Pairing: Wesley/Gunn Rating: NC17 for slashy goodness, family foo. Spoilers: Through the end of Angel, S2. In my world S3 never happened and never will. Summary: When Wesley's father dies, Gunn tries to keep his friend grounded. Author's Notes: This one comes to you courtesy of Liz's Challenge #195 on You Got The Stones?, which reads as follows: "I'm addicted to Wes/Gunn fic, I just can't get enough. That being said- I want a big fat Wes/Gunn fic where Wes's father has died and he has to go to England to go to the funeral. Gunn, for whatever reason goes with him and after much coercion lets Gunn in on all the stuff his dad used to do to him. They have to get together during the fic (R or higher please), and it's gotta have the funny and the angsty. Mention of the *former* hero worship Wes used to give Angel and why it stopped is a plus. Thanks!" Dedication: To Liz, for giving me my first real Wes/Gunnfic inspiration, and to my late parents who were wonderful people. Every time I see or hear something about parents on AtS or BtVS, I am thankful all over again for my ridiculous and probably undeserved luck in having had such incredible parents. Wesley stared out the tiny window with its rounded corners. Are they really corners, he wondered, if they're rounded? Why are airplane windows rounded that way in the first place? Whose idea was it to make them like that? Why not use truly square windows? Why not round, like portholes on ships? Why not triangular, for that matter? Dimly, Wesley became aware of a voice in his ear. "Yo, English. You getting lost in there again?" With some little effort, Wesley pulled himself back to the here and now. Here, in his seat next to Charles on the plane. Now, on his way back to England. "I was just thinking..." Wesley began. Then he let the phrase hang in the air. He somehow doubted Charles would understand his current fascination with the shape of airline windows. Of course, Charles was sure he knew what Wesley had been thinking about. "Yeah, I know. It's heavy, losing your old man. Not that I recall mine. He was gone before I reached an age where I could have a meaningful conversation with him. Or walk." Wesley made a non-committal sound as his mind drifted slowly behind the sense of his friend's admission. When he caught up, he began to wonder if perhaps Charles was the luckier of the two. He was certainly the more loquacious. In fact, he was talking again. Wesley strained to do a better job of listening. "Must've been great. Y'know, having a real dad to teach you stuff and hang out with." Wesley smiled weakly. Oh yes, wonderful, to have a father who teaches one to mistrust one's every choice and instinct. What a delight to have a father to make quite sure one knows one's exact, and inevitably disappointing, place in the scheme of things. Not that Wesley would ever say that to Charles. After all, it wouldn't do to speak ill of the dead. Especially on the way to the particular dead's funeral. Still, one must say something. "It's very good of you, Charles, to come with me. You needn't have done it." Charles snorted. "And pass up a free trip in first class with champagne and beautiful women catering to my every need? I may be crazy, but I ain't dumb. 'Sides, you ain't exactly been yourself since you got the call. Gotta stick with my homie." Wesley's lips actually quirked into a slight smile in answer to Gunn's broad, teasing grin. "Homie? Please, I'm about as... anti-homie as possible." "Why? 'Cause you're white and about as uptight as they get?" "That'll do for a start." Charles shrugged. "Still." Wesley managed another smile. "Thank you." "It's nothing, man. You watch my back, I watch yours." "Teamwork." "All the way." The pair fell silent again. Wesley began to consider the burning question of who actually reads in-flight magazines. In all his years of air travel, he didn't think he'd seen anyone read one, and he had barely flipped through one on his first long flight. And yet the magazines not only continued to be provided, they had actually grown in thickness. He felt sure of it. How many people become so bored that they read the magazines? Charles was speaking again. "I'm sorry, what did you say?" "Come on, man. You can tell me," Gunn persisted. "Are you in or not?" "In what?" "The mile-high club." "I... um... Charles... that's rather personal." "Yeah, that's what I thought," Gunn smirked as he settled further into his seat. "What do you mean?" Wesley bristled. "Chicken. You never did it on a plane." Despite the obvious laughter in Gunn's voice, Wesley couldn't help turning to stare out the window. He blinked against the pinprick in his eyes. It would be weak to break down. Father would be right. He hunched further toward the window when Gunn turned slightly to him. "You okay, Wes?" Wesley nodded miserably. He didn't dare speak. In the reflection off the window, he could see Gunn nod back. "I didn't either," he offered. "Didn't what?" "Do it on an airplane. Ain't never been on one before." Charles turned away and settled down for a nap. * * * * * From the instant they reached the ground, Gunn seemed to be everywhere at once. He maintained a carefully world-weary expression most of the time, but Wesley could tell how excited his friend was to see a foreign country for the first time. Wesley tried to remember what it felt like. It had been far too long, and he'd been too young. He did, however, recall the shame of his parents constant admonitions not to stare like a fish. In time, that had come to hurt more than the all too frequent cuffs on the ear. Once through customs, they headed to the station to catch their train. Train travel was another novelty to Charles. Wesley's mind drifted again, as it had so often in the past few days since he heard of his father's death. He wondered if this was a normal reaction; to fixate on minutia to such a degree. He'd spent so much time contemplating the colors and textures and whys and wherefores of the most ridiculous things - anything that didn't matter. Anything that wasn't his father. Odder still was the expectation that he would meet his father around every corner. He knew it was impossible. He knew that, had it been possible, he would have done all in his power to avoid the meeting. And yet, he found himself scanning crowds, even in Los Angeles, for the familiar, forbidding presence. Perhaps he'd gone quite mad. Perhaps there were worse fates. And all the while, Gunn kept up his steady patter, trying to lure Wesley back into the present. Back into the things that matter on a day to day basis. He appreciated the effort, but wondered if it would be of any use. Nothing had felt quite real since he'd gotten the news. Not even the seat he sat on or the face of his friend. * * * * * From train to cab to the house, Wesley took each leg of the journey in numb stride. It didn't occur to him until he stood before his family that he wasn't entirely sure he'd mentioned that he was bringing a guest at all. One more proof of his incompetence. "Mother, this is Charles Gunn," he told a tall, thin, elderly woman. "He's a... a friend." "Hello. Sorry about your husband," Gunn offered awkwardly. The woman held herself stiffly, ignoring Charles' outstretched hand. "Wesley," she said at last in icy tones, "might I have a word?" "Of course, Mother." Gunn shifted nervously as Mrs. Wyndam-Pryce led her son aside to discuss the 'situation'. He wondered what was more disturbing to the woman, his color or the way Wesley had worded the introduction. It could just be that Wes had totally blanked and forgotten to say he was bringing anyone. Sure. Maybe there weren't enough guestrooms to go around. Growing up black, and poor had taught him different. Besides, English made it sound like they were doing the nasty together. Somehow Gunn felt sure Wesley's mom wouldn't like the idea of her boy settling down with a nice... boy. He was pulled from his reverie by a cultured voice. "Is this your first visit to England?" The face was unmistakable. She might be a lot older and more female, but this had to be Wesley's sister. The same long, lean frame, though with the addition of moderately sized breasts, the same startlingly cobalt blue eyes and thin, yet oddly sensual lips. But the 'tude had to be from Mommy Dearest. There was none of Wesley's warmth or nervous eagerness to be liked. Gunn shrugged. "Ain't never been much of anywhere. Unless you count demon dimensions. Me and Wes went to a real whacked out one of those a couple weeks ago." The others in the room shifted subtly and looked slightly away from the intruder. "Something smell bad?" Gunn asked in mock innocence. "Is it me?" "We don't discuss... demon dimensions with outsiders," said another Wyndam-Pryce - this one clearly a brother. "Good thing I'm not an outsider, then," Gunn agreed affably. Three older Wyndam-Pryce siblings smirked humorlessly. "I hardly think," the sister began, "that you are with the Council." "No, but I'm with Wes," Gunn retorted. "And if you want demon dimensions and supernatural nasties, he's the man." The siblings exchanged worried glances. "When you say... 'with' Wesley," the eldest brother asked nervously, "how, precisely, do you mean it?" It was Gunn's turn to smirk. "It means what it means. 'Scuse me, but I think me and Wes have to go settle in." Sure enough, Wesley was on his way back. It would have taken a trained eye to see just how beaten he was. Gunn had had a fair amount of practice, though, at reading Wesley's mood in his bearing. Ten minutes with his family and Wesley had lost every shred of self confidence he had developed over the previous difficult six months. That wasn't cool. Gunn decided to do whatever it took to change that. * * * * * "I'm sorry there aren't enough rooms for you to have one of your own," Wesley began. "S'okay, Wes. Won't be the first time I've shared a bed. Hell, there's been plenty of times I didn't have a bed at all. It's cool." Gunn dumped his bag unceremoniously on the bed and started pulling the hastily wadded clothes out of it. Wesley carefully placed his suitcase next to Gunn's bag and removed several meticulously folded items from inside. Gunn smiled and shook his head. "Y'know, Wes, the world ain't gonna end if you let a shirt get wrinkled." Wesley's shoulders stiffened almost inperceptably. Almost. Gunn sobered. "So you want to tell me?" Wesley blinked owlishly at his friend. "Tell you what?" "What's eating you, man?" "In case you've forgotten, I have had a rather significant loss recently." "Okay, your old man died. I know. That sucks. Now what's the deal?" "Deal? What deal? Charles, I'm not in a mood to guess at riddles." Wesley took an armload of shirts and underclothes across the room to the chest of drawers and opened a drawer. "I'll take the left if you'd like the right," he said quietly. Gunn shook his head, grabbed up an armload of random clothes, moved to stand beside Wesley and shoved his clothes into a random drawer. He didn't even care when a shirtsleeve flapped forlornly out after the drawer was closed. "Ain't no big thing." Wesley was still placing individual items into his drawer with all the care he would show one of his antique volumes of lore. Gunn shook his head and lay down on the bed. "Charles!" Wesley exclaimed. "What?" "You can't put your muddy boots on the bed." "Is your mommy gonna get mad at me?" Wesley's jaw clenched slightly. "It's dirty. Please either take your boots off your feet or take them off the bed." Gunn sat up and shook his head disgustedly. "This ain't like you, Wes. What's going on?" "This isn't the office, Charles. We can't track dirt and mud all over my mother's home." "Why the hell not? She gotta clean sometime anyway." Wesley smiled wryly, but without humor. "She won't be the one," he told his friend. "Like Cordy would be back at the office," Gunn snorted. "Please, Charles, take them off." Gunn didn't like the tone Wesley's voice had taken on. For the first time in days, he was solidly in the moment, but he sounded more fearful than angry. Slowly, as if to let Wesley and his entire family know it was his own decision, Gunn removed his boots. Wesley turned from his friend, ostensibly to carefully arrange the clothes in his drawer. In reality, he was praying his heart would stop pumping so hard before Charles could notice his distress. When he realized he couldn't make it look as if he was still arranging clothes, Wesley shut the drawer firmly and turned back to face Gunn. He'd managed to school his brain into considering which tie he ought to wear at the funeral in the morning. His old school tie? Father might even have approved of that. On the other hand, there was the deep blue silk one Cordelia had given him for his last birthday. It looked respectful, and it would be a reminder that his new family - the one he'd formed for himself in California - stood by him in spirit, even if only one could actually be with him physically. "Yo, Wes! Get your mind's skinny butt back to the here and now." Wesley blinked and shook his head. "I'm sorry?" Charles looked disgusted. Wesley felt himself go pale. "I'm not gonna eat you, man," Gunn told him softly. "I just asked where the bathroom is." "Oh. Of course. Down the hall on the right." Wesley turned again to his luggage. He took the selection of ties in his hands, praying they wouldn't tremble until Charles was gone. He flinched slightly when he felt a hand on his shoulder. "It's okay, Wes," came his friends' surprisingly gentle voice. "I know you're kinda messed up right now, and I don't blame you. Just... can you stay with me a couple minutes?" Wesley lowered his head further. "I - I'm sorry, Charles. I know I've been distracted..." He wasn't sure how to finish the sentence. Gunn smiled and squeezed Wesley's shoulder a bit more firmly. "It's okay, man. You deal how you deal. When you're ready to talk, you can talk to me. Say whatever you need. I even promise not to rat you out to Cordy or Angel if you cry." Wesley couldn't stop his hand from coming up to cover Charles'. He tried to calm himself, but his breath began to come in gulps. Gunn's other arm slid around Wesley's waist and chocolate brown fingers laced with pale vanilla ones. Tears slid silently down Wesley's face as the two men stood. Gunn's hands held Wesley with surprising gentleness, offering a much-needed anchor. Part of Wesley wanted to reach up and take off his glasses. The rest of him couldn't bear to break this moment at all. This felt so warm, so right. He wanted to stop time in this place, where there was friendship and acceptance such as he'd never experienced before. At last, though, Gunn gave a final squeeze and pulled back. "We'll talk when I get back, okay? Really talk. I got the feeling you got a lot to say." Wesley nodded. He fished in his pocket for a handkerchief. "I'm... I'm sorry, Charles, I didn't mean to break down like that," he mumbled uncomfortably. "Hey," Gunn waved it off, "man's gotta cry once in a while. Otherwise he ain't quite human. And speakin' of things a man's gotta do, I'll be right back." He headed to the door. At the last moment, he turned back. "And English?" "Yes?" "Blow your nose, man," Gunn teased as he walked out the door. Wesley gave a watery smile and followed instructions. * * * * * By the time Gunn returned, Wesley's sister had come to tell them dinner was ready. Now they sat uncomfortably surrounded by the family. Gunn didn't know what had happened between Wes and his family, but he knew things were bad. Even the most polite comments seemed to carry ill-concealed insults to Wesley. Then there were the looks. Every member of the party stared discreetly at him at some point during the meal. How much was because of his color, how much because of his clothes, how much because he was American, and how much because they hadn't entirely decided what his relationship to Wesley was, he couldn't say. He was sure all of it entered into the equation. That, and his attitude. These were people cleary used to getting their own way. Not this time, Gunn decided. Wes needed someone on his side. Since there weren't a whole lot of other offers on the table, Gunn felt it was up to him as a friend, a collegue, and as a human being to take on that responsibility. After all, Wes had really been there for him on Pylea - and during that dark time when Angel wigged on them so badly. Gunn had come, at first grudgingly, but later with genuine enthusiasm, to respect Wesley. The man had a lot more grit than people gave him credit for. Even Gunn forgot it once in a while. Wesley had such an air of a puppy looking for approval most of the time that it was easy to assume he was just a wussy, stuffy English dude. Then again, even the most love-starved puppy can still bite. * * * * * After dinner, there had followed an uncomfortable evening in the living room discussing the funeral itself, which was to be held the next day. All the arrangements had been made with no input from Wesley. It was clear the rest of the family had no intention of allowing him to do anything of import beyond being one of the pallbearers. Gunn watched from the sidelines, his presence barely aknowledged by any of the family. Once Wesley looked over and smiled sadly. Gunn returned the smile and gave him a small, encouraging thumbs-up. He was pleased when Wesley not only gave a more genuine smile, but ducked his head and blushed as well. Then he wondered why he was so pleased. It didn't matter, Gunn decided. The important thing was that Wesley had an ally in the room and he knew it. As for Wesley, his mind continued to wander. He wasn't wanted for the arrangements. He had nothing useful to contribute. His presence was purely a formality. He began to wonder about how the modern funeral had developed. Why was it that so many Watchers continued to be buried rather than cremated? Why did anyone bury a coffin on a Hellmouth? He began to wonder if Buffy had been stuck in the ground as his father was about to be. Would Mr. Giles and the others allow that when so many demons might want to resurrect a Slayer to act as a zombie and carry out their nefarious plans for them? How many Watchers and Slayers had risen from their graves as the unholy creatures they spent their lives hunting out and destroying? He wondered if there was any information on that in the Council archives. He wondered why he'd never wondered about this before. Gunn knew better. Wesley knew, because Gunn had mentioned it once. If anyone on his vampire hunting crew died with a neck wound or under mysterious circumstances, they built a pyre - or bonfire, as Charles had put it - of anything in the vicinity that would burn. They took no chances. Yes, cremation was best - especially if it could be performed in such an heroic manner. Almost like the Vikings. Set fire to the longboat and send it out to sea; that was the way to do it. No grave to tie one to a particular spot. No body to crawl out of the grave and harm the people one cared for. No sign of one's life except the works one accomplished while breath remained. Wesley wondered if anyone would remember him in a week should he sudddenly die. He looked over at Charles, sitting so patiently through all the tedious details of a funeral for someone he had never met. It couldn't be easy. Charles was constant activity and irreverence. It seemed strange to see him sitting so quietly on the fussy Loius Quinze chair. How could such a silly piece of furniture possibly contain that much energy and determination? He smiled. Charles gave him one of his ludicrous hand signals that meant friendship. Wesley smiled again, more broadly, then ducked his head. He could feel the blood suffusing his cheeks. Imagine! Smiling like that during such a serious conversation. He also realized he'd completely lost track of what his mother was saying. Best simply agree to anything she said and pretend to have paid attention. Really, one must try to focus. Wesley found himself focusing on his small breakdown in the bedroom. How good it had felt to be held and to be able to cry at last. How gently - almost tenderly - Gunn had touched him. How there had been no awkwardness about it. Just kindness and understanding. And how Wesley had found himself waiting for the other shoe to drop ever since. Virginia's face flashed in his mind. She had once held him with a similar acceptance. She had shown him a similar warmth. And she had gone, leaving almost no trace behind. Wesley's chest tightened at the idea that Charles might vanish the same way. He found himself nearly unable to breathe. He looked up again. Gunn nodded quietly to the door and raised one eyebrow. Wesley nodded. He stood. "I'm sorry, Mother, but I find I'm rather tired from my flight. If I'm not needed, I think I'll go to bed now." The family all murmured their assent and wished Wesley a good night. It was pathetic to Gunn how obvious it was that they all wanted Wesley gone so they could get on with their plans without worrying about whether or not Wesley was paying attention. Gunn joined his friend and left the room. Nobody even looked up to pretend they would miss him. That was cool with Gunn. * * * * * "Which side of the bed you want, English?" Wesley shrugged. "It doesn't matter. Which side do you want?" "Right." "It's yours." "No, I mean 'right' as in 'it doesn't matter my ass'." "It really doesn't matter," Wesley insisted. "Pick a side and I'll take the other." "It matters." "Why? Why is it of any import?" "Because I get the very definite feeling that you never got your way about nothing in this place." "Charles..." Wesley began, "please don't make me make any decisions tonight. Tomorrow is going to be an absolutely bloody day. I don't want to argue." "Yeah, tomorrow's gonna suck. I hear you. I also heard your family tonight. They act like you're not even there, man." "You don't understand..." "No, I don't understand. Family's supposed to close ranks when things get tough. Yours closed ranks, alright, but they left you out. I ain't blind. And who stuck that flagpole up your mama's butt, anyway?" "That's my mother you're speaking of, Charles," Wesley said, his eyes flashing steel. "Don't ever speak that way about her again." "What? Don't tell you that raggedy-ass bitch is about the nastiest person I ever met? And I been to Wolfram and Hart. I know me some nasty folk. Then there's your brothers. Were they really born that stuck up or did they learn it in school? As for your sister, man I pity her old man! Always looks like she smelled something bad. Oh, that's right, I forgot! She did! You and me was in the room. So far, I like your dad best of your family. You wanna know why? 'Cause he's dead. He ain't treating you like something the dog did on the Oriental carpet. Man, you got yourself one seriously messed up family. And you know what I really don't get? I really don't get how you can let them talk like you ain't even there. What's up with you, English?" By the time Gunn had finished his tirade, Wesley stood with his back to his friend. He leaned on the dresser, his shoulders slumped. After a long silence, Wesley opened a drawer and pulled out a set of pajamas. He headed to the door. At the last moment, he stopped. "I'll just go and change. Take whichever side you like, and I'll take the other." He slipped quietly out into the hallway. Gunn shook his head in frustration and began to undress, dropping his clothes unceremoniously on the floor. When he got down to his boxers, the young man slid between the sheets, deliberately taking the middle and spread-eagling his long limbs. "Gonna have to make a decision now, Wes," he muttered to himself. * * * * * Wesley stepped into the shower. He couldn't believe he'd allowed Charles to speak that way of his family. It wasn't right. Even if it was true. One didn't allow that sort of talk to go unpunished. Wesley shivered. Odd, the water hadn't been cold a moment before. Must be something amiss with the plumbing. Soap. Clean off the dirt and grime of travel. Shampoo. Mustn't go to bed with all that pomade in his hair to get the pillow greasy. Rinse. For the first time in years, Wesley began to wonder if it might be best to stop slicking back his hair so severely. It made him look like a company man. Like his brothers. Like his father. He turned the taps off, reached for a towel, and stepped out of the shower. Yes, he would leave the pomade off and see how it looked in the morning. After all, wasn't one overly-gelled head of hair enough for one detective agency? Wesley wondered where the resentful tone of his mind came from. He shook his head, finished drying off, cleaned his teeth, and put on his pajamas. Hopefully, by the time he returned to the bedroom, Charles would be in a more reasonable frame of mind. Wesley had never had a friend like Charles before. It was odd, now he thought of it. When he'd been sent to Sunnydale to Watch Buffy, the young people had, by and large, been a great deal like Gunn in their various ways. And they'd hated him on sight. Except for Cordelia. And look how that turned out, his mind snickered. He'd made a complete fool of himself. Every single one had recognized him as the failure his father told him he was. Buffy, Mr. Giles, Xander, Willow, Cordelia, Faith, Oz, Angel... they'd all seen it. So had the Council. He knew perfectly well that Angel and Cordelia had only taken him into Angel Investigations because they couldn't function without a third pair of hands. He'd gone to Sunnydale as a replacement for Mr. Giles and ended up at Angel Investigations as a replacement for their dead friend and compatriot Doyle. Lord High Substitute. Wesley had to smile ruefully at himself. Trust an Englishman to relate himself to a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta in time of personal reflection. He wondered if Charles had ever even heard of Gilbert and Sullivan. If not, perhaps he might enjoy seeing one of their works performed. Or not. Somehow Wesley had the feeling that Gunn wouldn't admit to liking classical music even if he did. He took too much pride in his streetwise persona. A knock at the door roused Wesley from his musings. "Wesley? Are you ever coming out of there?" came an exasperated voice. "Yes, yes of course," he replied hurriedly. "Just... putting on my dressing gown, Mother." He suited his actions to his words and flew out into the hallway, nearly knocking his mother down in the process. "Really, Wesley!" she exclaimed. "Do watch where you're going. I've never known such a clumsy person in all my life!" "I'm ever so sorry, Mother," Wesley muttered. He wished his cheeks wouldn't burn so. He stood shifting his weight from foot to foot like he did when he was called into the Headmaster's study as a boy, knowing he was about to be punished. "Well?" his mother snapped. "Don't stand there gawking. You're blocking the door." Wesley mumbled another apology and raced away as quickly as he could. * * * * * Wesley slipped quietly into the bedroom and slid the dressing gown off his shoulders. The room was dark. He hoped he wouldn't wake Charles. The thought sent a cold thrill of adrenaline down his spine. In a trice, he was sixteen years old and coming home from an evening out with friends. His father had told him to be home by ten. The clock read ten-fifteen. He'd prayed his father was asleep. He wasn't. Wesley shivered and shook his head. That was nearly twenty years ago, he reminded himself, and his father was dead. He took a deep breath. Still, he hoped he wouldn't wake Charles. "You gonna stand there all night, Wes?" came a sleepily sardonic voice from the bed. "I'm sorry," Wesley stammered. "I didn't mean to wake you." "Wasn't asleep." "Ah," Wesley replied, feeling unequal to anything more intelligent. "So, English... right or left?" "Right or left... what?" "Side of the bed. Pick one and let's get some sleep." It was then that Wesley became aware of Gunn's position on the bed... and his distinct lack of bedclothes. "Do you always sleep in your undershorts?" he blurted out before he could stop himself. Gunn smiled. "Naw. Sometimes I wear less. Didn't think you were exactly ready for that. You always wear that Nanook of the North get up to bed? No wonder Virginia split." Wesley flinched slightly. Immediately Gunn sobered. "Hey, I didn't mean it, Wes. I was only joking. You okay?" Wesley nodded, but continued to stand with his face pointed carpetward. Gunn cocked his head and scooted to the far side of the bed. He patted the spot next to him. "You wanna talk about it?" he asked softly. "Talk about what?" Wesley asked eventually. "Whatever's wrong, Wes." "My father's dead." "I know. That's why we're here. And I know you guys were probably real close..." Wesley gave a short bitter snort of a laugh. "Close? I hated the bastard." "Now we're getting somewhere," Gunn breathed in relief. "W - what...?" Gunn gestured to Wesley to join him on the bed, then pulled the covers down. Wesley moved numbly. He lay down stiffly, but allowed Charles to tuck the blankets over him. "Look, Wes," Gunn said softly, "I knew there was something wrong in a huge way. You need to talk to someone, man, and I ain't gonna tell nobody what you say. Just... think of me like a shrink. A shrink who makes real housecalls. They all treat you bad. What's that about?" "One doesn't like to complain." "Well this one doesn't like his best friend to shut him out in the big stuff. Talk to me, English. It's just me here. Everybody needs to talk sometime. So, talk." Wesley gave a short, bitter laugh. "Talk? One isn't meant to talk about it, is one?" "And that's the biggest problem," Gunn retorted. "You don't say nothing, nothing changes. Nobody gets punished and the next kid thinks it's all his fault, too. What'd they do to you, Wes? How hard they hit you?" Wesley shrugged. "Not terribly," he admitted quietly. "Hardly ever, in fact. Standard punishments for the most part." "Tell me they didn't..." Wesley's eyes widened. "Heavens, no!" he exclaimed. "That would require admitting that sex existed at all. No, it was mostly words. Almost always. Or silence. The silence was worse, I think. I've no idea why that should be, but it was. I suppose my own mind was better at filling in the blanks than they were at describing my myriad faults." He began to tremble and his eyes stung. He prayed he wouldn't give in again. To show weakness now - that would prove everything they'd ever said. He swallowed hard and continued. "I was... a disappointment to my parents." Wesley closed his eyes hard against the determined pinprick threatening to force the flood of shameful tears. He lay ramrod straight, fearing that Gunn would leave him. He feared even more the prospect of Gunn staying. What would he say? What would he do? Would he laugh? Taunt him for his weakness? Tell him to grow up and stop being a sissy over mere words spoken years ago? Sissy? When had that word wormed its way into his vocabulary? That had to be Xander Harris' fault. Or was it Cordelia's? He flinched when a gentle hand on his cheek startled him out of his thoughts. He opened his eyes to find himself staring into the chocolate depths of Gunn's eyes. "It's okay, Wes," he said quietly. "You're not what they said. You're a good man, dude. I'd like to see one of your skinny-ass stuck up brothers get us out of Pylea in one piece. Your old man's gone for good and I bet you could take your mom if you decided to. Hell, set Cordy loose on her," he grinned. "I bet she'd come up with a few words to put the fear of God in her." "Charles, I couldn't... and it occurs you might just be joking about that." Wesley took a deep breath. "One oughtn't, you know." "See, that's where you're wrong, Wes. This is how you deal with bullies. You don't let them be the strong ones. They only do it 'cause they're afraid everyone will figure out how weak they are. A bully punches you, you punch 'em back harder so they know not to pull that shit on you. One ain't even got the guts to use fists or one who picks on little kids, you laugh until everybody else laughs at them, too. Face it, some kids get raised by wolves, you got raised by bullies. They pick on your brothers and sister too?" Wesley shook his head. "Not that I recall. If anything, they were encouraged to join in against me. You see, I was a mistake." "You mean you was a whoops baby? Whose whoops? Your mom's or your dad's?" "No, no, not like that," Wesley assured him. "I'm perfectly legitimate. It's more... you may have noticed that I'm a good deal younger than my siblings?" "So?" Gunn shrugged. "I was seven when my baby sister was born. Made me want to protect her even more." "I'm nearest in age to my sister. She's ten years older than I. It's my fault, you see." "What's your fault?" "Mother. If not for my birth, she would have been active Watcher to a Slayer. When it was discovered that she was expecting, another Watcher was chosen in her stead. By the time I was old enough the Council might have felt they could send her into the field, my family had fallen from favor somewhat and again, another was chosen. They've never forgiven me." "What, for getting born right when it wasn't convenient?" Gunn snorted. "That, and getting assigned to, not one, but two Slayers of my own and then managing to get myself sacked. What a mess I made of that! Buffy quit the Council when they refused to save Angel's life and Faith had already turned to the darkness. All I ever got from either was contempt. That is, until Faith came to Los Angeles about a year ago. Then I became a target of her rage." He went silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was harder than Gunn had ever heard it. "I don't think I shall ever entirely forgive him." Gunn propped himself on his elbow and looked curiously down at his companion. "Forgive who?" he asked. "Angel. He knew what she was, what she'd done, what she was capable of. He took her in. He nobly forgave her even when he discovered that she'd... well, suffice it to say I don't find it as easy to forgive her. That Angel considered her feelings more important than the safety of everyone he has claimed to care about, I find obscene at the very least. For someone who has existed as long as he has, he shows a remarkable lack of maturity sometimes." "Dude's got his own problems," Gunn said awkwardly. "Makes it kinda hard sometimes to see what someone else is going through." "I know," Wesley nodded. "I had rather hoped... but I suppose being a vampire with a soul gives one a rather... schizophrenic view of the world sometimes. But Faith is not a vampire with her soul back on a temporary basis. She's human - for lack of a more appropriate term. She had a soul when she turned on us and tried to help destroy the world. She was in full possession of her soul when she stole Buffy's body and essentially raped her boyfriend. She was under no spell when she kidnapped me or when she assaulted Cordelia. I'm only thankful you weren't there to be hurt. Angel turned on me, on Cordelia and on Buffy to try to save that... to save her. Faith. With all the hateful things my parents and my siblings ever said to me and all the pain Faith inflicted on me, nothing has hurt so much as that single betrayal." The tears would no longer be denied. Try as he might, Wesley couldn't stop them. His father's voice taunted him, telling him he was weak, he was less than a man, that he was a disgrace to the family name. But through the jumble of half-remembered insults, there came another voice. Charles telling him it was okay, that he - Wesley - was okay. Surprisingly gentle, almost tender, words and phrases that belied that younger man's brusque public persona filled his ears. Strong arms held him carefully yet firmly. The tears came faster still. Tears of grief for lost love, tears of relief that someone knew his pain, yet still loved him, a few tears of shame still, for shame is not easily dismissed, tears of exhaustion at all he'd been through, not just in the past week, but the past three years as well. At last, the flood slowed to a trickle, then stopped. Charles held a piece of cloth for him. "Here, man," he said with an ironic smile. "You're a mess, and I know you clean up pretty good." Wesley accepted the cloth with a watery smile. He'd already blown his nose before he identified it. "Charles," he bleated, "this is your shirt!" "I already wore it today," Gunn shrugged. "Figured I wasn't gonna wear it tomorrow, so what does it matter? It's not like a dinky Kleenex was gonna be much use after all that." "But - " "Don't sweat it, English. If your mama has a cow, she can kiss my ass about it. 'Course, I'd have to get it disinfected after," he grinned. Wesley sat wide-eyed and slack jawed for a moment. Then he began to laugh. Once he started, he found he couldn't stop. Gunn joined him in his merriment. "I'm sorry," Wesley gasped out at last. "I really oughtn't..." "Wes," Gunn told him seriously, "you really ought. Didn't you ever hear laughter's the best medicine? You're laughing, life ain't killed you yet. 'Sides, you got a neat laugh. I -I like it." Both men smiled shyly and looked away awkwardly. When they looked at one another again, brown eyes searched blue ones. What Gunn saw made him smile again. "Anyone ever tell you you're one good looking man?" he asked with only a hint of teasing in his voice. Wesley blinked up at him. "Not of late," he replied. "Not for some time." Again, there came the surprisingly gentle touch on his cheek. "Well, I'm telling you now," Gunn drawled. "And I'm gonna keep on telling you good stuff about you until you believe it." With no further warning, Gunn leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Wesley's forehead. When he pulled back, Wesley found himself reaching for Charles, bringing him down to kiss those wonderfully full lips, touching, caressing the bald scalp. Gunn responded with eagerness and obvious experience. Again and again their lips met, their tongues explored, their fingers wandered. At last, Charles pulled back slightly. He was breathless and grinning from ear to ear. Then they were holding one another again; just holding each other as lovers do. "That's another thing about you, Wes," Gunn said quietly. "What's that?" "You're a damn good kisser." Wesley looked up. Gunn looked down. They began to laugh and Charles kissed Wesley again. * * * * * Kisses. More kisses. Wet, deep, probing, delicious kisses. Wesley felt as if he was drowning in Gunn's warmth and affection. Going under for the third time, he had no desire to come up for air. "You have no idea how long I wanted this," Charles murmured into Wesley's ear. Wesley merely groaned in reply as the broad tongue traced the curve of his jaw, the column of his throat. He ran his fingers over Charles' scalp again, wondering at the slight stubble he found. His mind began to consider why Charles shaved his head. Wesley told his brain a firm no. No distractions. Not now when everything felt so good, so right, so... oh yes! Right there! Large hands caressed him with assurance, full lips pressed against his flesh, a rapidly hardening cock rubbed sensuously against his cotton-covered thigh. Everything about it felt solid and real and wonderfully, wonderfully loving. Then the large fingers were undoing his pajama jacket. Wesley tensed slightly. Immediately, Gunn stilled. "You okay, Wes?" he asked softly. "You - you want to stop now?" Every fiber of Wesley's body screamed at him to let Charles continue, but he found himself numbly nodding his head. Gunn flopped onto his back and blew out a frustrated breath. "I - I'm sorry," Wesley managed at last. "I never meant... I didn't plan to lead you on." Gunn rolled to his side and propped himself on his elbow. "You didn't lead me on, Wes. I shouldn't have pushed you." He couldn't quite meet Wesley's eye. "I know you been through a lot and... I shouldn't have done it. You didn't know I felt like this about you and why should you? I just... I hope... man, please, let's still be friends, okay? I don't want to lose you." Wesley blinked hard. His eyes stung again. He wanted - no, needed - to tell Charles he wanted this too. Had wanted it longer than he was willing to admit even to himself. But the lump in his throat wouldn't allow sound past it. Charles was starting to pull away. If Wesley didn't say something now, it might be too late. The warmth and acceptance might never come again. Panic rose in his breast. There was still no sound possible. He felt paralyzed. For the first time in days, he forced himself to concentrate utterly on the moment. "Please," he managed to whisper. "Please, Charles, come back." Gunn turned back to face Wesley again. His eyes were more guarded now, after the disappointment. "Ain't goin' nowhere, Wes," he said quietly. "It's not like there's anywhere to go." The Englishman curled in on himself and rolled to his side facing away from Gunn. So Charles didn't want him. What had happened was merely... Wesley wasn't sure what, but it wasn't what he wanted. He wasn't sure how much more he could take tonight. If Charles had kissed him because of proximity rather than affection... He bacame dimly aware that Charles was speaking again. "Wes, man, I didn't mean it like that. Please, just turn around and let's talk, okay?" He did his best, but Wesley found himself feling oddly paralyzed by the situation. At last he managed to convince his body to move until he lay on his back, eyes still downcast so as not to meet Charles' gaze. "Okay," Gunn said, "that's a start, anyway. Look, Wes... I was making a joke, okay? Bad one, I'll admit, but still... it's not like I could go anywhere, is it? One bed and all that. Can't get too far away. Not like I want to go anyplace. I - I like it here. With you." Wesley searched Charles' face. Sincerity. That was what he found in the other man's eyes. And affection. And... hope? He swallowed past the lump that refused to go away, and spoke again. "How can you?" "How can I what?" "Want me? How is it possible?" Gunn reached out and slid his fingers over Wesley's cheek. He was surprised at how smooth it was. Did he really shave right before bed? "Man, you just don't get it, do you? Look, I don't know if you ever did this before. Hell, I don't even know if you ever thought about it - with me or with anybody - but you're one hell of an attactive man, English. I promise I won't do nothing you don't want. I'll even sleep on the floor if you want. You just... you looked like you needed kissing, and I been wanting an excuse for a long, long time. I didn't mean to freak you." He began to pull his hand back, but found he couldn't when Wesley covered it with his. "I want it," he whispered. "Please, Charles. Please kiss me again." Charles was more than happy to comply. Still he hesitated at the last moment. His lips hovered tantalizingly over Wesley's. "How far you want to go, Wes?" he asked softly. "Do you just want to kiss, or do you want more? 'Cause, man, I gotta tell you, I am hot for your body. But this only goes as far as you want." "Do you... Charles, I have to ask..." He left the question unspoken, but it was clear and loud in the silent room all the same. Gunn hesitated. The words frightened him with their power. Every time he'd ever spoken them, he'd been hurt. He looked into Wesley's eyes, so nervous, so vulnerable. Still, he knew if he didn't say it - and mean it - there would be no more kisses. Ever. Wesley might seem prissy and overeager on the surface, but that only masked the steel underneath. Once you shut a door with Wesley, it stayed shut. "Yeah, man," Charles said at last. "I do. I - I love you, Wes." With that, Wesley reached up and pulled Charles' lips to his. More kisses. Lips and tongues and teeth wrestling and caressing in a sensual duel that neither would lose. Both could only win. Warmth and mutual acceptance and fierce longing combined. Still Charles waited. 'Say it, say it, say it, please', he thought desperately. Suddenly, Wesley stopped his tender assault on Charles' mouth. "I love you." Three simple words, spoken without ceremony or embarrassment. Three words that made it possible for Charles to breathe again. He smiled down at his lover. "So, you ever done this before? With a guy, I mean?" "Made love with a man?" Wesley asked. Gunn nodded. "No." "But I thought you rich English types..." "Oh, I've had sex with men before," Wesley corrected him. "I've just never made love with one." He ran his hand gently down the firm muscles of Charles' arm, delighting in its strength, its masculinity. "I'd like to change that tonight." Charles reached down and began to unbutton Wesley's pajama jacket. This time, Wesley just smiled as his chest was laid bare to his lovers' gaze. He arched his back when Gunn leaned down, took one stiff, rosy nipple into his mouth and began to suckle at it hungrily. "Oh Charles," he breathed as a bolt of electicity went straight to his groin. He ground his hardness agaist his lover's thigh. He pulled Charles up to devour his lips again. "Charles." He rolled to lie atop Gunn. "I want you so." Gunn shivered delightedly as Wesley claimed his lips, his body, his heart. His hands drifted to the Englishman's firm buttocks and began to knead them softly. Wesley groaned again. "Like that?" Gunn whispered. "Very much," Wesley purred in reply. Gunn repeated the move, this time moving his hands under Wesley's pajamas to feel the smooth, silky skin he'd ached to touch for so long. The soft cry and desperate kiss his move inspired convinced Charles to tug down the cotton pants. With a little help from Wesley, they soon drifted to the floor, leaving one pale, naked rump exposed to the elements and Charles' exploring fingers. As one finger dipped between his ass cheeks, Wesley made a hungry sound deep in his throat and kissed Charles even harder. His cock was harder than he could remember it being since he was a teenager. His hand moved to learn the curve of Charles' pecs. They were hard, muscular, yet covered with such smooth skin and tipped with dark, stiff peaks. Wesley raised his head so he could watch his pale hand caress the ebony of Charles' body. The contrast in skin tone and texture fascinated him. But more important was the enthusiastic response to his touch. Wesley pinched Charles' nipples gently, then smiled for the first time in what seemed like years when his lover groaned and thrust his hips at the stimulation. When he looked down, he could see the head of Charles' cock peeping out from the opening of his boxers. He wanted to see the rest. With another deep kiss, he moved down and pulled the undershorts off. So different. Charles' body was so different, and so beautiful. Welsey took in all the contrasts. It wasn't just the color or the fact that Gunn had a heftier build. Wesley's chest was covered with a fine feathering of soft, nearly straight hair but Charles' was smooth and bald as his carefully shaved head. Wesley's groin showed springy curls that his uncircumcised penis sprang from, and his scrotal sac was pink under the hair that covered it. Charles rose blacker than the rest of his body from a patch of incredibly tight, coal black curls. He had been circumcised, as well. Like the rest of Charles, his cock was long and solid. Wesley couldn't resist the urge to touch it, to explore its length, width, curve and sensitivity. Charles couldn't help a breathy cry of desire when he felt Wesley's long fingers curl around his manhood. He spread his legs wantonly and thrust into Wesley's palm. "Shhh," Wesley admonished him quietly. "We need to be quiet." "I hate to tell you this, Wes," Gunn managed, "but if I'm having a good time in bed, I ain't quiet." "But we can't - " Gunn sat straight up and glared at his lover. "If you tell me we're stopping now because your mama might hear us, I am gonna have some serious issues with that." * * * * * TBC...