[Gunnwesley] Title: Kungai Part One 4/11

[helenraven]

Title: Kungai Part One 4/11

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


-----------------------

Wesley was waiting with the door open when Gunn came
back with the beers, and he looked so much better than
he had the first time Gunn had seen him in the
doorway, like he'd had twelve hours sleep in the
meantime. Some of that effect might be down to the
fact that he'd changed his clothes, or at least
changed his shirt. He'd been wearing something dark
before - a dark grey? - but he'd changed it for a
cream shirt with a button-down collar. The fight
hadn't been that difficult, or that messy, certainly
not enough to make Gunn uncomfortable about staying in
the same clothes; but then his day had been nothing
compared to Wesley's.

The armchair looked like it was Wesley's, with a
paperback book open face-downwards over the arm, so
Gunn took the couch. Wesley pushed the armchair close
to the couch before he sat down.

"What you readin'? Almost looks like it was published
this century."

Wesley put his beer on the floor, picked up and closed
the book, then leaned forward to put it on the coffee
table. "It's Angel's. He's back on Ellroy again. I
don't think it's good for him."

"Not by the sound of things." Angel was still
snarling, still throwing himself at the walls. "But we
were gonna do that normal life thing. You had one
once, right? You were an accountant, or something. Big
office downtown. Wall-to-wall suits. Maybe even
regular hours. Before you found out about demons."

Wesley's reply was a good ten seconds in preparation.
Gunn watched Wesley amuse himself with a succession of
benign thoughts, and discovered that Wesley had at
least four different types of half-smile. Finally:
"Something like that."

"Yeah. As in 'Nothing like that. Not even for a day.'
You gonna tell me you were born knowing about demons?
You were in the demon-expert stream from kindergarten
up?"

"I learned to read from 'A Child's Treasury of Verses
about Child-Eaters'." This time Wesley kept his face
so straight that Gunn was almost taken in. What must
it be like in England, if they all had that kind of
sense of humour? Maybe they found it easy to tell,
with each other.

"OK. Forget the normal life. How d'you come to
America? How d'you come to L.A.?"

He'd come for the demons, of course, but to Sunnydale
of all places. Something about a Hellmouth, one of the
wonders of the demon world.

"Well, Sunnydale's gotta have somethin' goin' for it.
Been up that way a couple of times. Never heard of any
reason to get off the freeway."

"It doesn't have much to recommend it. I didn't
achieve what I'd hoped. What about you? Having a
normal life, that is?"

Gunn learned more about Wesley in the process of
talking about himself than he had when trying to get
Wesley to talk - Wesley asked a lot of questions, and
most of those questions were revealing. He came from
money or... if there wasn't a lot of the money any
more, it was at least very old. He was the only child.
He'd gone to some fancy prep school, all boys, and
Gunn couldn't believe how young he'd been when they
first sent him there, away from home. But he said he'd
liked it there; it wasn't as bad as it sounded. He'd
gone to college in London, majoring in eastern
languages or something. He loved languages, he even
knew some demon languages. He'd started to find
translation work in L.A., pointed out the stack of
manuscripts on his desk.

They had nothing in common, except that they hunted
vampires and demons, and except that they liked one
another. They listened to one another. Properly. They
remembered. Gunn had never suspected that he could be
interested in theories about demon migration, but
Wesley, Wesley's enthusiasm, made him see why it was
worth arguing about. They had both nearly forgotten
about Angel; sometimes when the sounds from the room
changed, Gunn would glance towards the locked door,
but Wesley now seemed able to ignore everything.

Gunn didn't think of Wesley as skinny any more, and
couldn't imagine now how he'd first thought of him as
just a typical skinny white guy with glasses - no, as
the ultimate skinny white guy with glasses. Wesley was
like no one else that Gunn had ever met or seen, and
he wasn't skinny, he was lean, fined down. Gunn found
himself studying Wesley's face, trying to work out how
it gave the impressions that it gave. Seen from the
front, Wesley's face was so narrow, it seemed to be
made up entirely of long, straight lines, fitted
together almost without the need for curves. Very
formal. Very serious. And then he turned his head and
suddenly his face was all curves: that nose that made
Gunn think of a fin, and the jut of his lower lip,
almost a pout. The contrast made Gunn want to smile,
and seemed to sum up everything that Gunn admired and
liked about Wesley.

Wesley's hand: that offered a contrast too, though not
one to make Gunn smile. He hadn't really noticed
Wesley's hand before, during the meal, but now he knew
the touch of the palm - and he could call it up, the
nerves of his own palm were remembering it - and
Wesley was sitting with his hand resting on the arm of
the chair, close enough that Gunn would scarcely need
to lean forward in order to touch it. Delicate was the
word that kept coming to Gunn's mind, but that wasn't
right because it was a strong hand, capable. But the
fingers were so long, the palm so narrow, the setting
of the joints so clear, so neat  - it was a hand meant
for fine work, and detail. Alright, it was a beautiful
hand. Beautifully made. Was that such a strange thing
to notice about a friend? To think, "Wesley has
beautiful hands." And then to realise that what you'd
thought was some standard phrase. The normal way of
thinking something like that about a friend. No.
Thinking about Wesley's hands was a serious matter.
Much easier just to watch his face, wait for him to
smile, show a new angle on that lower lip.

"I'm sorry. It's bad enough that your eyes have glazed
over. But that I must not have noticed for five
minutes... You should stop me immediately."

"No. I was thinking about what you were saying. So
what is the evidence that they used to live in
rivers?"

Wesley smiled at him, then got to his feet. "That was
all of five minutes ago. You need another beer."

When Wesley sat down again, they clinked bottles and
the backs of their hands touched. Gunn felt the warmth
of that brief contact as clearly as he'd felt the
roughness of Wesley's palm.

"What about Angel, then? What happened to his normal
life?"

Slowly, dryly: "That was well before my time."

"When did the brain damage start?"

"About six months ago."

 "Was it sudden? Was he injured? Was he in an
accident?"

"I think it was an accident. It happened just before I
arrived in L.A."

"Had he come ahead? To move your business from
Sunnydale to L.A.?"

"We weren't working together then. But yes, he set up
in L.A. about a year ago."

"He must've had quite a network here already. What
with the tip-offs and everything."

Sombre: "I think there were big plans."

"But why's he still gettin' the tip-offs? Especially
when it - They must be able to see he's not the man he
was. They shouldn't be showin' him those pictures.
You're the only one they should be dealin' with."

"It's that or nothing. And for that family in Fairfax
tonight..." Wesley shook his head. "It can't be
nothing. They won't deal with me at all. It has to go
through Angel."

"They won't deal with you? Is that..." Gunn shrugged.
"I dunno, 's that 'cos of you bein' English? They
don't know what to make of you, with the accent?"

"Maybe. Who knows what they're thinking? There's
nothing I can do about it. I just have to live with
it."

"That the official line on bein' English? Don't tell
me it's in your Pledge of Allegiance." Smiling, sure
that Wesley would know that he hadn't thought Wesley
was talking about being English, and that he didn't
mean any disrespect. The chance had just been too good
to miss.

"It's the chorus of our national anthem." Again, the
straight-faced delivery. Even as he was laughing, Gunn
wondered how often people believed Wesley when he did
that.

They drank in silence for a while, or at least, they
drank without speaking: Angel didn't seem to like the
sound of Gunn's laughter: his tone had become raw,
almost hungry. Again, Wesley ignored the sounds, but
Gunn found himself dragged back towards serious
thoughts.

"Wesley? When did you lose your arm? You don't have to
tell me. Was it back in England?"

Wesley shook his head. "It was here in L.A. Six months
ago. I was tracking a Kungai demon. Angel arrived just
in time to stop it from killing me. He got me to
hospital. And then he helped me when I got out."

"Was he acting on a tip-off, when he arrived just in
time?"

"He was."

"And you said he'd had his accident before you came to
L.A. So he was already..."

"It wasn't noticeable back then. Not really. I don't
think anyone knew that the effects would be this
severe."

"And it's gonna get worse?"

"I would think so."

"You know you're gonna have to get some help. Or
you're gonna crack up. Doesn't matter how tough you
are. This isn't -"

Wesley raised his bottle of beer in salute and smiled
with open affection. "This is helping a lot. Not just
the beer. Thank you."

"Any time. In fact... Why don't we do this every week?
Tuesdays're good for me, I'm not on patrol. Hey, we
could even start earlier than midnight!"

"Around seven? I'll get the beer."

"Deal. And I don't have to tell you what to do if he
gets another tip-off."

"You don't."

"And how long's he gonna be like this? I can stay
tonight. I can drop in a coupla times a day."

Wesley shook his head. "He'll sleep it off. Don't
worry. We've been through worse. This..." He touched a
knuckle to his swollen lip. "I got careless. I know
how to make sure it doesn't happen again. You don't
have to worry."

"I'll head off when I've finished this, then." There
was less than an inch of beer left. "You gonna be able
to get some sleep?"

Wesley nodded, turned to point towards a door at the
other side of the living room, opposite Angel's.
"Another wall. An inch of solid wood. And an year's
supply of industrial hearing protection. It makes all
the difference."

"Wesley, I do like your attitude." Gunn finished his
beer in one mouthful, put the bottle on the coffee
table, and stood up. "I oughta get a start on the
sleepin' myself. Been a long day."

At the door, Wesley thanked Gunn again, and started to
raise his hand. Gunn shook his head firmly, and
stepped forward, smiling, to put his arms around
Wesley. He heard - and felt - Wesley give a small
sound of surprise, and then felt the pressure of
Wesley's hand, warm against his back.

Low, in Wesley's ear: "You take care, English," and
then Gunn stepped back, and found a completely new
expression on Wesley's face: shy, amazed, pleasure.
Gunn felt an expansion of heat in his chest, so strong
and sudden it was almost painful, and then, a
heartbeat later, a jolt of heat between his legs. Oh,
god. Of course. How'd he not realised before? He
didn't just like Wesley, he didn't just want to know
him better - he wanted him.

Oh, man. This was too much. Time to leave. Really time
to leave. And time to pray that Angel did sleep it
off, didn't get another tip-off, because Gunn was
going to need all of a week to work this one out. He
opened the door. "Take care, yeah?"

"And you. Until next Tuesday. What beer don't you
like?"

"It's all good. Night, Wesley."

Gunn needed to spend at least the next hour just
thinking. Shouldn't do it when he was driving.
Couldn't do it parked in front of Wesley's apartment,
because Wesley might look out and notice Gunn hadn't
left. There was an all-night diner a few blocks away.
He might as well do his thinking over a coffee or a
Coke.

There were four other customers. Gunn sat in the
window, as he always did; he didn't like being at the
back of a room if he could help it. The waitress said
the apple pie was good, and he ordered that as well as
a coffee.

So why hadn't he realised before? It had started over
the meal, hadn't it? OK, the wanting, the obvious
wanting, that had just happened, but to drive away
wondering if Wesley liked him - a man he'd spent
barely two hours with - to be planning for the next
meal, the next time he'd call, that was about wanting
to be close to Wesley. Wanting Wesley to let him in.
And tonight, his reaction to the touch of Wesley's
hand - Jeez! to just the sight of Wesley's hand.
Memorising every new expression on Wesley's face. Yes,
Charles Gunn, those are strange things to be thinking
about a friend.

He hadn't realised, because Wesley was white. He'd
never wanted a white man before, not really, not one
he'd actually met. Hadn't wanted many black men, but
when he had... Well, he hadn't thought about it
before, never had any reason to, but feeling so close
to Luke, and then feeling drawn to the others,
afterwards, part of that had to be because of what
they shared, what was understood. White guys, even the
ones on the crew, the ones he trusted with his life,
you knew they lived in a different world, always had,
always would. There was always a distance, and he'd
never been in the same room as a white body that had
made him imagine being pulled across that distance.

And then there was Wesley, and the distance was
thousands of miles, and God knows what else, but here
he was, with his cock pleading with him to drive back
those few blocks, and have Wesley open the door to him
again, and then do whatever it took to show Wesley
that they needed to be naked together.

Now that it had happened, though, it seemed completely
natural. Not in a way to make him think that it should
have happened before, that he just hadn't been looking
properly at any white guys, but because it was Wesley
and Wesley was clever and brave and funny and
surprising, and Wesley liked him and appreciated him,
and Wesley's face never looked the same to him twice.
Gunn had to know if the rest of Wesley's body was as
finely made as Wesley's hand, and so far everything
he'd seen and felt through those carefully-chosen
clothes told him that it was. How could he sleep, how
could he think, how could he make himself do anything
else, until he'd seen Wesley naked? Learned everything
he could learn about how Wesley was made.

Why didn't he drive back, knock on the door? He hadn't
been gone long, Wesley wouldn't be asleep yet, might
not even be in bed. But if he was in bed, would he
hear, what with the inch of solid wood, and Angel, and
everything? And if he did hear, what would happen?
Would he say, "I knew. I knew you'd come back. I would
have gone after you, if it wasn't for Angel."? Or
would he look dismayed and shocked, and suddenly
exhausted again, and say, "But you know I'm not like
that."? And ask Gunn to leave, and say it would be
better if he didn't come back?

Gunn would wait, rather than have that happen. He
would wait until next week. Having Wesley ask him to
leave, that would be terrible, terrible for them both
- and Gunn had no idea how Wesley was likely to react.
Wesley hadn't given him any clue, except to laugh for
a minute straight at the suggestion that Angel was his
lover. And, OK, Wesley hadn't been offended, but
wouldn't you think, if Wesley was at all interested in
men, that he'd've seen that question as a clue about
Gunn, said something  since to follow up on it? Or
maybe he was only interested in middle-class white
men, like he must have been with - he must have,
right? - at that all-boys school of his. But that
didn't have to be fixed, tastes didn't have to be
fixed. Gunn had learned that for himself just that
evening, so why couldn't Wesley, too? Give him another
week. Or two weeks. Or however many evenings he needed
of beers and jokes and open, obvious affection.

Gunn was sure he was important to Wesley. Totally
sure. Hell, you'd think Wesley'd never been hugged
before! There had to be a chance that Wesley just
hasn't realised yet. Next week he might realise and
Gunn'd be looking out for the moment when he did. Or
he'd figure out how to play it if Wesley didn't seem
to realise, so it didn't freak him out when Gunn made
his move, and he didn't ask Gunn to leave.

Gunn thought he could cope OK if Wesley didn't want
him. Been turned down before, got over it fine. But he
was gonna make that move sometime. He had to hear
Wesley say it, whether it was yes or no.

* * * * *

Rather read Kungai in HTML? See http://www.kelper.co.uk/kungai