[Gunnwesley] Fic: Kungai Part Four 8/11 (Wesley/Gunn, NC17)

[helenraven]

Title: Kungai Part Four 8/11

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

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The next day Wesley went in with the dressing already
off: less for Angel to ask about, less reason for him
to come close. Angel had forgotten that Wesley was
injured, but he remembered that Wesley fought, and
with a sword. He was very serious. Not puzzled,
though, not showing any sign of questioning because of
the day before.

While Wesley was in the kitchen heating the second
half-pint, Angel said to Gunn, "You were apart. When
he fought."

"Kinda. 'bout halfway across the room."

A nod. "You fight too."

"Yeah."

"With a sword?"

"Sometimes. I like an axe or a stake."

"Is it halved when you're together? Or is it the same?
Can you make it heal?"

"Wesley's hand? It is healing. Itches a lot. Aches if
he does the wrong thing."

"He'll fight again?"

"Oh, yeah. Soon. Soon 's he can, I bet."

"Do you fight without him?"

"No. Sure, I would if I had to. But, no, we train as a
team."

Angel nodded, then turned his attention from Gunn to
the doorway. Gunn wondered if Angel could tell
anything from the sounds. Had he worked out his own
ideas about where the blood came from, what the hum
and beep of the microwave meant?

When Wesley held out his hand to take the empty
beaker, Angel took hold of the hand by the fingers and
lifted and turned it so he could examine the wound.
"It is healing. The blood is inside."

"Yes. I should be able to bring you a full pint
tomorrow. The stitches have nearly stopped pulling."

The next day, Friday, Wesley was able to carry a full
pint comfortably, but Angel was having one of those
days when he was terrified of them. He wouldn't come
near Wesley, so Wesley had to kneel down and put the
beaker on the floor, which was awkward for him and put
stresses on the wound that he'd normally avoid. When
Wesley ordered him, Angel did come forward to take the
blood; he drank on his knees, eyes closed, and when
he'd finished he put the beaker down behind his back
and then edged away along the wall.

You could argue that he was in this state because he
was confused by Wesley not setting the right limits,
but Gunn wasn't gonna do that. OK he wasn't an expert
like Wesley, but he could see that this Angel came
from a different part of Angel's brain, from a part
that couldn't have any thought about Wesley except
that he was a guard.

Over the weekend Angel knew that Wesley had stitches
in his hand, but he didn't know that he'd seen them
before. "I thought I might not see you. That they
might not..." A glance at Gunn, dismissive, then back
to the hand, especially to the stitches. "And you
should be. Did they make you work? What did they do?"

"They didn't make me do anything. This isn't nearly
enough to stop me working." A smile. "And no one would
ever have to make me look after you."

Angel looked self-conscious, didn't quite manage to
smile back. He looked down at Wesley's hand in his
own, then lowered the hand and let go. When he raised
his head again, it was to look at Gunn. "Are you in a
religion? Have you been given a duty?" He was speaking
to Wesley, though: it was in the tone of his voice.

"No. Not 'given'. But it's important to us... to make
things better where we can."

Angel turned back to Wesley, looked hard at him, then
nodded. "Yes. I - I wanted... But I just hid. I even
tried to go back. I wasn't good enough. I'm not. I
couldn't do it alone. But you're different." And his
hand on Wesley again, this time on Wesley's chest.

Gunn bent to pick up the empty beaker from the floor
by Angel's foot. "Wes, I want to get going. They're
expecting me with the books." Gunn was spending the
day at the beach-house with the boys, helping with
research, ideas for marketing and (probably) the
assault on Glacier Coast.

Until that morning, Gunn had been planning on telling
the boys about Wesley's hand, probably tell them a few
stories, like Wesley being annoyed about having too
many choices. But now it felt like all stories led to
Angel - to Angel's hand. And what could he ever tell
them about that?

There wasn't a vampire sense of touch. Was there? Yes,
Angel noticed heat, blood heat, but he would notice
those, being cold as death. When he touched Wesley he
would have felt warm cotton, the solid curves of
muscle over ribs, but nothing distinct, nothing really
personal. Nothing he could claim later as a way of
recognising Wesley.

Stupid. Stupid to be jealous. And of course he wasn't
jealous, just thrown. In the time he'd known Angel,
Angel had freaked him out at least once a week - some
weeks, at least once a day. You'd think the vamp would
run out of surprises, but no.

The boys already knew about Wesley's hand, as it
turned out, because Grouw had spoken to his sister the
night before. They'd been out and got a Get Well card
for Wesley, and a dragon finger-puppet. The
finger-puppet wasn't a gag gift - they were very
pleased with themselves for finding something they
were sure Wesley would have chosen for himself.

Wesley just wasn't capable of playing silly games with
a finger-puppet - he did not do cute - but he was
pleased almost speechless to be given a silly gift;
that the boys had thought of him, and that they could
see him like that. He put it on the tallest pencil in
the pen-jar on his desk and kept sneaking looks at it
and smiling to himself.

Wesley still couldn't touch Gunn with anything more
than fingertips and lips, but tonight he refused to
let Gunn do all the work. Gunn couldn't believe how
exciting it was, how satisfying - like "slow and
serious" (which they hadn't done in months), but
electric with the sense of something held back, just
out of reach. When Gunn tried to touch Wesley in the
same way, he found he couldn't hold himself back from
using his whole hand; he'd start properly with just
fingertips and then Wesley would give a moan or a
sigh, and Gunn would be clutching and pushing. After
the third time (or was it the fourth?), Wesley told
him to use only his mouth; later he'd be allowed to
use his hands, but only on himself, and only to touch
himself the way Wesley told him. At the end, though,
Gunn forgot everything and grabbed for Wesley's hand,
squeezed it so hard he made the ring move by nearly a
quarter-turn.

"Wes. Wes. If I don't say this now I think I'll never
be able to say it. You'd only have to... Sex when
we're training... We gotta stop it. Maybe it isn't why
you got your hand cut, but - No way it helps us
focus."

Wesley was nodding, no sign of surprise. "We'll stop.
I know. It was -" A long sigh. "If you could try... to
look like everyone else when you move. When you pick
up a sword."

Much later, when Gunn was on the point of falling
asleep, Wesley said, thoughtful, "I think I might give
him some books again. A magazine, at least."

"Oh, Wes. Not another bar scene over and over. And
then he'll tear it up after a week. God, Wes, what's
the point?"

"I'm not... I won't give him anything with a story.
Books about art, I thought. About drawing. Even an
auction catalogue would be better than nothing. He
must be so bored, I hate to think how bored."

A long pause, then Gunn said, "He starts callin' you
in to read with him... He shows any sign he can't
handle it, gets angry just once..."

Wesley nodded. "It's an experiment. That's all."

Gunn drove Wesley to Barnes and Noble on Sunday
morning, and Wesley bought some paperback books on
architecture, landscape painting and still-life
painting; he didn't think it would ever be a good idea
to give Angel pictures of people. Angel was still
asleep when Gunn went to play pickup with the crew and
the kids from the shelter. Gunn asked Wesley not to
take the books in on his own, but he expected that
Wesley would find some excuse while Gunn was gone,
given that it was books ("He heard me turn the pages.
He asked for them.").

Wesley didn't give Angel the books, because Angel woke
up with a fake vision of Angelus about half an hour
after Gunn left, and he was still lost in the vision
when Gunn came back. The vision was full of sex, and
Angel got an erection even while he was frantic for
Angelus to be stopped. His body seemed to deal with
the erection all on its own, the hands acting as if by
reflex while Angel's mind felt and added nothing: no
sign of guilt, or really of pleasure.

A long vision, over three hours, and then a long
sleep, until past nine at night - and then there was
guilt. Wesley offered Angel a shower immediately,
before the blood, and Angel got ready in record time.
Wesley was fully dressed and Gunn was the one in the
robe, but Angel clearly didn't realise that this
shower was going to be different, not until the moment
when Gunn stepped into the bath with him. Gunn saw
shock and bewilderment, and then Angel turned towards
Wesley, as fast as the chains would let him.

Wesley raised his hand to show Angel the palm. "I
can't make any kind of rubbing motion, Angel. The
stitches make it too painful. Charles will get you
clean just as well as I do. In fact he'll do it
better, because he has two hands."

Angel shook his head several times, but then he slowly
turned back towards Gunn. His eyes were closed and he
was slumped, and he stayed like that throughout the
shower, and wouldn't look at either of them as they
were getting him back to his room.

Getting dressed seemed to help Angel, steady him,
since he was able to meet Wesley's eyes - just for a
second - when he took the beaker of blood from
Wesley's hand.

"I'm sorry." Angel's voice was very quiet, just above
a whisper.

"Well... I know you don't like change. Charles knows
that too, he knows not to take it too personally. And
it was worth it to get clean, wasn't it?"

"I've tried. I've... I don't know how to stop him."
The guilt again, and shame. "They let him out and I
find... I find what he's done. I'm sorry."

"Ah. You were thinking about Angelus. What you found
when you woke up. Angel, I'm not shocked by knowing
that a person has sexual fantasies. It's natural. Even
for him. A fantasy can't harm anyone else. There's no
need to feel guilt. Or to apologise."

"But - If you knew what he thinks. The things..."

"I do know. And I'm still not shocked. We all have
some unhealthy thoughts, some reactions we'd rather
not describe to someone else. But I don't judge people
on what they think, not even him. He's a monster
because of what he's done. And it doesn't matter how
many more unhealthy fantasies he has, because he'll
never be able to act on them again, not now we have
him in here. Don't worry about that, Angel. Drink your
blood now."

Angel drank, then returned the beaker. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Wesley washed the beaker then decided to go in again
with the books. Gunn thought it would have been better
to give Angel the books first thing in the morning,
keep watch on him during the day. But then again if
Angel was going to react badly, they'd find out one
way or another.

Angel was puzzled by the books. "What are they for?
What do you want me to do?"

"I'm hoping you'll get some enjoyment out of them.
That is, I'm hoping I chose some subjects that you'll
enjoy. I know you draw. I thought you might find these
interesting."

A long pause. Angel slowly shuffled the books two,
three times round without opening any of them. "I'll
try."

"That's the spirit. Goodnight, Angel. We'll see you
tomorrow."

Wesley thought it was funny, and his mood during their
beer-session on the couch was probably better than if
Angel had been properly grateful. "That'll teach me.
He's not sane. He's not human. And he's not me."

Angel laid the book out against the wall between the
two bolt-plates, and he must at least pick them up
from time to time because they changed positions; but
there was no sign that he was reading. Wesley decided
to leave him for a few weeks and then ask if he'd like
something different. No hurry.

Wesley got his stitches out on Thursday afternoon and
he and Gunn had a long training session in the
evening. Wesley was very glad to be able to fight
again; he said he hadn't realised how much his body
had come to enjoy the daily challenge. Watching him,
listening to him, Gunn felt the need to hold him as an
ache solid from his throat to his balls; the need to
soak up some of that body's happiness. He told Wesley,
and they switched to doing something tough and
repetitive that didn't involve looking at one another;
and neither said anything about "when they got home",
because it was too obvious, and because saying it
would bring it too close.

The scar was still unsettled, still hot. Gunn could
feel the heat against his lips, and a smell like
smoke. He found himself thinking of the first time
Wesley had shaken his hand, how he'd remembered the
feel of the palm, those calluses all of the rest of
the day. The scar gave him so much more to feel: the
way the ridge crossed all of Wesley's fingers and
nestled under his thumb. If it had been there that
day, he wouldn't just have remembered the feel of
Wesley's hand, he would have dreamed about it.

"Your hand... is skin." Angel, about to give the
beaker back, frozen at the sight.

"Yes, I got the stitches out yesterday." Wesley turned
his palm upwards.

Angel dropped the breaker, seized Wesley's hand and
wrist, and then sank to his knees and pressed his open
lips right over the scar.

"Angel!" Wesley jumped back, or would have but Angel
held tight. "No. Let go. This isn't right." Gunn was
ready - whenever Wesley gave the signal. This was
Wesley's decision, against Wesley's limits.

Angel had raised his head, but not because he'd heard
Wesley. The hand on Wesley's wrist was still clamped
fast, and Angel was watching his thumb as it traced
circles on Wesley's palm. "Skin." Almost a sigh.

"Angel. Let go. Stop this. Have you forgotten where
you are? This isn't right. This isn't how you show -
You have to let go."

Angel was looking up as Wesley, faintly puzzled. "But
didn't I...? I thought you let me. You wanted me
to..."

"You were concerned before. It was new. I was willing
to help answer your questions. But this... This
doesn't help you. You mustn't forget where you are.
What I am. Now be sensible and let go."

Angel obeyed, but stayed on his knees looking
stubborn.

"You dropped the beaker. Could you please pick it up
and give it back to me? Thank you. Angel. If you try
to do that again, Charles will make you let go."

Angel was angry now. Not about to lash out, but
resenting them hard.

"We'll see you tomorrow. Try not to forget this."
Wesley turned and left while Gunn stayed to cover
Angel and then backed out.

"Woah. Guess I saw somethin' comin' but - You OK?"
Wesley nodded but looked shaky. "He hurt you? Helluva
grip."

Wesley looked down at his arm and hand, turned them
back and forth. "I didn't... All I noticed was... how
cold he is. And I should know from training with him,
being in the shower with him."

"Creepy?"

A pause while Wesley tried to decide on the word.
"Startling. Just as startling as... what he did."

"The skin thing's new?"

A shrug. "New to me. He didn't show any sign of that
the last time I had stitches out."

"Or you'd've - Well... you'd've laughed different that
day in the restaurant. When I asked about you 'n'
him."

Wesley laughed, very briefly. "I'd have run home." A
frown. "You think it was sexual, then?"

"Oh." A pause. "Dunno. Y'know how I am about your
hand. He's... Well, he's not me, either. Way he acted
when you warned him off... Could've meant anythin' "
No clues from Angel right now, except that he was
angry in a grouchy, personal way; he was out of sight
somewhere near the door, muttering and grunting, and
laying the odd kick or punch on the wall or floor.

"Oh, that's awkward." Wesley sighed and dragged his
hand through his hair. "You were right. I confused
him. I should have stopped him the first time. Of
course he's angry. He must think... it's a trick."

"He's not that angry. He's just... Wanted something.
Been told he can't have it. He'll deal. Like we all
do."

"I hope so. I hate threatening him. It's sick. To use
his fear of the other guards."

"You had to. He was way out of line."

* * * * *


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