sending shivers down his spine. "What can I fake?"

"I thought you weren't concerned with rules," Wesley remarked. "Here I had my next line all prepared, and you're not following the script." He scowled again, and said sternly, "I can't plan to kiss you if you're going to be unpredictable." His voice had deepened further -- Giles wondered suddenly if he weren't doing it deliberately.

"You know," he said thoughtfully, lightly tracing Wesley's features with a finger, "I'm starting to think your plan is to get *me* to kiss you again."

"Seeing as how the last several have been at your instigation, I can't see how that could possibly be an--" The voice that had been vibrating its way throughout Giles' body was cut off as Giles kissed him.

He had to catch his breath when they parted this time. "Have I mentioned how sexy I find your voice?"

Wesley went red again and he cleared his throat. "Yes." He worked his jaw a few times, a though wanting to speak and not, before he said, "You have." He wasn't looking at Giles anymore, either.

"Does it bother you?"

"I--" Wesley didn't look at him, and Giles could feel the tension that had appeared in Wesley's entire body.

"Wesley?" He let his fingers trail down to Wesley's throat brushing against the scar that marred the skin there. "Is it about this?"

Wesley shivered as Giles' fingers touched the scar -- but he could tell it wasn't a good sort of shiver. Wesley didn't pull away from him, and he didn't answer the question.

"Wesley, luv..."

"I'm sorry," he whispered. There was little inflection in his tone. While he still wouldn't meet Giles' gaze, he did press himself a bit closer.

Giles dropped a kiss on Wesley's temple. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

"Yes. I...had hoped...was afraid to encourage... You hadn't ever said, these past weeks, if your flirting was anything more than friendly."

"It never was just friendly." It had taken him by surprise, how quickly his feelings had gone from simple concern to something a great deal more. But he couldn't deny they felt real.

"Unfriendly, then?" Wesley said, his voice showing only some of the teasing that was clear on his face.

"Never that."

"Not polite flirting?" Wesley teased again.

He smiled slightly. "I never flirt politely."

"I'm sorry," Wesley said again, and it was still unclear to Giles why he was apologising.

So he might as well ask. "Why do you keep saying you're sorry?"

There was a flinch, then Wesley looked at him steadily. "Because every time I let you kiss me, I end up thinking about Angel."

He had to admit he wasn't...completely surprised. Apparently he wasn't keeping his expression as impassive as he'd have liked, though. He and Wesley had talked about Angel before, and in the words and tone Wesley used, had always been a hint. "I...see."

Wesley shook his head. "I'm not in love with him, Rupert. I think about what I did. To Conner. I can't let myself love someone when I have his son to find."

Giles was about to argue with him, that he could very well take time for himself -- then forgot to breathe for a moment as his words sunk in. "Wesley..."

Wesley didn't speak. He just held Rupert's gaze, not looking away, not moving away, not even tensing up the slightest bit.

It was more than he'd expected, more than he'd hoped for -- he'd barely been wanting this for how long? Weeks? "Wesley..." Giles began again, but trailed off. He wanted to give those words back, but couldn't find his voice. So instead, he kissed him again, trying to let the action impart his feelings for him.

Whether it did the trick or not, the kiss definitely was one to remember. It began slowly, almost gently, but as soon as their mouths were fully pressed together it turned into something deep and hungry. There was no telling how far it would've gone if Giles hadn't moved to pull Wesley closer and jarred his healing ribs painfully.

The kiss was broken off immediately, and Wesley had pulled back, holding him like a piece of grandmother's good tea set. "Are you all right?" Wesley seemed torn between checking him over, himself, and not touching him at all to avoid further jarring.

"I'm all right," he reassured, smiling and urging Wesley close again. "Just forgot I'm still banged up."

He responded to the urging, moving back part of the way. He was still frowning, though, and Giles wasn't terribly surprised when he said, "Perhaps you should get back to sleep. Do you need any hruvia tea?"

"No, the three cups before we turned in were sufficient." He slid his good arm around Wesley's form. "Relax."

"I am relaxed," Wesley insisted, though he still maintained a very slight distance between them.

"Of course you are."

Wesley gave him a scowl. "I am *extremely* relaxed," he said, though Giles could tell he wasn't meant to believe it.

"Am I arguing?" But he ran his fingers up and down Wesley's spine in an effort to encourage tense muscles to relax.

The way Wesley shivered told him that 'relaxed' was not the effect he was having. "I...think you...need your sleep," Wesley stammered.

He had to admit that Wesley was probably right about that, but he was loathe to let their conversation end. "Will you be able to sleep?"

"Of course." Wesley gave him a small smile, one that Giles couldn't find any reason to doubt.

"We will be picking this conversation back up tomorrow."

The small smile twitched, a little. "Of course." Wesley leaned over, and placed a kiss on Giles' forehead. "Go to sleep."

Giles finally acquiesced, closing his eyes. He didn't think the dreams would return that night; the conversation with Wesley had driven his ghosts back into the shadows, at least for now. He felt Wesley watching him, still slightly propped up instead of laying his head down to sleep. "Are you planning on watching me instead of sleeping?" he asked without opening his eyes.

"Yes. Go to sleep."

Giles sighed, too tired to argue the point. Besides it felt...good to know that Wesley was watching over him.

It wasn't long, however, before he felt Wesley shift, and lie his head down. That was the last thing Giles remembered, before he drifted off, a smile on his face.

Wesley was pleased. He'd managed to get out of bed this morning without waking Rupert, or being held so tightly he couldn't have got out of bed at all. Not that he terribly minded, but he *had* had to use the loo, and Rupert needed as much rest as he could get. He'd stood a moment at the side of the bed, watching Rupert sleep, before heading to the bathroom. It was shocking, to say the least, to realise he'd slept with him twice, now, exchanged a number of very passionate kisses, and only managed to avoid embarrassing himself with an untimely erection by Rupert's falling asleep again before he noticed.

Again, not that Wesley minded so much the effect Rupert's kiss had had on him, but with injured ribs and all, he was just not certain that he was quite prepared to do anything about it. It still shocked him, terribly, to realise he was thinking about sex with Rupert. His first encounter with this man had been one of humiliation and derision, and he still didn't understand why they'd even become friends.

And here they were, sleeping together, kissing, and making jokes about staying together forever. He sighed, and as he left the bathroom, he headed for the kitchen. Tea, more toast for breakfast, and back to reading the journals. They'd found nothing last night before finally heading for bed, but there were several yet to go.

Wesley passed by the bookcase on the way to the kitchen, and stopped. It was not all that early, though of course his internal clock was eight hours behind. But his brain was feeling its usual stumble-out-of-bed muddiness. He found the glass he'd left by the couch, and poured himself a single finger's worth of whiskey, downing it in one swallow.

The alcohol burned away the cobwebs, and let him feel much more human, as he took the dirty glass to the kitchen. He found the dishes left from last night, and set to cleaning them up.

A few minutes later he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to see Rupert slowly making his way into the kitchen. "Good morning, Wesley."

He found himself surprised, but gave him an easy, "Good morning." His surprise wasn't that he hadn't expected to see Rupert this morning -- but he felt himself smiling, widely, and the pleasure he felt at seeing him was not what he'd expected at all.

Rupert smiled back as he crossed the room to Wesley's side. "Been up long?"

"No. Haven't even started breakfast yet -- do you drink coffee in the morning? Or tea?" He couldn't stop smiling as Rupert walked closer.

"Depends on how much sleep I've gotten the night before." He raised a hand to Wesley cheek and leaned in to kiss him. Wesley met him willingly -- it had been a very long time since he'd felt so good in the morning. Since he'd even wanted to *be* up in the morning. When Rupert pulled back, he was frowning. "I see you didn't have either."

Wesley blinked. "Pardon?"

"You taste like whiskey."

"Oh." Wesley found himself surprised, again. "Just to...wake me up. It's nothing. Did you want breakfast as well?" He poured last night's stale tea out of the kettle, and rinsed it out.

Rupert was still frowning. "Do you do that often?"

Wesley looked at him, confused. He was still holding the kettle, and began filling it, despite having not got an answer. Rupert would probably want more hruvia, soon enough. It tasted better in tea, but could stand up well enough in coffee if one used enough milk. "Do what?"

"Use alcohol to wake up."

"Oh." Wesley shrugged. "Not every morning, if that's what you mean." He frowned, as Rupert's expression didn't change. "Did you want some tea? Or coffee?"

Rupert looked at him for a long moment then sighed and turned away. "Tea, please."

"With hruvia in it?"

"Please." He turned and made his slow way over to the living room sofa and carefully sat down.

"Did you sleep all right?" Wesley asked, then realised he knew exactly how well Rupert had slept, for part of the night. "After, I mean," he added, feeling stupid. He felt nervous, and wondered if it were just because this was practically the 'morning after' and he wanted to know if he'd performed adequately.

"Quite well, actually," Rupert still sounded a bit distant and distracted. "You?"

"What's wrong?" Wesley found himself asking, concerned by the tone -- and wanting to go over and make it all right. It occurred to him too late that it might be none of his business. "I slept fine, thank you," he added hurriedly.

"The whiskey."

It surprised him, but after a moment's thought, it really didn't. "Would this be where you lecture me on the evils of drink?" It made him tired, suddenly, to think of enduring the typical 'you shouldn't do such a thing' lecture.

The corners of Rupert's mouth turned up slightly. "Considering some of my past habits -- and not so past habits -- that would make me a hypocrite."

It was several moments before Wesley could think of anything to say. "It makes it easier," he said quietly. "I don't think quite so much when...."

"I know."

He was reminded of the last time he'd been thinking along these lines, and gave a laugh. It sounded bitter, even to his own ears, and he explained before Rupert could ask. "I was talking to Angel once, a couple of years ago, about ridding himself of his soul. Not long ago, I thought it would be so much easier. No soul, no conscience." He looked up, not really seeing the kitchen around him. Absently, he took two cups from the drying board, for tea. He remembered thinking how easy it would be to stop feeling, all together. Except losing a soul wasn't a guarantee to stop emotions. He'd seen Angel's anger enough to know that.

Rupert was silent for a moment before answering. "It's tempting. Wanting to be numb, to stop caring."

Wesley looked over at him. "I was thinking -- both would occur. No conscience, no feelings. No guilt. Cheap whiskey does do an excellent job of numbing almost everything."

"I can understand that -- having, as I said, been there myself -- but what did you need to numb this morning?"

"I.. nothing, I think." The question -- and the answer -- surprised him. He decided he was apparently going to have a surprising morning. "I just needed to wake up." Needed to clear his head to think properly, he didn't add. He hadn't drunk enough to numb anything. Just...he'd needed it.

"Have you ever considered caffiene?" Rupert deadpanned, though his expression was still concerned.

Wesley gave him a half-smile. "Actually, no." He poured two cups of tea, and carried them in to the living room, walking over to hand one to Rupert.

"You might want to give it a try." Rupert reached for the offered cup, brushing his fingers against Wesley's in the process.

"This would be the mother henning?" Wesley smiled, and moved to sit on the couch near Rupert. He realised he didn't mind. Rupert was welcome to nag at him as much as he liked. It was...wonderful, actually, to realise that someone cared.

"This would be the mother henning," Rupert confirmed, sipping at the tea.

Wesley glanced at his watch, and asked in a plainative tone, "Isn't there some sort of limit? Ten minutes a day? Can't start until noon?"

"Sorry. No limit."

"I believe there's some sort of limit." Wesley frowned. "I'm sure I read that somewhere."

"No limit," Rupert repeated.

"I think it was in the Dallison's Index," Wesley continued. "You have to allow for the vagueness of the translation, of course." He had to work to keep himself frowning, and not grin. Not grin and lean sideways and let Rupert cuddle him.

Rupert's mouth curved up into a smile. "That would be a lot of vagueness."

"But it's a perfectly valid interpretation," Wesley replied, exactly as sincerely as if he'd been saying something that actually made any sense. It was getting harder not to smile, though.

"Perhaps if you squinted."

"Are you implying that my command of the Gorecticlian language is less than adequate to translate the Index?" Wesley raised one eyebrow and gave Rupert as haughty a look as he could dredge up.

"I'm implying that the Gorecticlia were not known for their fasicnation with motherhenning."

"That is a narrow view of the culture," Wesley responded. "It's entirely possible that ceretain cues are misunderstood by ethnocentric human observers."

Rupert gave him a mock insulted look. "Are you calling me ethnocentric?"

"Or possibly deluded by those who are," Wesley allowed. He was finding it more difficult to hide his delight with the debate. It made him look forward to having real discussions about esoteric facts and theories that no one since university had been able or willing to indulge in. He judged that the hruvia was probably working, by now, and leaned over, settling himself easily without intruding upon Rupert's personal space any more than was comfortable for him to take.

"Deluded now, am I?" Rupert asked, eyes glinting with humor as he slid his arm around Wesley's shoulders.

"It happens to the best of us," Wesley said in a sympathetic tone. He wriggled a bit closer, until he was rather close and comfortable. "Seduced by a theory that sounds logical and eloquent. It even happened to me once."

"There are better things to be seduced by."

Wesley looked up at him, pretending confusion. "By the chance to learn a new language? By the glamour of becoming a news reporter?"

Rupert laughed. "News reporter?"

He felt himself start to blush. "A passing fancy, when I was younger."

"I wanted to be a fighter pilot."

"Really?" He tilted his head a bit, taking a better look at Rupert and try to imagine him as a pilot. "I see you in a biplane, rather than a jet," he said after a moment. "Leather helmet, googles, silk scarf...flying off into the unknown parts of the world." He could imagine the jaunty smile as Rupert posed beside his plane before taking off into the bush.

That got him a delighted grin. "Leather and silk, eh?"

Wesley felt himself blush. He hadn't been thinking such things, of course. Protesting such would only make Rupert laugh, he was sure. Still smiling, Rupert kissed him. He didn't mind the kiss at all, but he wished he didn't have to embarrass himself beforehand. Though the image of Rupert in leather and silk was certainly... He realised he was blushing even harder, now. Rupert kissed him again.

"If you keep doing that--"

"Yes?"

There was simply no way he was going to be able to say what he was thinking. The trouble was, he couldn't think of anything safer to say, than 'I'll have to shag you.' Well, there was one thing. "I think I should go make breakfast."

"That wasn't quite the reaction I was hoping for."

"You're injured. The reaction you're hoping for is *not* on the agenda for the day."

"What is on the agenda for today?"

Wesley opened his mouth -- knowing he was about to say 'research' -- then stopped. They'd only got through a third of the journals last night, and found nothing of interest. Well, nothing of *relevance*. It was all incredibly interesting after one form or another, and Wesley had had to constantly remind himself to read faster and skim more. "Is there anything you feel like doing, other than sitting here on the sofa?"

"Yes, but you insist it's not on the agenda for today," Rupert teased.

Wesley scowled at him. "You know perfectly well what I mean," he said severely.

"You keep frowning at me and I'll have to kiss you again."

Wesley held his face perfectly still, not changing expresison an iota. "What an extraordinary kink you have."

Rupert raised an eyebrow. "Kink?"

"Fetish?" Wesley asked.

"Kissing you?"

"My frowning at you."

"Ah. I'm afraid you're operating under a misconception," Rupert told him, seemingly serious. "It's not you frowning. It's just you."

Wesley suddenly lost control of his expression. The scowl faded -- and he leapt from the sofa, taking his half-empty tea cup and heading towards the kitchen.

"Wesley?" He looked back to see Rupert carefully getting to his feet, worried expression on his face.

"Did you want-- shall I make some toast? Or oatmeal?"

"If you'll join me." Rupert followed him, stopping in the doorway. "Did I...Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm--" Wesley stopped himself from saying what obviously wasn't true. He looked in the fridge to see what there was to make for breakfast. Eggs, perhaps? He thought of Angel -- not eggs.

He wasn't hungry enough to think of what he wanted to make, and Rupert was still watching him with that quiet concern. He knew he couldn't hide from it, and slowly said, "I'm sorry, I just...I'm not used to this."

Rupert seemed to close up. "If I'm making you uncomfortable--"

In the time it took him to take a deep breath, Wesley realised what had frightened him about Rupert's statement. Innocently flirtatous as it had no doubt been intended. He closed the fridge door and tried to meet Rupert's gaze, but it was too difficult, and he glanced away to the floor. "Anyone who has ever...said things like that to me, said them and meant them, has abandoned me. Or tried to kill me, I suppose. I...I've developed some regrettable reflexes to hearing those sort of sweeping declarations, it seems."

Rupert crossed over to stand directly in front of him and touched Wesley's chin gently urging him to look up. "Would a promise help?"

Wesley found himself frowning again -- and tried not to get distracted by why he'd been deliberately frowning, just a few minutes ago. "A promise?" He had no idea what Rupert could be talking about.

"A promise. Not to abandon you or try to kill you."

He laughed, not entirely amused. "Well, I have to admit none of them ever said that before."

Rupert's serious expression didn't change. "Would it help?"

"I've no idea." Wesley shook his head. "Honestly. I don't know." He wanted to move forward -- let Rupert leave those untrustworthy words behind, and just hold him. Instead he glanced over at the pantry. "Did you...want anything in particular? For breakfast?" He felt tired, but perhaps something simple, he could make.

"Why don't you let me make you something?"

"Are you sure you're up to it?" Wesley hadn't actually seen whether Rupert was moving around easily or not, this morning, or whether he was merely disguising the twinges of pain.

"Not for anything complicated, but I should be able to manage toast and bacon." He smiled slightly. "You have my permission to hover if it'll make you feel better."

Wesley raised an eyebrow, and forced a lighter tone. "I didn't realise I needed permission to hover." He did move out of the way, though, as Rupert headed forwards.

"You don't." Rupert began gathering up what he needed, movements a bit awkward because of the cast on one arm. "But you have it anyway."

"Here, let me," Wesley said, sighing softly. He took the items out of Rupert's hands and began setting them on the counter. He'd flown all the way to England to take care of him -- there was no point in making Rupert prepare his own breakfast.

"I can--" Rupert began to protest.

"Yes, and I have two hands neither of which are in casts. You can direct." Wesley dug out the skillet he'd seen yesterday while he'd been looking for the tea kettle.

Rupert sighed and then, with an amused look, he stepped back with a 'be my guest' gesture. Wesley scowled at him good naturedly, and set the skillet on the stove. It didn't take very long to get breakfast prepared, and he allowed Rupert to help carry some of the dishes to the dining table. He scowled again when Rupert gave him a magnanimous gesture of thanks for being able to help.

Every time he scowled, Rupert smiled at him. It was less disconcerting -- and less distracting -- than being kissed.

Before sitting down, Wesley looked the table over to see if he'd forgot anything. Now it was Rupert's turn to frown at him. "Sit," Rupert said, as he did so himself. "Eat."

"Do you need any--"

"The only thing I need right now is to see you eat."

"You sure you don't want--" Wesley stopped as Rupert glared again, and he grinned. "I could go--" The glare intensified. "Or some--"

"Sit."

Wesley sat. He didn't move, otherwise, simply waited and watched Rupert.

Rupert gave him an exasperated smile. "*Eat*."

Wesley picked up his napkin, settling it on his leg, and muttered, "I really don't think you're allowed, before noon. Certainly not before nine am." He took a bite of the bacon before Rupert could say anything more.

"I think you best get used to it. Because I'm going to keep nagging you to take care of yourself."

Wesley scowled again, but down towards his plate, rather than up at Rupert. It wasn't like he could insist he *was* taking care of himself. But...it had hardly seemed to matter, lately. For quite some time, in fact. He toyed with the toast, wondering what he *was* supposed to say, in response.

"You don't have to say anything," Rupert told him softly, seeming to read his thoughts. "Just *eat*."

"Here I thought I'd flown all this way to take care of *you*," he said quietly, as he took another bite.

"You are. Taking care of me, that is."

"By eating?" Wesley asked, feeling vaguely amused.

"Yes. If you don't, I worry, which isn't good for my recovery." Rupert kept both his face and voice deadpan as he spoke.

"Ah." Wesley struggled to keep his own expression serious. "Then I'd better eat, hadn't I."

"And more than what you've got there." Rupert nodded at his plate.

Wesley sighed, trying to put a bit of dramatic effort into it. "Yes, all right."

He managed to avoid any further nagging, throughout the remainder of breakfast. No doubt because he actually ate everything on his plate. When they were both finished, Wesley gathered everything up and carried the lot back to the kitchen to clean up, and refused to allow Rupert to assist. Rupert gave in with mostly good grace and even didn't hover, heading back into the living room.

Wesley watched long enough to make sure Rupert wasn't hiding any overly-stiff movements, or winces of pain that required more hruvia, before concentrating on the clean up. He washed up the morning dishes more slowly; the hot water and soap bubbles were proving to be rather relaxing. A mundane task, perhaps, that served much the same effect as alcohol for allowing him to turn his thoughts off.

It didn't take long to clean everything up. He picked up a towel and dried his hands, walking into the living room where Rupert was reading. "Have you--" But of course Rupert would have said, if he'd found anything.

"If you ever need to get rid of warts, I've at least a dozen spells." Rupert gave him a brief smile.

"I'll keep that in mind." Wesley picked up the journal he'd been reading last night, and found his place. He started to read again, and stopped. Looking up at Rupert, he said, "Thank you. For...helping with this." There was really no need to say it, but he felt as though he ought to say something.

Rupert nodded. "You're quite welcome. It..is important. I share your concern with finding a way to reach Quor-toth. However--" He gave Wesley a frown. "That's no reason to continue ignoring your own needs. We've had this discussion before. At least I know