Hole in Their World [Angel, Gunn/Wes, PG]
Title: The Hole in Their World
Author/Artist: Werelemur
Rating: PG
Warnings: Two men kissing, the excessive consumption of alcohol, mention of a recent character death
Word count: 181
Summary: After Fred's death, Gunn goes to check in on Wes.
A/N: Slightly AU in that Gunn didn't get found out (and subsequently stabbed) during the events in Shells
Written for choc_fic Character of Color Love-a-thon.
Joss is God, everything belongs to Joss, no infringement or profit intended.
"Wes?" Gunn pushed the door to Wesley's apartment open, just wide enough to poke his head through the crack. "You in there?"
For a long moment, there was no answer. Gunn stood in the doorway, wrestling with himself. He could go -- he wanted so badly to go -- back to Angel, could tell him that he hadn't found Wes here. But what if, he wondered, Wes was really determined to drink himself to death -- or just so far gone that he no longer cared?
And didn't he have the right to be? Maybe, Gunn thought, he should just go. Let the man grieve in privacy. He had no right, no right at all ...
But how could he live with himself, with Wes's death on his hand too?
How, for that matter, could he live with himself now?
While he was hesitating, Wesley called back "Go away!"
Reluctantly, Gunn pushed the door a little farther open, and slipped inside. He found Wes sprawled on the couch, a mostly-empty bottle of cheap vodka in his hand. The rest of the couch was littered with empties.
"Funny," Gunn said. "You always struck me more as the twenty-year-old single malt type."
Wes waved his bottle toward the far end of the couch. "Ran out."
"Yeah, I can see that." He edged closer, leaned in, reached for the bottle. Drunk as he was, Wesley was too slow to do anything when Gunn twisted the bottle out of his grasp. He just stared at him for a moment, an expression of hurt and betrayal flitting across his face. But then he shrugged, leaned forward with exaggerated care, and extracted another bottle from the bag at his feet. "Care to join me?"
A big part of Gunn wanted to say yes. Wanted to drink until he passed out, or maybe until he was so far gone that he confessed, it had just been paperwork, just a snafu in customs for all he knew ... but he didn't deserve absolution.
Wes frowned at the bottle; drunk as he was, he couldn't quite manage to get the top off. "I think you've had enough," Gunn said, and pulled that bottle away, too. "Come on. Let's get you into bed."
"Why should I?" Wes's voice was bleak. "And don't tell me it will all look better when I wake up in the morning. Fred will still be gone. She'll still be gone and I'll have to look at that thing that's using her body -- "
I loved her, too, Gunn wanted to say. But he had no right to. He'd gotten her killed.
Besides, she'd chosen Wes. Even before he'd killed her, he'd lost her --
Gunn suddenly found himself unable to breathe, strangled by his own grief and guilt.
Wesley struggled to his feet, and put an awkward arm around Gunn's shoulders. Gunn wanted to shove him away, to reject the comfort. But instead, he slid an arm around Wesley's waist. "Come on," he managed to say, "Time for bed."
"No, I -- " Wes started, but then abandoned the protest as if it was too much effort.
Gunn got Wesley to his bedroom, and pushed his shoulders to get him to lie down. But at the last moment, Wes grabbed his wrists, pulled Gunn down on top of him.
This was getting ridiculous.
In extreme close-up, Wesley's red-rimmed eyes looked huge. He gazed up at Gunn. That makes no sense," he said, in an odd, dreamy voice.
"What doesn't?"
"I can smell her on you." Wesley buried his face into the crook of Gunn's neck, breathing deeply.
This went beyond the bounds of friendship, shared grief, or even guilt. Gunn shifted his weight, trying to slide off, when he realized that Wesley had a hard-on.
"I wonder," Wes said, in that same, dreamy voice, "if I'd taste her on you, too."
"No, I don't think -- " was as far as he got, before Wes's mouth clamped on his. Gunn tasted vodka, and this isn't real, nothing's real he thought, as Wes's tongue stabbed into his mouth. Not what he'd call a good kiss, or even a mediocre one, but Gunn realized with a flash of shame that he, too, was starting to get hard.
Great, crazy's catching.
But before he could decide on a plan of action, Wes let his head drop back onto the pillow. "No," he said tiredly. "She really is gone."
"Yeah." Gunn rolled off Wesley, pushed himself to his feet, turning away so that the other man wouldn't see the guilt on his face or the tent in his pants.
He needn't have worried; Wesley's eyes were already closed. "I think I'll sleep now."
"Good. I guess I'll -- I'll let myself out, then."
"You do that," Wesley said, his voice cold and empty as Gunn felt. As cold and empty as the hole in their world.
Author/Artist: Werelemur
Rating: PG
Warnings: Two men kissing, the excessive consumption of alcohol, mention of a recent character death
Word count: 181
Summary: After Fred's death, Gunn goes to check in on Wes.
A/N: Slightly AU in that Gunn didn't get found out (and subsequently stabbed) during the events in Shells
Written for choc_fic Character of Color Love-a-thon.
Joss is God, everything belongs to Joss, no infringement or profit intended.
"Wes?" Gunn pushed the door to Wesley's apartment open, just wide enough to poke his head through the crack. "You in there?"
For a long moment, there was no answer. Gunn stood in the doorway, wrestling with himself. He could go -- he wanted so badly to go -- back to Angel, could tell him that he hadn't found Wes here. But what if, he wondered, Wes was really determined to drink himself to death -- or just so far gone that he no longer cared?
And didn't he have the right to be? Maybe, Gunn thought, he should just go. Let the man grieve in privacy. He had no right, no right at all ...
But how could he live with himself, with Wes's death on his hand too?
How, for that matter, could he live with himself now?
While he was hesitating, Wesley called back "Go away!"
Reluctantly, Gunn pushed the door a little farther open, and slipped inside. He found Wes sprawled on the couch, a mostly-empty bottle of cheap vodka in his hand. The rest of the couch was littered with empties.
"Funny," Gunn said. "You always struck me more as the twenty-year-old single malt type."
Wes waved his bottle toward the far end of the couch. "Ran out."
"Yeah, I can see that." He edged closer, leaned in, reached for the bottle. Drunk as he was, Wesley was too slow to do anything when Gunn twisted the bottle out of his grasp. He just stared at him for a moment, an expression of hurt and betrayal flitting across his face. But then he shrugged, leaned forward with exaggerated care, and extracted another bottle from the bag at his feet. "Care to join me?"
A big part of Gunn wanted to say yes. Wanted to drink until he passed out, or maybe until he was so far gone that he confessed, it had just been paperwork, just a snafu in customs for all he knew ... but he didn't deserve absolution.
Wes frowned at the bottle; drunk as he was, he couldn't quite manage to get the top off. "I think you've had enough," Gunn said, and pulled that bottle away, too. "Come on. Let's get you into bed."
"Why should I?" Wes's voice was bleak. "And don't tell me it will all look better when I wake up in the morning. Fred will still be gone. She'll still be gone and I'll have to look at that thing that's using her body -- "
I loved her, too, Gunn wanted to say. But he had no right to. He'd gotten her killed.
Besides, she'd chosen Wes. Even before he'd killed her, he'd lost her --
Gunn suddenly found himself unable to breathe, strangled by his own grief and guilt.
Wesley struggled to his feet, and put an awkward arm around Gunn's shoulders. Gunn wanted to shove him away, to reject the comfort. But instead, he slid an arm around Wesley's waist. "Come on," he managed to say, "Time for bed."
"No, I -- " Wes started, but then abandoned the protest as if it was too much effort.
Gunn got Wesley to his bedroom, and pushed his shoulders to get him to lie down. But at the last moment, Wes grabbed his wrists, pulled Gunn down on top of him.
This was getting ridiculous.
In extreme close-up, Wesley's red-rimmed eyes looked huge. He gazed up at Gunn. That makes no sense," he said, in an odd, dreamy voice.
"What doesn't?"
"I can smell her on you." Wesley buried his face into the crook of Gunn's neck, breathing deeply.
This went beyond the bounds of friendship, shared grief, or even guilt. Gunn shifted his weight, trying to slide off, when he realized that Wesley had a hard-on.
"I wonder," Wes said, in that same, dreamy voice, "if I'd taste her on you, too."
"No, I don't think -- " was as far as he got, before Wes's mouth clamped on his. Gunn tasted vodka, and this isn't real, nothing's real he thought, as Wes's tongue stabbed into his mouth. Not what he'd call a good kiss, or even a mediocre one, but Gunn realized with a flash of shame that he, too, was starting to get hard.
Great, crazy's catching.
But before he could decide on a plan of action, Wes let his head drop back onto the pillow. "No," he said tiredly. "She really is gone."
"Yeah." Gunn rolled off Wesley, pushed himself to his feet, turning away so that the other man wouldn't see the guilt on his face or the tent in his pants.
He needn't have worried; Wesley's eyes were already closed. "I think I'll sleep now."
"Good. I guess I'll -- I'll let myself out, then."
"You do that," Wesley said, his voice cold and empty as Gunn felt. As cold and empty as the hole in their world.