[Gunnwesley] Fic: Kungai Part Six 4/12 (Wesley/Gunn, NC17)

[helenraven]

Title: Kungai Part Six 4/12

Author: Helen Raven

Email: helenraven at talk21.com

Pairing: Wesley/Gunn

Summary: The full history of the relationship between
Gunn and Wesley in the Birthdayverse. A novel in six
parts.

Rating: NC-17

Disclaimer: Not mine, not for profit, not even a blip
on the litigation radar.

The Story's Home Page: http://www.kelper.co.uk/kungai

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Angel took several days to get over that headache, and
the first time they saw him do more than lie quietly -
when he woke as Angelus, late that Saturday night -
they realised that the strange, cancelled-out vision
had caused some new and frightening damage. Angelus
could stand up, he could manage more than one word at
a time, but he kept on jumping between tracks, like a
turntable set on a washing-machine. Or like that
vision, but much less violent: speaking, not
screaming, and with most jolts a minute or more apart.
In all of the tracks he was Angelus, and he had a
punishing headache, and he had strong opinions about
that headache, but none of the tracks knew about the
others, and there were some that repeated two or three
times, almost word-for-word. It lasted for about half
an hour, exhausting to watch. At the end Angelus acted
like the needle had got stuck in the gap between
tracks: just stood and juddered for a few seconds and
then he slowly folded to the floor. Wesley could
hardly sleep that night for imagining the same thing
happening to Angel, imagining that this damage might
be permanent.

The next day the headache seemed to have faded to an
irritant, like a low sun right in your eyes. Angel was
grouchy and groggy and making very little sense. He
knew Wesley and there were none of those abrupt jumps
between tracks; it was more like three or four tracks
had been mixed together, all running at the same time,
and the details of Wesley's response didn't matter to
any of them. Gunn and Wesley only stayed for long
enough to feed him, but he stayed awake, muttering and
complaining, for nearly two hours.

Monday was the last day of the headache and he was
lucid for most of the day. Wesley got him some
migraine-strength Exedrin, and he said he felt as if
he'd had the headache forever, and they talked about
how drugs worked on vampires.

On Wednesday evening while they were out training with
the crew, Angel had a second "multiple" vision. The
sounds on the tape were just like Gunn had remembered
the first, including the crash at the end like a
felled tree. Angel had fallen face-down under the
window, right in the range of the morning sun. They
chained his hands and his feet, rolled him over to the
mattress, unchained him and covered him with the
blanket. When they'd rolled him onto his back, the
first move away from the window, Gunn had
half-expected to see that he'd been bleeding from his
nose. The vision had been bad enough the first time,
but knowing the damage it must have caused, hearing
the sounds like a mauling... Something had been torn,
or crushed under pressure. For an injury like that,
there should be some outward sign.

Again, Angel took three days to recover. The stages in
the recovery seemed about the same, though he spent
most of his time in hell, barely speaking, and the
details of the damage weren't so obvious. He didn't
speak at all the first time they went in, but then he
didn't need to because Wesley had the Exedrin and the
ice-water right there.

Two of the self-cancelling visions in less than a
week. Was that a sign of problems at the source? That
the visions were never meant for Angel, should have
gone to a three-ton Agodek demon in the Andes - or in
another dimension entirely? It couldn't just be Angel
suddenly getting worse, nothing could be that sudden.
They'd seen how Angel got worse: through small steps,
over weeks. Wesley tried not to build up any hopes on
the Powers: that they'd notice soon, that it would
serve their purpose to stop the visions going to
Angel. Instead, he held to the proof that Angel was
able to recover, that his mind did have its own
strength.

On Saturday night, with the pain nearly gone, Angel
had a normal vision about Furudal demons preying on
homeless people in the Metro Rail tunnels at Union
Station. They found two females prowling the tunnels,
but Angel's drawings had shown a male, too. They lay
in wait in the lair, but the male must have smelled
the blood and they had no advantage of surprise -
though the male was also too angry to think of
flipping that advantage over against them. A very
tough fight, in a confined space. As soon as they were
home they stripped off their clothes and threw them in
the trash, then took their turns in the shower and
patched each other up.

Angel was still stuck in the vision, of course,
muttering about "Union Station" and "getting out of
the rain", tracing lines on the wall, over and over.
But now he was also rolling his forehead against the
wall and against his knee, and in among the mutterings
there were moans of "Hurts. It hurts," and "Make it
stop." They shared a beer on the couch and wondered
about going in with the Exedrin and the ice-water but
he wouldn't know they were there: he wouldn't take the
pills, he wouldn't lie still for the cloth. Better to
get another beer, go to bed, and find out the parts of
their bodies that weren't aching or scraped or
bruised.

The headache from the normal vision lasted all of
Sunday, bad enough that even Angelus hadn't the energy
 to do more than drag himself up to sitting and
complain in a hoarse voice about where they must have
found his latest victim, what the young idiot must
have been drinking. When he was lucid he called for
Wesley, and Gunn didn't bother standing guard, just
helped Wesley with the door. Angel was lucid (and so
was Angelus, in his way): making sense, keeping on a
single track. The headache looked like an inflammation
of the scar-tissue from the mis-sent visions. But that
was all, there was no active damage.

Wesley stayed home from training with the crew in case
Angel called for him, and for once Gunn was able to
tell them the exact truth: that Wesley's friend had
started having crippling headaches, and nothing seemed
to help except Wesley sitting with him. Wesley kept
the monitor by the side of the bed, but there was no
call during the night and by morning Angel was
completely recovered.

The next vision was a fake one, on Thursday afternoon
while Gunn was out working. It was about Doyle;
probably not about his death, more likely about one of
his visions. The drawings showed Doyle clutching his
head in pain, while the words - in an Irish accent -
had been about a nest of vampires downtown, and a bar
and a tattoo, and something that could never be
satisfied. By the time Gunn got home Angel had fallen
asleep (or shut down): curled up in his corner, with
his arms wrapped tight around his head. Even a fake
vision could give him a headache now, though Wesley
said there'd been no signs of it for the first half
hour. Maybe it took time to build, or maybe the force
of a fresh vision drove everything else out. Gunn
guessed they would never know.

Angel was still asleep when Gunn left for the
beach-house that evening, but he was awake and
vamped-up and very loud when Gunn got back. He had
some hard object in there with him and was kicking it
and throwing it against the door, and he was snarling
about a "twisted little cocktease" and "sick games"
and "making you crawl". Wesley was in the bedroom with
a book. He'd had earplugs in and Gunn's headphones on,
but he'd heard Gunn at the door and he'd already put
everything aside.

The thing Angelus was kicking had to be the bowl. Gunn
sat on the edge of the bed, laid his arm across
Wesley's knees to stop him getting up, and stared at
him hard. After a few seconds Gunn swallowed and shook
his head. "Lookin' at you, I just can't tell how close
it was. You couldn't've... You couldn't've half-known
when you went in?"

Wesley sighed, pulled a face, and dragged his hand
back through his hair. "It's Angel. It has to be: he
knows my name. He was saying it when he woke up and
I..." Another sigh. "In retrospect I should have
realised that he wasn't calling for me, he was
swearing at me or about me. But then he did seem
pleased to see me. I don't know. How close...?" He
swallowed hard. "I was just coaxing him to hold out
his hand for the pills when he erupted. I've been
trying not to guess what I might have been doing in
his dream. Well... not the details, anyway. If it
helps you sleep any better, I don't think he would
have killed me."

Gunn closed his eyes tight, clenched his teeth so his
jaw-muscles crackled, and dug his fingers deep into
the meat of Wesley's thigh. With his eyes still
closed: "Is this how he was before?" A deep breath,
and then he was looking at Wesley. "I mean, the time
when you covered it up?"

Wesley looked away for a few seconds, then put his
hand over Gunn's. "The eruption was - But he was angry
in a different way. With more hope. None of this
vitriolic judgement."

Slowly: "We've all been through a lot since then. He -
Jeez, there's a million things he could dream." Wesley
just nodded. "How're you gonna sleep?"

Wesley took hold of Gunn's jacket near the collar, and
started to tug it off his arm. "Better if you..." A
smile. "... throw me across the bed right now and tear
my clothes off and leave me distinctly sore."

"Wes, I -" Gunn put his hands on Wesley's shoulder and
waist, very lightly, to steady, not control.
"Listening to him, thinking about - It doesn't take me
like that. More the opposite. I know you got ways
of... usin' the bad stuff, turnin' it around but - But
I can't."

Wesley was shaking his head. "It's not that it takes
me like that, either. I'd have to act my part at
first, we both would until we managed to forget about
him. But forceful sex is good, when it's with a good
man. And I want to relearn that immediately, before I
leave this room and have to look at him again."

Forceful. Gunn liked that: for the excitement, the
newness, and the trust. He changed his grip and pulled
Wesley into a kiss - slow and deep, at first, like
they were looking for something in each other. A
promise, maybe, that they would be able to forget
about Angel? When they were both gasping and Wesley's
fingers were busy at the fastening of Gunn's pants,
Gunn pulled back enough to say, "So what's my
motivation? You said I'd be playing a part."

A slight pause, then Wesley laughed. "Um... you're a
mattress salesman. You get very good commission. I've
had disappointments before with this design of spring.
So you insist I take the time for a thorough test."

Gunn just managed to keep a straight face. He knelt up
with one foot on the ground and lifted Wesley a few
inches off the bed. "Which would start with the
throwing?"

"Yes. Oh, yes." Wes was so eager, not playing any part
at all. Gunn kept on having to prompt him to show some
resistance - which he did mostly by acting like Wesley
was already fighting back hard - because he did want
his chance to be forceful. He stayed with that
ridiculous character as long as he possibly could,
running it as a commentary in his own head long after
Wesley had stopped forming words, had stopped showing
any sign of hearing; not because the idea made him
hot, but the opposite: because the silly joke gave him
a distraction, a way to stay cool, so he could keep
those sounds coming from Wesley's throat for five more
breaths, ten more.

Angel had been trying not to listen. Or his headache
had taken over. Or something. Wesley didn't look up at
the screen when they went out to use the bathroom and
get a beer, but Gunn did. Angel was over at the far
wall, kneeling with his forehead against the wall and
his forearms pressed flat on either side. You could
see that as Angel covering his ears, or banging his
head against the wall, or trying to claw his way
through it. Or even praying. But desperate to be
somewhere else. Yeah, desperate.

For a second Gunn thought, "You were better off when
you were always in hell." But that wasn't true. Angel
hadn't been better off then, just Gunn, just Gunn's
imagination. Because Gunn's imagination couldn't
stretch as far away as Angel's hell, it couldn't put
flesh on the torments in Angel's memory. But Angel
having to listen to them, with all the hundreds of
things he felt and thought about Wesley... Gunn's
imagination understood from the inside. Gunn pitched
his voice low when they got back to bed, just above a
whisper, and Wesley followed without making any
comment.

Angel woke them up several times during the night: as
Angelus, and with nightmares. He was lying on the
mattress when they got up, looked deep asleep. Their
first sign that he was awake came just after they'd
settled to breakfast: a shout breaking across their
conversation about that evening's training with the
duals. "I'm hungry! Wesley!" An impatient order. He
was on his feet, with his arms folded; they hadn't
heard him move.

Wesley frowned hard, dragged the back of his hand
across his lower lip, shouted back, "Yes, alright,"
muttered, "Some people think it's good form to say
please," then got up and went to open the fridge.

Angel wouldn't look at them. He'd aimed his order
straight at the door, but when Gunn slid the bolts he
turned sharply away. When he held his right hand out
for the beaker, it was almost behind his back.

"You can put your hand down, Angel, I'm not going to
give this straight to you, I don't trust your mood. Go
and kneel in the far corner on the other side of the
mattress. Facing the wall."

The hand closed, rose inch by inch as a fist while
Angel breathed tight and harsh and then he suddenly
shook himself, gave a rasping sigh, and strode over to
the corner. Every movement, every line saying, "Let's
get this over with." Plus a subtext of: "Asshole!"

Wesley put the beaker on the floor about in the middle
of the room. Angel drank the blood standing up, still
turned away from them. When he was finished he threw
the beaker towards them: not wanting to hit them,
probably, just a flick of the wrist to get rid of the
thing; and then he wandered slowly back to the far
wall.

Wesley collected the beaker, the bowl and the cloth
and placed them just outside the door. Three steps
back into the room, then: "Is there something we need
to talk about, Angel?" Angel's whole back gave a
violent shudder, then he hunched up. "You're obviously
very angry with me, but I don't really understand why.
This seems very sudden." No response, nothing. Wesley
looked at Gunn and shrugged. "Well... if you're too
angry to be able to talk about it, maybe you could
write about it on your pad. Then you wouldn't have to
have me in here, you could slide the paper under the
door." Still no response, not even a jerk of the head
to show he was thinking about where he'd find the pad.
Gunn's turn to shrug, and they left.

After a few minutes Angel moved to do his hunching on
the mattress, and then after about half an hour he
suddenly went over to take the pad, sat against the
wall scrawling furiously - covering one, two, three
pages - then gave one of his snarls, and threw the pad
across the room. He sprang to his knees,
lightning-fast, grabbed one of the books and destroyed
it in five efficient movements. The same with the
other book, and then he went back to the mattress.

They weren't sure when he fell asleep, but just past
midday he woke up in hell, and they decided it was
safe to go in and get the pad. Page One had a drawing
of Gunn angry, probably the way he'd looked when he'd
first found out about them, when he'd written that
threat about the gag. Yeah, very probably since the
drawing had "VINDICTIVE" and "PETTY" and "SPITEFUL"
slashed across it. Looked like Wes had got it wrong
when he'd said that Angel didn't remember the threat.

Page Two was Wesley lying on Angel's mattress, naked
except for the padding across his shoulder, looking
relaxed, looking welcoming. But not hard: the cock was
drawn clear, and it was lying soft on the curve of his
thigh. The words were written along the margins, and
much more lightly than with the picture of Gunn: "If
it's not because of him and you're a coward, then it's
because you're cruel. I try to believe you're a
coward," and "You made me think I knew."

Page Three had just words. "I don't deserve that
much." - "It's too hard for just wanting." - "I KNOW
it was wrong for him, I KNOW we won't, you think I
didn't have time to learn?" - "You KNOW what you're
doing." - "You MADE it like that. You won't accept, so
you're making me pay."

Gunn tore the pages out of the pad, spread them out on
the table, and stood scratching his eyebrow and
shaking his head. "Wha'd'you think? He's having a
flashback to when I was keepin' him chained?"

Wesley was still staring at the pages like he'd never
known that Angel could draw. After a few seconds:
"Charles. I swear to you he's never seen me like that.
It's never been like that."

Gunn shrugged and shook his head. "I wasn't even
thinkin' that. So what about the flashback idea?"

A long sigh. "I don't know. Obviously he feels
betrayed in some way to do with sex. I suppose there
was a lot he felt at the time that he didn't show me.
And now I've done something to trigger it. But - I've
touched his hand almost every day since we came back.
I thought it helped."

Gunn nodded. "Sure looked that way." Angel touched
Wesley every day, too, and not for Wesley's practical
reasons - the pills, the blood, the cloth - but just
because he wanted to. "How's he been talkin' about it
since we got back? Sex, I mean."

Wesley put his hand on the third page and flicked the
edge with his thumb, over and over. "Um..." He
swallowed. "In a positive way. Not as a problem."

"He still want you?"

A very brief nod.

"He gettin' you? 'n' I know it ain't my business but
he's kinda makin' it a... y'know, a work-safety
issue."

Wesley screwed his face up, dragged his hand down over
it, then met Gunn's eyes, obviously struggling every
second not to look away. "He's getting something. Not
much but enough to keep him content. Or so I thought.
It seemed a stable arrangement."

"How often?"

"Three or four times since we got back.  With the
headaches... the last time was nearly a week ago."

"Could be he thinks it was longer? You cut him off?"

"Maybe. I - But the way he reacted last night. And now
calling you vindictive. Seeming more angry with you."
Wesley shook his head. "Maybe it's an effect of the
damage from the new visions. Not exactly a flashback
but a collage. We shouldn't try to guess, our minds
don't work like that."

Gunn thought that over. "So what d'we do? Chain him up
so we don't need the two of us just to feed him? 'n'
hope the next vision'll damage him back to somethin'
we're used to?" Yeah, but what were they used to?
Body-length burns in the middle of the night. Hard-ons
in the showers, with confident invitations to group
sex. Like Wesley had said, you could think you were
ready but he kept on surprising you.

But there were always reasons, when he was in a state
to explain. Some were a monster's reasons ("I'd break
his neck."), some were a crazy man's, but the rest you
could understand. And he usually understood your
reasons ("He can't sleep in here, you're too
dangerous.") - once you'd come up with a version that
fitted in with what he needed to believe about his
place in hell.

Wesley was looking up at the screen, frowning hard.
Finally, with a sigh: "For now, I'd rather risk
letting him go hungry than keep him chained up. We
know the chains would give him more material for his
collage. Keeping him hungry is... I think there's more
room for manoeuvre."

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