FIC: Strangely Domestic (Giles/Wesley, FRT)
Title: Strangely Domestic
Author: soft_princess
Website: Fly With Me
Date: August 13, 2007
Word count: 1,704
Pairing: Wesley/Giles
Rating: FRT
Disclaimer: I don't own them. Joss does.
Spoilers: Post-Chosen and post-NFA
Summary: There isn't anything to understand, Wesley knows why he's here; he knows how he survived dying.
Note: written for bethynyc in the maleslashminis' second Wesley round. Request found after the fic.
***
He wakes up from a month-long coma at three thirty-three pm on a Sunday; the third Sunday of June, in fact. The only reason he remembers it so clearly is that Rupert spends many of his days in the following week researching the significance of all those threes, and Wesley can't help but being amused. He has no idea if there's any significance to it, but even if there is, he doubts books will help them find it.
Nonetheless, Rupert brings some volume on symbolism to the hospital, and Wesley humours him. There are moments in which Wesley finds himself smiling at Rupert and his need to understand... It is awkward at first, Wesley remembering the long depressing hours, no, really, years, before the apocalypse and wondering what the ethical thing to do about smiling for the smallest of reasons was, but he finds he doesn't care about should and shouldn't. He's alive, and while surviving sure-death certainly doesn't cure all of one's problems, Rupert's presence, and the way he has of making Wesley smile, might.
There isn't anything to understand, really. Wesley knows why he's here; he knows how he survived dying. It isn't something he wants to discuss with Rupert, though; even if he thinks that perhaps he will, another day, another time, but not yet.
So he lets Rupert research, and he smiles at times when Rupert mutters over the books and even falls asleep while reading.
Strangely domestic, he calls it, although he wouldn't dare to voice the thought out loud.
None of the doctors even blink when Wesley's wounds appear to have vanished completely without so much as a scar. It's only been a week since he's woken up. The discharge papers are signed quickly afterwards, and Rupert is there to help Wesley pack the odds and ends Rupert's brought in during Wesley's hospital stay -- some clothes, some books, some movies, mostly books.
The day of his release, Rupert takes Wesley straight home, to Rupert's flat in downtown London. It's close to the Council, closer than the Giles' family estate in Bath. The location is in fact the only reason Rupert rents this flat - it definitely can't be for the size of the place, since it's barely bigger than a small shoebox, and Wesley has to settle for sleeping on the sofa bed. Rupert promises Wesley on that first day out of the hospital that at the first opportunity, they will escape to the country for a few days, give Wesley more room to breathe, so to speak.
His father and mother have yet to call.
They know he's alive; Rupert has made sure they were contacted the moment Wesley was brought to England. Wesley wouldn't expect any less from him, just as he wouldn't expect any more from his parents. They've made it quite clear over the past five years that Wesley is no longer a welcome member of their family. It stings, at times, but Wesley still remembers what a real family is, and he finds he doesn't care whether his parents make the effort of contacting him or not.
Rupert, on the other hand, is perhaps too attentive.
Not that he follows Wesley around like a mother hen, he's too dignified for that, but he watches and anticipates most of Wesley's needs without asking.
It reminds Wesley of that summer five years ago when he'd still been an irritation to Rupert, an annoyance at best. Yet Rupert had taken him in when the doctor hadn't wanted Wesley to be left alone with a concussion, and he'd acted the same as he did now. They'd come to an understanding then, and even further than that, they'd become friends.
Close enough that "and please, call me Rupert," had been Rupert's last words before Wesley had left, motorcycle helmet firmly in place, to Rupert's great amusement.
Wesley remembers clearly how he'd felt: strong and free, wondering what the future would bring now that he was no longer tied to a path that had been traced for him. He had been mortal then.
He'd never tested it; it was all merely a theory. A theory that took shape through the last months in L.A., while everyone else had been lost in their own work, their own guilt. Wesley had met someone, a man, a mysteriously handsome man, who'd taken it upon himself to give Wesley a small spark of life back. It had been -- not that Wesley was truly sentimental, but "something special" came to mind. It hadn't held, the spark, but something else had, it seemed.
Immortality isn't a gift Wesley would ever have wished on anyone, but for the chance to be here today, with Rupert in the kitchen, humming, and himself sitting on the comfortable sofa in Rupert's living room, The Yurikat Codex on his lap, Wesley is glad he's received it.
It's sometimes overwhelming to think how much dying has given him the will to live.
He'll be back at work soon enough; Rupert has mentioned more than once how understaffed the New Council is, and Wesley has no doubt that he'll enjoy working for him. More than he's enjoyed anything lately, at any rate.
"Wesley? Would you set the table? It's almost ready," says Rupert. He's standing in the doorway when Wesley looks up, a fond smile on his lips. It's a smile Wesley is getting well acquainted with.
"Of course." Wesley stands and stretches, marvelling again at how quickly his body is recovering. His muscles are not as stiff as they were yesterday, or the day before. He might even be able to accompany Rupert on his daily walk in a few days.
He sets the table in silence, his mind drifting back to the Codex he's been studying. He was in the middle of translating a series of prophecies relating to the current slayer situation within the Council, and while, at times, he doubts his ability to correctly translate them, as previous experience taught him, none of the prophecies are life changing or even all that significant -- nobody will die if he wrongly translates a word or two. What truly matters is that it feels good to let his mind work on something of little significance at this point.
"I've talked with Franklin Travers, today," Rupert says, putting down their plates and sitting in the chair next to Wesley. "He would be quite happy to have you join the translation department when you feel up to it."
"Department," Wesley shakes his head with a smile, "isn't that a bit of a strong word for only two employees?"
"Perhaps," Rupert replies, "but we're rebuilding, and as such some departments are bound to have a smaller number of employees."
Wesley takes a bite and chews as he thinks. It would be more tedious work than the Codex translations, of that he's certain. "I'd be delighted to work with them; next week, maybe?"
"As long as you feel you are ready to work," Rupert says.
The rest of the meal is spent in relative silence. They quickly clean up the kitchen before going back to the living room. There isn't much space, and Wesley has to scoot on the sofa for Rupert to sit, each of them with a book on his lap and a notepad close at hand. "Strangely domestic" comes to mind again, and Wesley smiles.
There's comfort in this; comfort in the way they settled into this life so easily. Life will resume its course shortly; demons to fight, slayers to train, innocents to save, apocalypses to avert, and Wesley will be ready. For now, though, he'll enjoy this.
Rupert is looking at him oddly, but Wesley shakes his head, unwilling to explain his smile. Rupert never asks outright; he understands that Wesley still has secrets he isn't willing to share -- some of them darker than Rupert can imagine, and Wesley would care to admit.
The touch of Rupert's hand on his shoulder takes Wesley by surprise. He doesn't jump or move away, but he looks up and frowns. Rupert is looking directly at him, this time, and this is a look Wesley hasn't seen before, unguarded and open in a way that has Wesley's heart beating faster. They've been edging this way, Wesley knows. He's known for five years, but knowing and experiencing are two different things.
Rupert is cupping his cheek now, gently pulling Wesley closer and stroking the skin with his thumb. Wesley could pull back, resume his translation exercise, but he follows Rupert's lead until their lips brush together. It's been so long since he kissed someone.
"Please, Wesley, tell me if you don't want this," Rupert whispers against Wesley's lips, barely pulling back. There's an edge to his words, and Wesley shivers.
"I do," Wesley replies, hand coming up to reflect Rupert's touch. "I do want this, Rupert." Rupert's lips press against his own again, stronger than before, until they both pull back.
Nothing changes from this, and yet everything does. Wesley picks up the Codex again, but leans against Rupert's chest to read. Rupert puts his arm over Wesley's stomach and holds him close.
"One day," Rupert says after a few minutes of quiet reading, "you'll have to tell me your story."
"Which one?" There are so many stories to tell that Wesley doesn't know where he should start.
"The one that would explain how you're here. You were definitely dead. I'm quite certain nobody attempted to resurrect you, and yet--"
Wesley shakes his head. "You won't give up, will you?"
Rupert only smiles.
Wesley will tell Rupert his story, but for now, he's quite content with the way things are. Strangely domestic.
* * *
Male character they want paired with Wesley: Giles
Things they want in the fic: post NFA where Wesley lived, domestic scene, comforting each other.
Things they *don't* want in the fic: character death, D/s
Preferred maximum rating: R
Is comics canon okay? "why not!" [is not required]
Author: soft_princess
Website: Fly With Me
Date: August 13, 2007
Word count: 1,704
Pairing: Wesley/Giles
Rating: FRT
Disclaimer: I don't own them. Joss does.
Spoilers: Post-Chosen and post-NFA
Summary: There isn't anything to understand, Wesley knows why he's here; he knows how he survived dying.
Note: written for bethynyc in the maleslashminis' second Wesley round. Request found after the fic.
***
He wakes up from a month-long coma at three thirty-three pm on a Sunday; the third Sunday of June, in fact. The only reason he remembers it so clearly is that Rupert spends many of his days in the following week researching the significance of all those threes, and Wesley can't help but being amused. He has no idea if there's any significance to it, but even if there is, he doubts books will help them find it.
Nonetheless, Rupert brings some volume on symbolism to the hospital, and Wesley humours him. There are moments in which Wesley finds himself smiling at Rupert and his need to understand... It is awkward at first, Wesley remembering the long depressing hours, no, really, years, before the apocalypse and wondering what the ethical thing to do about smiling for the smallest of reasons was, but he finds he doesn't care about should and shouldn't. He's alive, and while surviving sure-death certainly doesn't cure all of one's problems, Rupert's presence, and the way he has of making Wesley smile, might.
There isn't anything to understand, really. Wesley knows why he's here; he knows how he survived dying. It isn't something he wants to discuss with Rupert, though; even if he thinks that perhaps he will, another day, another time, but not yet.
So he lets Rupert research, and he smiles at times when Rupert mutters over the books and even falls asleep while reading.
Strangely domestic, he calls it, although he wouldn't dare to voice the thought out loud.
None of the doctors even blink when Wesley's wounds appear to have vanished completely without so much as a scar. It's only been a week since he's woken up. The discharge papers are signed quickly afterwards, and Rupert is there to help Wesley pack the odds and ends Rupert's brought in during Wesley's hospital stay -- some clothes, some books, some movies, mostly books.
The day of his release, Rupert takes Wesley straight home, to Rupert's flat in downtown London. It's close to the Council, closer than the Giles' family estate in Bath. The location is in fact the only reason Rupert rents this flat - it definitely can't be for the size of the place, since it's barely bigger than a small shoebox, and Wesley has to settle for sleeping on the sofa bed. Rupert promises Wesley on that first day out of the hospital that at the first opportunity, they will escape to the country for a few days, give Wesley more room to breathe, so to speak.
His father and mother have yet to call.
They know he's alive; Rupert has made sure they were contacted the moment Wesley was brought to England. Wesley wouldn't expect any less from him, just as he wouldn't expect any more from his parents. They've made it quite clear over the past five years that Wesley is no longer a welcome member of their family. It stings, at times, but Wesley still remembers what a real family is, and he finds he doesn't care whether his parents make the effort of contacting him or not.
Rupert, on the other hand, is perhaps too attentive.
Not that he follows Wesley around like a mother hen, he's too dignified for that, but he watches and anticipates most of Wesley's needs without asking.
It reminds Wesley of that summer five years ago when he'd still been an irritation to Rupert, an annoyance at best. Yet Rupert had taken him in when the doctor hadn't wanted Wesley to be left alone with a concussion, and he'd acted the same as he did now. They'd come to an understanding then, and even further than that, they'd become friends.
Close enough that "and please, call me Rupert," had been Rupert's last words before Wesley had left, motorcycle helmet firmly in place, to Rupert's great amusement.
Wesley remembers clearly how he'd felt: strong and free, wondering what the future would bring now that he was no longer tied to a path that had been traced for him. He had been mortal then.
He'd never tested it; it was all merely a theory. A theory that took shape through the last months in L.A., while everyone else had been lost in their own work, their own guilt. Wesley had met someone, a man, a mysteriously handsome man, who'd taken it upon himself to give Wesley a small spark of life back. It had been -- not that Wesley was truly sentimental, but "something special" came to mind. It hadn't held, the spark, but something else had, it seemed.
Immortality isn't a gift Wesley would ever have wished on anyone, but for the chance to be here today, with Rupert in the kitchen, humming, and himself sitting on the comfortable sofa in Rupert's living room, The Yurikat Codex on his lap, Wesley is glad he's received it.
It's sometimes overwhelming to think how much dying has given him the will to live.
He'll be back at work soon enough; Rupert has mentioned more than once how understaffed the New Council is, and Wesley has no doubt that he'll enjoy working for him. More than he's enjoyed anything lately, at any rate.
"Wesley? Would you set the table? It's almost ready," says Rupert. He's standing in the doorway when Wesley looks up, a fond smile on his lips. It's a smile Wesley is getting well acquainted with.
"Of course." Wesley stands and stretches, marvelling again at how quickly his body is recovering. His muscles are not as stiff as they were yesterday, or the day before. He might even be able to accompany Rupert on his daily walk in a few days.
He sets the table in silence, his mind drifting back to the Codex he's been studying. He was in the middle of translating a series of prophecies relating to the current slayer situation within the Council, and while, at times, he doubts his ability to correctly translate them, as previous experience taught him, none of the prophecies are life changing or even all that significant -- nobody will die if he wrongly translates a word or two. What truly matters is that it feels good to let his mind work on something of little significance at this point.
"I've talked with Franklin Travers, today," Rupert says, putting down their plates and sitting in the chair next to Wesley. "He would be quite happy to have you join the translation department when you feel up to it."
"Department," Wesley shakes his head with a smile, "isn't that a bit of a strong word for only two employees?"
"Perhaps," Rupert replies, "but we're rebuilding, and as such some departments are bound to have a smaller number of employees."
Wesley takes a bite and chews as he thinks. It would be more tedious work than the Codex translations, of that he's certain. "I'd be delighted to work with them; next week, maybe?"
"As long as you feel you are ready to work," Rupert says.
The rest of the meal is spent in relative silence. They quickly clean up the kitchen before going back to the living room. There isn't much space, and Wesley has to scoot on the sofa for Rupert to sit, each of them with a book on his lap and a notepad close at hand. "Strangely domestic" comes to mind again, and Wesley smiles.
There's comfort in this; comfort in the way they settled into this life so easily. Life will resume its course shortly; demons to fight, slayers to train, innocents to save, apocalypses to avert, and Wesley will be ready. For now, though, he'll enjoy this.
Rupert is looking at him oddly, but Wesley shakes his head, unwilling to explain his smile. Rupert never asks outright; he understands that Wesley still has secrets he isn't willing to share -- some of them darker than Rupert can imagine, and Wesley would care to admit.
The touch of Rupert's hand on his shoulder takes Wesley by surprise. He doesn't jump or move away, but he looks up and frowns. Rupert is looking directly at him, this time, and this is a look Wesley hasn't seen before, unguarded and open in a way that has Wesley's heart beating faster. They've been edging this way, Wesley knows. He's known for five years, but knowing and experiencing are two different things.
Rupert is cupping his cheek now, gently pulling Wesley closer and stroking the skin with his thumb. Wesley could pull back, resume his translation exercise, but he follows Rupert's lead until their lips brush together. It's been so long since he kissed someone.
"Please, Wesley, tell me if you don't want this," Rupert whispers against Wesley's lips, barely pulling back. There's an edge to his words, and Wesley shivers.
"I do," Wesley replies, hand coming up to reflect Rupert's touch. "I do want this, Rupert." Rupert's lips press against his own again, stronger than before, until they both pull back.
Nothing changes from this, and yet everything does. Wesley picks up the Codex again, but leans against Rupert's chest to read. Rupert puts his arm over Wesley's stomach and holds him close.
"One day," Rupert says after a few minutes of quiet reading, "you'll have to tell me your story."
"Which one?" There are so many stories to tell that Wesley doesn't know where he should start.
"The one that would explain how you're here. You were definitely dead. I'm quite certain nobody attempted to resurrect you, and yet--"
Wesley shakes his head. "You won't give up, will you?"
Rupert only smiles.
Wesley will tell Rupert his story, but for now, he's quite content with the way things are. Strangely domestic.
* * *
Male character they want paired with Wesley: Giles
Things they want in the fic: post NFA where Wesley lived, domestic scene, comforting each other.
Things they *don't* want in the fic: character death, D/s
Preferred maximum rating: R
Is comics canon okay? "why not!" [is not required]