After the Storm

After the Storm

Disclaimer: The characters and world of this story belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. I'm not making any money off either this site or the story itself.

Written for my own prompt in the Giles H/C Ficathon: Wesley; gen or pairing; post-Grave, Wesley comes from LA to help Giles and deal with Willow. Buffy canon only; I have chosen to ignore whatever was going on in Angel at the time. Unbeta'd.

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"Good lord. What the hell did she do to you?"

Giles lifted his head - barely - and squinted to make out Wesley standing in the doorway of the hospital room. "Exactly what she was supposed to," he managed. His throat was dry and he had the sudden impulse to cough, which he suppressed ruthlessly; coughing was rather terrible in his current state. "What are you doing here?"

Wesley sank into the visitor's chair. "We felt it in LA," he said, "or some friends of ours did. Angel called Buffy to find out what the trouble was and it became clear you needed a bit of a hand."

"Angel." Giles dragged a breath and could not surpress the cough this time. It burned like hellfire along his broken ribs, but at least it didn't last very long. "Water, please," he rasped, but Wesley was already there with the cup and straw. It was cool and wet and exactly what he needed. "Thank you." He swallowed. "Is Angel here?"

"At the house. Rupert." Wesley paused, surveying him, and then sighed, reaching for his hand. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"No time," Giles said, gripping his hand back. "I - I'm sorry about that, but it had to happen quickly -"

"And you knew I'd stop you."

"Well. That, too."

Wesley rubbed a hand over his face. "You're an idiot."

"I know. Will you kiss me anyway?"

"Am I going to hurt you if I do? You're one big bruise."

Giles managed a smile. "Only a little. And it's worth it to me. I didn't think I'd get to do it again." Oh dear, wrong thing to say. Wesley's mouth tightened. So did his hand on Giles's. "Wesley, I'm all right."

"You might not have been. Good Christ, what were you thinking?"

"Well, I was rather hoping to save the world," he pointed out, a bit peevishly. Not that he expected to be praised for his efforts, exactly, but he thought he could reasonably expect not to receive a dressing down for them.

Wesley's lips thinned and then, finally, softened; he scooted the chair closer and Giles shifted his head on the pillow, making room for Wesley to lay his head there as well. His hand came up, brushing lightly against one of the colorful bruises on Giles's face. Giles flinched, just a little, and then held still. "Don't you ever do that again," Wesley breathed. "God, Rupert, I -" He broke off, swallowing, then leaned in and kissed him, slowly, softly. It did hurt, a little, in the way that most things did right now, but it was worth every moment of it. Giles carded his fingers slowly through Wesley's hair, palmed the back of his head, and deepened the kiss.

He'd thought about this while Willow had him pinned to the ceiling, and again when he'd been lying on the floor of the Magic Box, certain he was about to die. He'd wished then that he'd taken the time to call Wesley before letting the coven teleport him to Sunnydale. Except he knew that if he had done, Wesley would have tried to talk him out of it, would have tried to convince him there was some other way when Giles knew there hadn't been. He hadn't wanted the temptation.

They parted slowly, reluctantly. Wesley sighed. "When are they letting you out of here?"

"Tomorrow, the doctor said. I tried to get them to let me go today, but they weren't having any of it. I'd have had to sign myself out against their recommendation and since I don't even know where I'm going to stay - I can't imagine there's room at Buffy's house - that seemed a rather poor idea."

"You'll be here for a few more days then?"

"Yes. The coven teleported me in, which means my passport's buggered. I'll be taking Willow back with me when I do go, so I can't teleport - she can't be exposed to such magic just now."

"No, definitely not," Wesley agreed. "Well, in that case, I was thinking we might treat ourselves, if you're amenable. In celebration of you not having got yourself foolishly killed."

"Oh?" Giles said, raising his eyebrows. "To what?

"I was thinking a suite at a hotel? Cordelia says the Sunnydale Inn is quite nice."

"Oh," Giles said in bemusement. "I - well, it sounds lovely, but -"

"En suite whirlpool," Wesley said, and ran a hand up and down Giles's arm, very gently. "Imagine how lovely it would feel on your back."

Giles could feel his resolve weakening. He hurt all over. Taking up residence in a hot bath with jets for the next four days didn't sound like a bad idea at all. "When did you become such a hedonist?"

Wesley's eyes turned serious. "Since my lover ran off to die without warning me. I'd like you to myself for a bit, really. At least in the evenings. You know that if we stay with any of them it'll never happen."

"Xander has a guest room -" Giles began, and then stopped. Was he really going to talk himself out of this? He'd done more than his fair share of the world-saving this time around and was going to keep on doing it for the next few months, overseeing Willow's rehabilitation. He didn't think anyone could begrudge him this, so he shouldn't either. "Yes," he said at last, "I - yes. Thank you, Wesley, it sounds lovely."

"I'll pick you up in the morning then?"

"Yes, thank you. They said about noon."

"Good." Wesley sighed. "And on that note, I should really go. Things back at the house were in a bit of, hmm, in disarray, shall we say, when I left."

Giles frowned. "Buffy said she had things under control."

"Well, one imagines she didn't wish to worry you." Giles raised his eyebrows and kept them there until Wesley sighed and elaborated. "Willow is in . . . withdrawal. The good news, though, is that we seem to be past the random bursts of magic stage and into the much more manageable, if rather unpleasant, vomiting and nightmares stage."

"Oh hell," Giles said, pushing himself up. "Perhaps we should rethink this. I can get them to let me go now and I can come back to the house with -"

"Absolutely not," Wesley said, prodding him to lie back. "Tomorrow morning." Giles wavered. Wesley rubbed his eyes wearily. "I shouldn't have said anything."

"No, no, I needed to know." Giles lay back, very reluctantly. "All right. Tomorrow."

Wesley was there promptly at noon the next day. Giles had spent another restless night, too sore to get comfortable enough to sleep in the narrow, hard hospital bed, and was more than ready to get out of there. They made a short stop at the house to check in with Buffy, who looked tired and strained but hugged him readily enough. Willow had not come down yet, she said; so far she'd refused to speak to anyone but Xander and, perhaps not so strangely, Angel. Giles chose not to try his luck with her just yet.

The Sunnydale Inn was situated near the beach, next to a small up-scale shopping area miraculously not dominated by chain stores. The town wasn't really a tourist destination, for obvious reasons, but the beaches did draw people looking for a less crowded get-away despite the appalling crime rate. The house itself was a charming example of what passed for historic in Sunnydale - ninety years old, according to the plaque out front. Giles stifled his impulse to sniff at Americans' compulsion to label "historic" anything built before the 1950s and followed Wesley inside, where they were greeted by the apparently very nice couple who owned the inn. Neither of them batted an eye at the two of them checking themselves into a suite - Wesley checking them in, rather, while Giles limped about the lobby, examining the photos on the walls until Wesley touched his arm.

The painkiller he'd taken before leaving the hospital was beginning to wear off. The climb up to the first floor stole his breath and made his ribs burn. He stood at the top for a moment, hanging onto the rail and waiting for the dizziness to pass, while Wesley unlocked the door to their room. The bed was starting to sound more appealing than the bath - a real bed, not a hospital bed with light pouring in from the hallway and nurses' shoes squeaking by all night long. Wesley seemed to understand, because he ushered Giles in and sat him down on the bed before kneeling at his feet and beginning to remove his shoes. Giles looked down at Wesley's dark head, considered resisting, and decided not to.

Instead he looked around the room, which was as tastefully quaint as the lobby had been. Not impersonal like a hotel room - there were watercolors on the walls he suspected one of the proprietors had done, of Sunnydale's beachfront - nor kitschy, nor was there that cloyingly sweet potpourri smell Giles had always detested, reminiscent of antique shops. The curtains on the window were pale green and fluttering faintly in the breeze; the bedspread was a slightly darker green to match the pillows. Polished hardwood floors with throw rugs to either side of the bed. Through the door to the bathroom he could just glimpse the promised bath.

Wesley drew Giles's attention back by sliding a thumb up the arch of his foot. He looked up at Giles, smiling, and Giles managed to smile back. "You just keep doing that," he said, closing his eyes. "Think I'll go to sleep for a bit."

To his disappointment the hand left his foot, but then Wesley was encouraging him to lay back against the pillows. Wincing, Giles moved up to the head of the bed and lifted his legs up onto the bed. Wesley appeared with a glass of water and a Vicodin. Giles took both, and then Wesley sat down and took up where he'd left off with Giles's foot. "I'd offer to do the rest of you, but I don't think it's a good idea just yet," he said with an apologetic smile.

"Probably not." Giles closed his eyes. His feet felt good in Wesley's warm, dry hands, and the rest of him felt, if not good, then at least not terrible. The bed was pleasant, neither too soft nor too hard. He sank down into it and gave up his feeble efforts to stay awake.

He woke to a dim room and the sound of pages turning. He blinked awake and peered up at Wesley, illuminated by the bedside lamp on his side, a pencil clasped between his lips and a heavy, leather bound tome sharing his lap with a yellow legal pad. It was a terribly attractive look for him: the abstracted intellectual at work. Giles watched for a few moments, his vision blurry without his glasses, softening all of Wesley's features until they looked a bit like the watercolor paintings on the walls. Wesley removed the pencil from his mouth and scribbled something on the pad. Then he glanced down at Giles, as though checking on him, and his lips immediately curved up into a smile. "Ah," he said quietly, "he wakes."

"Yes." Giles pushed himself up. "How long was I out?"

"Almost four hours."

"Oh, damn, I told Buffy we'd be back for dinner."

"I know. I called and told her you were sleeping and I didn't want to wake you." Wesley glanced at his watch. "We could still go, if you want. Or we could be horribly selfish and stay in for the evening."

"I . . . see." Giles paused, considering. "How did she sound?"

"Not bad. She asked if you were all right, and I said I thought you were just exhausted." Wesley leaned over and set pad, pencil, and leather bound tome on the floor. Then he slid down the bed so they were eye to eye, leaned in, and kissed Giles lightly. "They're fine, Rupert. Angel and Buffy are both there, and if anything happens, they'll call us. Let me run you a bath and go out and get us some food while you soak."

"Oh," Giles said, a trifle weakly, he was afraid. "When you put it that way . . ."

"Excellent." Wesley kissed him again, a bit longer and rather more thoroughly this time, until Giles threaded his fingers through Wesley's hair and took charge of the kiss, deepening it, demanding more. Wesley propped himself up and Giles could feel him, half-hard against his hip. Giles's breathing quickened in response until -

"Ow." He winced.

Wesley pulled back, eyes wide in alarm. "What ow? Did I -"

"No, no," Giles assured him hastily. "It's just - breathing too fast or too deep is, um, painful at the moment."

"Ah, right." Wesley took a deep breath of his own. "I'm sorry."

"No, please, don't be," Giles said, tightening his grip on Wesley's arm. He pulled him down to kiss him again, softly. Even without the near-death experience, he'd gone far too long without this. He'd stayed over in LA for a weekend before going back to England, but he'd been so distracted and anxious about leaving Buffy that neither of them had properly enjoyed the visit. He'd regretted that, once he was in England with nothing and no one to distract him except his part-time work for the council. They spoke on the phone, but that hardly counted when what he wanted was the two of them pressed skin to skin like this.

He had to suppress a grumble of protest when Wesley finally got up to go draw his bath. It was worth it, though, when Giles climbed in, leaning on Wesley's arm so as to avoid injuring himself further by slipping and falling. He'd run it hot, almost too hot; it stung the cuts and bruises at first, but eventually the pain faded and Giles felt his sore muscles unwind, like tension going out of a taut string. He positioned himself so one of the jets streamed against his lower back, where he carried his stress even when he hadn't just almost been killed, and tilted his head back against the edge of the bath.

Wesley's hand cupped the back of his head, lifted it briefly, and slipped a folded up towel beneath it. "Thai all right with you? There's a place down the street I used to frequent that does takeaway."

"Mmm."

"Rupert." Wesley's eyes sparked with amusement tinged with concern. "Please don't fall asleep and drown in the bath."

"Shan't." Giles closed his eyes. "Thai's fine. Green curry, please. Spicy."

"Chicken?"

"Mm hm."

He heard Wesley laugh softly, and then the door to the room opened and shut. Giles drifted, in both mind and body, not quite sleeping, but letting his mind wander where it would. It wandered to Wesley and he smiled faintly, sinking into the water up to his chin. The last few days had been terrible, and he'd expected more of the same once he got out of hospital; this was an unexpected boon. He was worried about what might be happening at Buffy's, but Wesley was right: Buffy was there, and Angel, and between the two of them he was confidant that things couldn't get too out of hand. He'd have to take over Willow's care soon enough, and the stronger he was when he did it the better off they both would be.

Probably this was nothing more than rationalization for the decision to hole up here with Wesley rather than brave the chaos back at the house. Giles didn't care.

He was aware, vaguely, of Wesley's return, but he didn't open his eyes until Wesley slid into the bath beside him. He slitted his eyes open and watched Wesley place a glass of straw-pale wine on the little tiled counter area beside the bath. Giles admired briefly the play of muscles under his skin. Wesley was lovely. All the more so because he hadn't the faintest idea.

"Do I get one of those?" Giles asked, sitting up and nodding toward the wine.

Wesley shook his head. "Not while you're on Vicodin, you don't."

"Ah." Unfortunate point, that. "Come here, then. Let me taste it on you."

Wesley looked dubious and Giles couldn't blame him after what had happened earlier, but he was feeling so thoroughly relaxed he also couldn't care. The wine was faintly sweet on Wesley's tongue and Wesley's body was firm under his hands as he slid them across his chest and around and down his back. Giles felt bonelessly relaxed, more relaxed than he had ever felt before in his life, perhaps, thinking of nothing at all besides the taste of Wesley's mouth and the texture of his body.

Eventually Wesley broke the kiss, but only so long as it took him to ease to his knees in front of Giles in the bath, pushing his legs apart. Giles offered no resistance; in very short order he was more aroused than he had been earlier, but no pain threated to pick away at the pleasure suffusing his body. He sighed into the kiss and pushed his hips against Wesley's. Wesley hummed low in his throat and dropped his head to chase with his tongue a drop of water trailing down Giles's neck to his chest; Giles tilted his head back and swallowed, feeling his desire deepen yet further. Wesley knew his body well, knew where to stroke him and kiss him, how to tug at his earring with his teeth and rub his thumb over Giles's nipples, knew that soft touches to the insides of his wrists and elbows drove him mad.

Wesley batted his hands away when Giles reached for him in the soft, shifting warmth of the water. Giles thought that perhaps he should try harder, but it seemed a great deal of effort. If Wesley wanted to do this for him, he certainly wouldn't stand in the way. He closed his eyes; it felt as though Wesley's hands were everywhere at once, stroking the inside of his thighs or the hollow of his hip, kneading the small of his back, trailing his fingers from instep up to the back of his knee until Giles's low moans had turned to whimpers and he was very close to begging Wesley to touch him the only place he hadn't yet.

Fortunately Wesley took pity on him just before he was so reduced. He kissed Giles again, deep, open-mouthed, and sloppy, and finally - finally - curled his fingers around him. Giles pushed into his hand, reaching to grip Wesley's hip and pull him up against him more tightly. Wesley gasped and Giles smiled to himself, not allowing Wesley to deter him this time as he reached to stroke him in time to Wesley's own rhythm. It was slow; if Giles hadn't been so thoroughly relaxed, it would have seemed much too slow. He felt his orgasm uncoil itself within him with equal languor, from his lower back up to the top of his spine, setting off sparks in his fingers and toes, the balls of his feet, the dark space behind his eyelids. Wesley pressed closer; he was hard and heavy in Giles's hand, which made him regret a little that he wasn't up to anything more athletic. But only a little, because this was utter perfection.

He came before Wesley did, but not much before, gasping faintly into Wesley's mouth. His back arched, pushing his hips against Wesley's, and his hand on Wesley tightened, sending him over the edge as well. They held each other, coming down from it, foreheads pressed together, sharing air and space. Giles kept his eyes open to watch Wesley's face, until Wesley opened his eyes at last and caught him staring. Wesley smiled then, nuzzled him, and reached for his wine glass, allowing Giles a sip this time. A dry Riesling, faintly fizzy. It made him realize how hungry he was.

He felt heavy, clumsy, and sore once he'd climbed out of the bath; even their slow, gentle love-making had put strain on unhappy muscles. He patted himself dry carefully while Wesley, wearing shapeless black slacks and a thin white undershirt, dished up the food. He blinked when Wesley handed him a pair of striped pajamas. "These aren't - I didn't bring anything with me," he said, staring down at them in bewilderment.

"I know. I took the liberty of purchasing them yesterday. Along with a few other things." Wesley nodded to a duffel bag that sat unnoticed in a corner of the room. "When you said the coven had teleported you in, I assumed you didn't have anything except the clothes on your back."

"Oh." He pulled them on, slowly, and left the top unbuttoned. He felt strangely shaky all of the sudden and was glad to sit. It didn't really help, though, and the sudden appearance in front of him of a plate of green curry and rice, still steaming despite the delay in eating, only increased his sense of being off-balance.

"Rupert?" Wesley said after a moment. "Are you all right?"

Giles looked up, trying to put words to something he couldn't quite make sense of himself. "I . . . yes, I - I'm fine, I just - it's a bit much, I think. I . . ." He trailed off, staring down at his food again. "I really did think I would die," he said at last, his voice thin and strange to his own ears.

He heard Wesley's voice catch. Then he reached across and captured Giles's hand where it lay on the table. "I know. But you didn't."

"I didn't." Giles took as deep a breath as his injured ribs would allow and squeezed Wesley's hand. With his other he picked up his fork. "I didn't."

Fin.