__Darts and Contradictions__
By Gunbunny
Gunn's sitting in the pub, feeling out of place. It's a place built for
homesick Brits and nostalgic Americans. All wood and strangely
patterned carpet in the corners, with extra brass fittings. Wes gripes
about it being not quite right, something to do with there being too many
tv screens and too well-lit and spacious to be a proper pub. Not to
mention the gripes about the beer. He's tasted Wes' version of beer. Got
a new respect for your average pansy-assed Brit's alcohol capacity. Wes
often says American beer is grain flavoured fizzy water, and if this is
what the boy was raised on, guess he's got a point.
For all the tv screens and wrongness of the place, him and all the other
transplanted Brits get drawn here like it's a magnet.
Gunn's gaze flicks over to where Mr. Perfect Aim is fleecing the gullible
at darts. One way to get easy money. Still, he doesn't get a sport which
Wes says you have to be at least halfway out of sobriety land to play
properly. Once, for his sins, Wes made him watch a tape of some darts
championship. Beer-bellied guys with a beer and cigarette in one hand,
dart in the other. Homer Simpson the European version. Still, the perfect
aim's come in handy a few times on cases. Enough to keep his butt still
in existence.
A girl comes up to Wes, Gunn fights down the urge to growl 'mine'.
Englishman's a big draw for everyone with sense. Gorgeous, great body,
as nice an ass as he's ever seen, clean limbs, blue eyes you could
drown in - Gunn's caught himself going under at completely the wrong
moment too many times for comfort - and the accent's a turn-on for a
lot, he knows that. Never understood it himself. The voice itself, on the
other hand, even when it's being snippy - especially then - can get him
hard in under ten seconds. Maybe there's some way to visibly brand him
with a neon sign that says 'Property of Charles Gunn'.
Nah. Wouldn't work. Take that boy out, spend most of the night in a
clinch, and you still got the legions of admirers wanting a touch. Gunn's
got a sure-fire remedy for when they get a bit too enthusiastic; nuzzle
that spot on his neck that turns him to putty, add a strategic grope, and
sure enough, you get a 'Home, Now!' demand, that always gets him
grinning like a fool. Some nights they can't even make it to the truck, let
alone either's place.
Gunn's not the sort to roll over in bed and wonder how he got this guy.
Wes is there, he ain't leaving, he chose Gunn over everyone else.
Simple. Wes is *his*.
Still wonders about the mass of contradictions that is his man. How he
can look so frail but have the strength to wield an axe like he does. So
clueless sometimes but have the biggest brains Gunn's ever seen. Be so
clumsy and awkward anywhere near Cordy and Angel, or anyone during
the day job, but behave and move like the kind of guy everyone can't
take their eyes off in a club. Closest description he's got for the latter is
that Stuart guy in the Brit version of Queer As Folk, which Wes loves.
When Gunn thinks back to the first time he met Wes, there'd have been
no way he'd have thought Wes could be like that. Contradiction that is
Wes.
Gunn's planning on having a lot of fun figuring it out. But first he's going
to get his congratulatory kiss from a Wes on cloud nine from winning his
darts match.
* * *