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TITLE: Boundaries
AUTHORS: Head Rush and Kivrin
PAIRING: Giles/Wesley
RATING: FRAO
SUMMARY: After his encounter with Faith in LA, Wesley comes to Giles for help. BtVS season 4, post “Who Are You?”/AtS season 1, post “Sanctuary”
THANKS: to heron_pose for the read-through and encouragement
NOTES: This was written tag-fic or round robin style. (If you need a game, you could try to guess which of us wrote which parts.)
FEEDBACK: Yes please! In comments or to head_rush100@yahoo.co.uk and oxfordkivrin@yahoo.com
ARCHIVES: Please ask for permission
DISCLAIMER: All belongs to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. etc. This was written for fun – no profit is being made.
Los Angeles. Giles put his mug down over the word and eased a finger under his glasses to rub one eye. Los Angeles, city of anonymity and opportunity and fashionable clothing, bright lights and concealing shadows. Where else would a young woman go to disappear? Why had he squandered days on inquiries at the docks and the train station, nights combing the papers from surrounding towns, rather than calling Los Angeles? Had he learned nothing from that long, fruitless search for Buffy?
The knock on the door was a welcome interruption to his thoughts. He picked up his crossbow from where it lay ready on the buffet and slid back the cover on the peephole.
On the doorstep Giles found the last person he’d expected to see tonight. "Wesley?"
“Sorry to bother you, Giles.”
It was typical that the first words out of Wesley’s mouth be an apology, although the tone was a bit odd. Their last meeting had begun in a coffee shop and ended in his bed. They’d parted on extremely amicable terms, and had since had several very enjoyable telephone conversations. As far as he was aware, all was well between them.
Giles unbolted the door and opened it, his finger still curled round the trigger. Never again would he be caught defenceless. And there was Wesley, a dark jacket and khakis in place of his customary grey suit. It was clear that Los Angeles was leaving its mark on him. And that wasn’t all. As Giles stood back to admit Wesley without verbal invitation, he took in the evidence of what clearly had been a hell of a beating. “Christ, what’s happened to you?”
Wesley’s expression did something unfathomable. “What’s happened… *Faith* is what’s happened to me, Giles! Some warning would have been appreciated before she turned up to assassinate Angel, injure Cordelia, and…” He left it there.
Giles blinked. “Faith assassinated Angel?” Should he appear to be sorry for Angel’s death? He wasn’t. For the loss of Wesley’s friend, then?
“No. Wolfram and Hart hired her as a mercenary. What they didn’t count on was the fact that the one Faith was really intent on destroying was herself.”
“And did she?”
“No. Angel’s… rehabilitating her.” Wesley didn’t even try to disguise the bitterness.
“But she’s secured?”
“No, she’s staying with him, free to come and go as she pleases.”
“Wesley…”
“I *know*," he snapped. You don’t have to tell me, Giles.”
“That’s not good enough. If Faith is psychotic, and now, as you say, suicidal, and Angel isn’t taking proper precautions, we’ll have to take it out of his hands. You’ll have to contact the Council.”
Wesley gave a short, despairing laugh. “I’ve been asked to resign. The Council dispatched operatives to take Faith in, but they were more interested in Angel. In either case, I buggered up their attempts to harm either of them - for Angel’s sake, not Faith’s,” he qualified. “You could say my bridges have been very thoroughly burnt.”
“Christ.” He wouldn’t have thought Wesley had it in him.
“Quite. So as we’re on our own dealing with Faith, and I no longer have access to her Council files, I was wondering if you might be able to…”
It took precisely one second for Giles to decide. “Yes. Whatever you need.” If they were dealing with Faith alone, they’d need all the help they could get.
Suddenly Wesley was pressing his back to the wall as though for support. He closed his eyes in apparent disgust, and swallowed convulsively. He was deathly pale now, his voice a whisper. “I’m afraid I’m going to…” He doubled over and was violently sick all over the carpet.
For a moment Giles could only stare, but when Wesley retched again he pushed the door shut, hastily put the crossbow down, and laid a cautious hand on Wesley's back. If the rest of Wesley looked anything like his face, the pain of a firmer touch would probably push him into unconsciousness. “Steady,” he said uneasily.
Wesley shuddered and pulled in a noisy breath. “...god...” he panted. “So sorry...” The back of his neck was ash-grey, and he swayed dangerously.
“Shh. Breathe deeply.” Giles carefully closed one hand around Wesley's forearm, keeping the other on the small of his back, and guided him the few steps to the desk chair. “Put your head down. On your knees, if you can.”
“I-I...”
He pushed the dustbin between Wesley's feet. “Be sick again if you need to, just don't faint.”
As he'd hoped, the mere suggestion stiffened Wesley's spine. “I'm not going to faint,” he said, more clearly.
“Excellent. Keep your head down.” He glanced at the bile on the floor, then took Wesley's hand and felt for the pulse in his thumb. It was fast but strong. “Have you had any medical attention since...”
“Since my Slayer demonstrated her expertise in systematic destruction?” Wesley's temper seemed to be rising with his blood pressure. “As I had neither eight hours to spend waiting in a casualty ward, nor any desire to involve the police in Faith's situation, I've made do with tape and Cordelia's internet research. If the numbness in my arm doesn't improve, I'm to see my *personal physician* to arrange an MRI.”
“The personal physician you don't have.”
“Yes. Goes along with the insurance, savings, and communication from you that I also don't have.” Wesley pulled his hand out of Giles'. “May I sit up now?”
“Slowly.” Giles moved so he could see Wesley's face. His pallor had improved somewhat, but anger and pain still tightened his jaw and shadowed his eyes. “I'll get the first aid kit. Stay there.”
“I don't need...”
“So vomiting on my carpet was purely an expression of dissatisfaction with my conduct, not pain and clinical shock and God knows what else? Stay there,” Giles repeated. He waited until Wesley lowered his head slightly in acquiescence, then turned. He leaned into the kitchen to flip the switch on the electric kettle before fetching the kit, a basin, and a few clean towels from the bathroom.
Wesley glanced at the green box Giles put on the desk. “I see you’ve got the Council’s deluxe kit.”
Giles looked up from unpacking it. “Yes. Haven’t you?”
“Couldn’t afford it.”
“They gave me this one. I just replace the perishables from time to time.”
“They never offered me one.”
Giles had no reply. It seemed that the Council had been determined to send Wesley out into the world as comprehensively unprepared as possible. “Right, then. Let’s have a look at you, shall we?”
“Actually, Giles, I’d rather do it myself.”
“Hold up your hands,” said Giles. Wesley obeyed, flushing as they shook. “I believe my point is made.” He put his hands on Wesley’s collar, which prompted a violent flinch. “Sorry.” This was more than a simple beating, then. Very gently, he worked the jacket from Wesley’s shoulders, down, and off. He was careful not to remark on the amount of blood that had soaked the shirt beneath.
“I’m going to take your shirt off, Wesley, is that all right?” He remembered being asked the very same question by a surprisingly sensitive emergency room doctor after two days of utter helplessness last year. He’d been so grateful for even an illusion of control over what was done to him.
On Wesley’s nod, Giles went ahead in triage mode, as he always did when Buffy presented him with injuries sustained on patrol. Wesley’s face was badly bruised. There was a long, encrusted cut on his cheekbone, and a shallower one – thank God – on his neck. Working down, there were more cuts on his shoulders, chest, and stomach, too wide to be from a knife. He glanced up into Wesley’s eyes, noting a certain numbness in his expression. “Glass?”
A nod.
“You’ve been kicked in the stomach, yes?”
Wesley gave a sickly smile. “You can almost tell her shoe size.” Giles pressed a suspicious looking area over his ribs. Wesley made a sharp noise of pain, then flushed.
“Sorry.” Giles glanced up. “No need to be embarrassed.” Wesley turned white as Giles pressed harder, but he didn’t make a sound.
Progressing downwards, Giles hesitated. “What about below the belt?”
A pause long enough to raise suspicion, and a nod.
“Do you think it’s serious?”
“No,” Wesley said quickly.
Giles wasn’t convinced. “Any blood?” No response. “Was it internal or external, or both?” he questioned gently.
Wesley’s grimace indicated both pain at the memory, and intense embarrassment.
“Wesley…”
“No, Giles.”
Giles let it go for the moment. He stood up, and began examining Wesley’s right shoulder. Of what he’d seen so far, this looked to be the most serious injury. He rubbed his hands together, then pressed them to his own chest for a moment to warm them before touching Wesley's shoulders, moving his fingers lightly over the shoulder blades and the clavicle, then the shoulder joints themselves, looking for asymmetry. “What did she hit your shoulder with?”
“Her heel.” Wesley answered, his voice utterly flat. “Her range of motion was quite impressive, really. Even for a slayer it's no easy matter to bring your foot down on someone's shoulder, even someone seated.”
“How did she have your arms?”
Wesley started to move, then hissed.
Giles touched an unbruised patch of his back to still him. “Behind you?”
“Tied at the wrist.” Wesley moved his good arm to demonstrate.
Giles drew back so Wesley wouldn't feel him shiver when the position, and the sight of rope burns on the wrist, stirred his memory. He flexed his fingers and got back to his examination. “I don't think it's dislocated. Probably a first or second degree separation, though the numbness suggests there's been some damage to the blood vessels, and possibly the nerves.” He moved around the chair and held out his hands. “Squeeze my fingers. Good, no one-sided weakness. Close your eyes.”
Wesley looked at him sharply.
“I'm going to see where, if anywhere, you're lacking sensation in your arm.”
He gave a tiny nod and closed his eyes, answering in monosyllables as Giles probed as gently as possible.
“I don't think there's any nerve damage,” Giles said at length. “The tingling here,” he touched Wesley's bicep, “is most likely from the broken blood vessels. I'll put some ice on that while I take care of the cuts.”
The kettle howled, and Wesley flinched. Giles touched his knee, then picked up the basin and went to the kitchen. He made a mug of hot, sweet tea and put hot water in the basin, then got an ice pack from the freezer and carried everything back to where Wesley sat at the desk. “Here.” He offered the mug, keeping hold of it until Wesley had it in both hands and showed no sign of dropping it. “Drink that.” He wrapped the ice bag in a towel, then laid it carefully over the purple-black bruising on Wesley's right shoulder. He wrung out a flannel in the hot water and held it against one of the long cuts on Wesley's stomach. “Sorry,” he said, when Wesley shivered. “The ice can come off in ten minutes.”
“You're very competent,” Wesley said dully.
“Just the Council medical course. They did let you take that, I presume?”
Wesley went on as if he hadn't heard. “She even said so. None of it would have happened if you'd been her Watcher, and I'd had Buffy.”
Giles looked up at Wesley's blank face. “That's not true.” He dabbed carefully at the edges of the cut. “Faith was troubled long before either of us met her.”
“She wasn't a murderer.”
“Not that I know of.” Giles put the damp cloth aside and opened an antiseptic wipe. “This may sting.”
Wesley hissed once at the touch of the alcohol, then was quiet. “She wasn't a murderer,” he said again. “Before she met me.”
“She wasn't on a Hellmouth before she met you. Us.” Giles frowned and checked Wesley's pulse again. “Drink your tea.”
Wesley stared at the mug for a moment, then sipped. His color wasn't getting any better, and he was breathing too fast, still too close to shock. He needed to be lying down and warm, Giles thought, but for that at least either his back or his chest would have to be properly bandaged. “Do you think you can make it upstairs? You’ll need to be lying down for the next bit.”
Giles was gratified to see something approaching amusement in Wesley’s eyes, though he made no comment. Giles bent and put Wesley’s good arm across his shoulders, and helped him up. The stairs were slow work, but a necessary evil. When at last they reached the loft, Wesley leaned against a chair for support while Giles turned the covers down. He straightened up and suggested, as clinically as possible, that Wesley would probably be more comfortable if he took his trousers off. Without waiting for a reply, he went back downstairs to gather up the supplies he’d need, and put the kettle on again to make Wesley a hot water bottle.
When he returned to the bedroom, Wesley was sitting on the bed in his boxers, and Giles could see the bruises down his legs – Christ, it looked as though she’d even given his shins a good kicking – and the rope burns on his ankles. Immediately, he was engulfed by a colossal wave of guilt. His reluctance to help Angel had contributed to this. He should have thought to… No, if he was honest, he *had* thought of calling Angel, and had rejected the idea. He’d acted unprofessionally, and he was lucky that Wesley hadn’t paid for it with his life.
As Wesley was sitting up, Giles took the opportunity to clean the raw contusions on Wesley’s ankles and wrists, smooth in some salve, and bandage them. He worked arnica into the bruises on his legs. When he reached the hem of Wesley’s boxers, he asked once again if anything needed to be done there. Wesley closed his eyes and shook his head. Giles accepted it, again, for now, and moved on to wash and dress the cuts on his back. He concentrated very hard on the job at hand, and did his very best not to recall the burning chafe of ropes about his own wrists and ankles, the bite of jagged glass in his skin.
Wesley dug the heel of his hand into his eyes and rubbed. He wouldn’t last much longer.
“Back to the ribs,” said Giles. “How’s your breathing?”
Wesley focused on it for a moment. “Fine.”
“Have you coughed up any blood?”
“No.”
Giles took the stethoscope from the kit and warmed the earpiece in his hand before pressing it gently to Wesley’s back. “Take a deep breath and hold it.” Wesley complied, several times, as Giles moved the instrument over him, listening for any indication of damage to his lungs or heart. He took the stethoscope off. “Your lungs are fine,” he said. “Lie down for me.” Interestingly, Wesley flushed at this, but he obeyed, slowly. It was painful to watch. When he was down, Giles pulled the duvet up a bit, so that he was covered from the waist down. To give them both a short break, he went back downstairs to make Wesley’s hot water bottle.
When he returned with it, wrestling it into its cover, Wesley smiled at the pattern. “Flying sheep.”
Giles grinned, relieved at the attempt at lightness. “Flying sheep. Robson sent it. He said it was either that, or ‘Barbie’.”
“Ah. Good choice, then.”
“Indeed. I already have the ‘Barbie’ one.” Giles put the bottle down by Wesley’s feet, and moved to sit beside him on the bed, hoping that the laughter had relaxed him a little. He handed Wesley a glass of water and some painkillers, which he gulped down gratefully. “I’m just going to check your ribs again. It might hurt a bit. Or a lot,” he admitted. “I’ll try to be quick.” He examined the injuries as thoroughly as he could, trying to ignore Wesley’s occasional shift and gasp as he probed deeply, feeling for misalignments or lumps.
“Right. Well, as far as I can tell, there are two definitely cracked, quite possibly broken ribs on the right side. More may be cracked, I can’t tell, but the rather spectacular bruising suggests that may be the case. Strapping them isn’t done anymore; current thinking is, you’re better off with rest and some bloody strong painkillers, which you’ve just had. The medication will also help to relieve the inflammation in your shoulder. We’ll get you a sling for that tomorrow, and it should be all right in a couple of weeks.”
Wesley blinked glassily, and Giles wasn’t sure how much he was taking in anymore. “I’ll just finish dealing with these cuts, and then you can get some sleep.”
Wesley nodded. “Thank you. Didn’t sleep last night,” he admitted with some reluctance.
Wesley’s pathetic self-recriminations were an all too recognizable mirror of his own, from that time. Watchers were well-trained to resist interrogation and torture, but nothing in their training prepared them to deal with the aftermath. One was expected to simply get on with it, or else contact a Council counselor – which would have resulted in being recalled from active duty, at the very least. After a moment, Giles offered, “I didn’t sleep either, after I was tortured. Not for a long time.” He’d wandered the house in an exhausted, numb fog, taking too many painkillers in an effort to keep the fog from lifting. When it had, finally, lifted, the violence of his mood swings had frightened the life out of Willow and Xander as they took turns babysitting him under the auspices of trying to locate Buffy.
Wesley turned bleary eyes on him. “I’m so sorry, Giles.”
“What for? It wasn’t your fault.”
“What you’d been through. Should’ve been more sensitive to it… I did read about it in your files, before I was sent to Sunnydale, but I was afraid to… I-I didn’t know how to…” he frowned, fighting his own awkwardness and guilt on top of the medication.
“I wouldn’t have known how to bring it up either, had I been in your place, and there was no reason you should have,” Giles offered. He packed up the kit and threw the bloodsoaked wipes into the bin. “Try to relax and get some sleep now, Wesley. We can talk in the morning.”
“But where will you sleep? I’m in your bed.”
“I’ll sleep in my bed too. Too old for the chair, I’m afraid. Is that all right with you?”
“Yes. Yes, that would be… yes. Thank you.”
Giles tried and failed to come up with a definitive interpretation of Wesley’s response. "I'll put your glasses on the bedside table, all right?" He reached to take them off.
Wesley turned his head away, then slowly back. "Right." He blinked up at Giles for a moment before letting his eyes close. "Lost one pair already this week..."
"The lights will be on," Giles told him, so he wouldn't have to ask.
"Hm-mm."
He sat, watching Wesley's face relax bit by almost-imperceptible bit as the drug and the exhaustion had their way. Guilt and regret stabbed him again. He'd so blithely assured himself that all his own nightmares of torture were in the past, but the fact that he'd so quickly and thoughtlessly dismissed the idea of speaking to Angel - and even to Wesley, because of his association with Angel - suggested otherwise.
"Giles?"
He swallowed. "Yes?"
Wesley moved his head slightly. "Nm-hm..."
Giles watched him carefully for half an hour, until he didn't stir at the sound of his name or a touch to his hand, until his breathing slowed and his lips parted slightly in heavy slumber. Giles drew the sheet up to Wesley's chest, but left the duvet folded down to his waist so as little weight as possible would rest on the injured shoulder. Then, moving slowly and quietly, he eased up off the bed and made his way down the stairs.
Cleaning the partially-dried vomit from the carpet was unpleasant but something of a relief - it distracted him from the problem of what to do next. When Giles had finished, he checked on Wesley again, then sat down at the desk and paged through his address book to find the tiny slip of paper with a Los Angeles number written in Buffy's looping hand, in her favourite purple ink.
The phone rang for so long that he began to relax, but at last there came a click at the other end.
"Angel."
His left hand shook where it lay on the desk; he balled it into a fist. "Giles here."
"Hey."
"Wesley's here with me. He may stay a few days. Faith left him in rather poor shape." The words felt like blocks of wood in his mouth. "Which brings me to the question of where is Faith?"
"Not in Sunnydale. Not your problem." Angel's words were ice. "How's Wes?"
"Not collapsing on your doorstep, not your problem."
"He said he was all right," Angel murmured, after a long moment.
"I would imagine that you could have smelled through that from the next county."
Silence. "Faith's in jail."
"Oh, that's sure to be a success."
"She turned herself in. We... she wants to change."
"A night trading torture tips with you brought her to that conclusion, did it?"
"If you wanted to be partners on this, you could have called me. You could have tracked her to LA. Hell, you could have come up today with Buffy. But don't sit there behind your books and pretend you've got the answers."
Giles’s jaw clenched. “How ironic, that you should be claiming the moral high ground.”
There was a pause. “Giles, I don’t expect you to be my pal, but you could at least have considered Wesley and Cordelia. I don’t think I’m the only person you’re mad at, do you?”
“Good night, Angel.” Giles put the phone down without waiting for a reply, and moved quietly into the kitchen. He’d been so deep in his book that evening, he’d not bothered to stop for dinner. All that research in aid of helping people he didn’t know, who wouldn’t even know they’d been helped, and when he’d really needed to put the sodding book down and make a call, he’d failed. He was a coward, and his cowardice could have got Wesley killed.
With a deep sigh, he took out a tin of beans and a can opener. He put a saucepan on, dumped in the beans, some Lea and Perrins, and a bit of rosemary. He stuck two pieces of bread in the toaster, and waited for it all to heat up. He resisted the urge for scotch. He was too angry to drink, and he needed to be sober for Wesley.
He faffed about in the kitchen, tidying up, until the food was done. He put the plate on the counter, looked up, and saw Wesley sitting on the stairs.
“Wesley, are you all right?”
Wesley smiled ruefully. “I just wanted a bit of company. Pathetic, I know.”
“Not at all. I’ve just made beans on toast. Would you like some? You haven’t had anything in your stomach for a while; a bit of this might help to stabilize you.”
On Wesley’s hesitant nod, Giles transferred half the food to another plate. “Eat it slowly.” Wesley walked unsteadily to the counter, and they ate in silence. Wesley’s pupils were blown; his mind was probably blessedly foggy, thanks to the drugs.
“I told her she’d never hear me scream.”
Giles stopped eating. He nodded, but didn’t push for more information than Wesley was prepared to give. “I’ve spoken to Angel, let him know you’re here. Apparently Faith’s turned herself in. She’s going to prison.”
“I did scream, though.”
“Wesley…”
“I tried not to.”
Giles nodded.
“All that training.” Wesley gave a mirthless smile.
“Nothing could have prepared you for that.” He’d certainly found it to be so.
“And you know, up to the moment she began cutting, I actually believed she could change.” He shook his head disgustedly. “Can you imagine how naive I must have been to still have that kind of…” he smiled. “Faith?”
“These were exceptional circumstances. There are certain things we must hold onto, no matter what, and belief in basic human goodness is one of them.” He thought, but did not add, ‘otherwise, what’s it all for?’ Neither of them were up to answering that question just now.
“I screamed,” Wesley repeated, as though still attempting to process what had happened.
“So did I,” said Giles.
Wesley blinked up at him. “You did?”
He nodded. “And a good deal afterwards, as well.”
“I didn’t know.”
“It wasn’t something I advertised. The Council would have had me retired on the spot. Only Willow and Xander, poor things, ever saw me like that, and then only once. Even Buffy doesn’t know. In fact, we’ve never discussed what happened to me.”
“Have you discussed it with *anyone*?”
“Not until now.”
Wesley nodded. “Thank you.”
The meal finished, as it had begun, in silence. Giles washed up, waving off Wesley’s game but impossible offers of help. “Back to bed with you.”
“Are you coming this time?”
“Yes, I’m coming, Wes.”
Again, progress up the stairs was slow, but Wesley made it more or less under his own power. Giles helped him in, then got ready for bed himself. Sharing his bed was a rare experience these days, and he couldn’t help but think of the last time he and Wesley had done so. That time, he’d been the one in need. It hadn’t been the first time they’d taken comfort in one another, but even then he’d detected a new steel in the man. He’d been more confident, more demanding, more in control, and when Giles had tried to shock him with a bit of a show of force, Wesley had surprised him by becoming rock hard. Giles had played along, gladly, though whether Wesley was trying to prove something to himself, or to Giles, he wasn’t sure. The two of them had spent their lives trying to prove themselves, so it could have been anything.
“You can turn out the light,” said Wesley.
Giles complied. He turned on his side, facing Wesley, and covered his hand with his own, whispering, “I’m here, Wes. Sleep well.”
Still under the influence of the painkillers, Wesley seemed to drop off to sleep almost immediately. Giles lay awake for some time, trying to move as little as possible to avoid jostling Wesley, but sooner than he expected he found himself dozing, and he fell asleep to Wesley’s quiet breathing.
continued here
AUTHORS: Head Rush and Kivrin
PAIRING: Giles/Wesley
RATING: FRAO
SUMMARY: After his encounter with Faith in LA, Wesley comes to Giles for help. BtVS season 4, post “Who Are You?”/AtS season 1, post “Sanctuary”
THANKS: to heron_pose for the read-through and encouragement
NOTES: This was written tag-fic or round robin style. (If you need a game, you could try to guess which of us wrote which parts.)
FEEDBACK: Yes please! In comments or to head_rush100@yahoo.co.uk and oxfordkivrin@yahoo.com
ARCHIVES: Please ask for permission
DISCLAIMER: All belongs to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. etc. This was written for fun – no profit is being made.
Los Angeles. Giles put his mug down over the word and eased a finger under his glasses to rub one eye. Los Angeles, city of anonymity and opportunity and fashionable clothing, bright lights and concealing shadows. Where else would a young woman go to disappear? Why had he squandered days on inquiries at the docks and the train station, nights combing the papers from surrounding towns, rather than calling Los Angeles? Had he learned nothing from that long, fruitless search for Buffy?
The knock on the door was a welcome interruption to his thoughts. He picked up his crossbow from where it lay ready on the buffet and slid back the cover on the peephole.
On the doorstep Giles found the last person he’d expected to see tonight. "Wesley?"
“Sorry to bother you, Giles.”
It was typical that the first words out of Wesley’s mouth be an apology, although the tone was a bit odd. Their last meeting had begun in a coffee shop and ended in his bed. They’d parted on extremely amicable terms, and had since had several very enjoyable telephone conversations. As far as he was aware, all was well between them.
Giles unbolted the door and opened it, his finger still curled round the trigger. Never again would he be caught defenceless. And there was Wesley, a dark jacket and khakis in place of his customary grey suit. It was clear that Los Angeles was leaving its mark on him. And that wasn’t all. As Giles stood back to admit Wesley without verbal invitation, he took in the evidence of what clearly had been a hell of a beating. “Christ, what’s happened to you?”
Wesley’s expression did something unfathomable. “What’s happened… *Faith* is what’s happened to me, Giles! Some warning would have been appreciated before she turned up to assassinate Angel, injure Cordelia, and…” He left it there.
Giles blinked. “Faith assassinated Angel?” Should he appear to be sorry for Angel’s death? He wasn’t. For the loss of Wesley’s friend, then?
“No. Wolfram and Hart hired her as a mercenary. What they didn’t count on was the fact that the one Faith was really intent on destroying was herself.”
“And did she?”
“No. Angel’s… rehabilitating her.” Wesley didn’t even try to disguise the bitterness.
“But she’s secured?”
“No, she’s staying with him, free to come and go as she pleases.”
“Wesley…”
“I *know*," he snapped. You don’t have to tell me, Giles.”
“That’s not good enough. If Faith is psychotic, and now, as you say, suicidal, and Angel isn’t taking proper precautions, we’ll have to take it out of his hands. You’ll have to contact the Council.”
Wesley gave a short, despairing laugh. “I’ve been asked to resign. The Council dispatched operatives to take Faith in, but they were more interested in Angel. In either case, I buggered up their attempts to harm either of them - for Angel’s sake, not Faith’s,” he qualified. “You could say my bridges have been very thoroughly burnt.”
“Christ.” He wouldn’t have thought Wesley had it in him.
“Quite. So as we’re on our own dealing with Faith, and I no longer have access to her Council files, I was wondering if you might be able to…”
It took precisely one second for Giles to decide. “Yes. Whatever you need.” If they were dealing with Faith alone, they’d need all the help they could get.
Suddenly Wesley was pressing his back to the wall as though for support. He closed his eyes in apparent disgust, and swallowed convulsively. He was deathly pale now, his voice a whisper. “I’m afraid I’m going to…” He doubled over and was violently sick all over the carpet.
For a moment Giles could only stare, but when Wesley retched again he pushed the door shut, hastily put the crossbow down, and laid a cautious hand on Wesley's back. If the rest of Wesley looked anything like his face, the pain of a firmer touch would probably push him into unconsciousness. “Steady,” he said uneasily.
Wesley shuddered and pulled in a noisy breath. “...god...” he panted. “So sorry...” The back of his neck was ash-grey, and he swayed dangerously.
“Shh. Breathe deeply.” Giles carefully closed one hand around Wesley's forearm, keeping the other on the small of his back, and guided him the few steps to the desk chair. “Put your head down. On your knees, if you can.”
“I-I...”
He pushed the dustbin between Wesley's feet. “Be sick again if you need to, just don't faint.”
As he'd hoped, the mere suggestion stiffened Wesley's spine. “I'm not going to faint,” he said, more clearly.
“Excellent. Keep your head down.” He glanced at the bile on the floor, then took Wesley's hand and felt for the pulse in his thumb. It was fast but strong. “Have you had any medical attention since...”
“Since my Slayer demonstrated her expertise in systematic destruction?” Wesley's temper seemed to be rising with his blood pressure. “As I had neither eight hours to spend waiting in a casualty ward, nor any desire to involve the police in Faith's situation, I've made do with tape and Cordelia's internet research. If the numbness in my arm doesn't improve, I'm to see my *personal physician* to arrange an MRI.”
“The personal physician you don't have.”
“Yes. Goes along with the insurance, savings, and communication from you that I also don't have.” Wesley pulled his hand out of Giles'. “May I sit up now?”
“Slowly.” Giles moved so he could see Wesley's face. His pallor had improved somewhat, but anger and pain still tightened his jaw and shadowed his eyes. “I'll get the first aid kit. Stay there.”
“I don't need...”
“So vomiting on my carpet was purely an expression of dissatisfaction with my conduct, not pain and clinical shock and God knows what else? Stay there,” Giles repeated. He waited until Wesley lowered his head slightly in acquiescence, then turned. He leaned into the kitchen to flip the switch on the electric kettle before fetching the kit, a basin, and a few clean towels from the bathroom.
Wesley glanced at the green box Giles put on the desk. “I see you’ve got the Council’s deluxe kit.”
Giles looked up from unpacking it. “Yes. Haven’t you?”
“Couldn’t afford it.”
“They gave me this one. I just replace the perishables from time to time.”
“They never offered me one.”
Giles had no reply. It seemed that the Council had been determined to send Wesley out into the world as comprehensively unprepared as possible. “Right, then. Let’s have a look at you, shall we?”
“Actually, Giles, I’d rather do it myself.”
“Hold up your hands,” said Giles. Wesley obeyed, flushing as they shook. “I believe my point is made.” He put his hands on Wesley’s collar, which prompted a violent flinch. “Sorry.” This was more than a simple beating, then. Very gently, he worked the jacket from Wesley’s shoulders, down, and off. He was careful not to remark on the amount of blood that had soaked the shirt beneath.
“I’m going to take your shirt off, Wesley, is that all right?” He remembered being asked the very same question by a surprisingly sensitive emergency room doctor after two days of utter helplessness last year. He’d been so grateful for even an illusion of control over what was done to him.
On Wesley’s nod, Giles went ahead in triage mode, as he always did when Buffy presented him with injuries sustained on patrol. Wesley’s face was badly bruised. There was a long, encrusted cut on his cheekbone, and a shallower one – thank God – on his neck. Working down, there were more cuts on his shoulders, chest, and stomach, too wide to be from a knife. He glanced up into Wesley’s eyes, noting a certain numbness in his expression. “Glass?”
A nod.
“You’ve been kicked in the stomach, yes?”
Wesley gave a sickly smile. “You can almost tell her shoe size.” Giles pressed a suspicious looking area over his ribs. Wesley made a sharp noise of pain, then flushed.
“Sorry.” Giles glanced up. “No need to be embarrassed.” Wesley turned white as Giles pressed harder, but he didn’t make a sound.
Progressing downwards, Giles hesitated. “What about below the belt?”
A pause long enough to raise suspicion, and a nod.
“Do you think it’s serious?”
“No,” Wesley said quickly.
Giles wasn’t convinced. “Any blood?” No response. “Was it internal or external, or both?” he questioned gently.
Wesley’s grimace indicated both pain at the memory, and intense embarrassment.
“Wesley…”
“No, Giles.”
Giles let it go for the moment. He stood up, and began examining Wesley’s right shoulder. Of what he’d seen so far, this looked to be the most serious injury. He rubbed his hands together, then pressed them to his own chest for a moment to warm them before touching Wesley's shoulders, moving his fingers lightly over the shoulder blades and the clavicle, then the shoulder joints themselves, looking for asymmetry. “What did she hit your shoulder with?”
“Her heel.” Wesley answered, his voice utterly flat. “Her range of motion was quite impressive, really. Even for a slayer it's no easy matter to bring your foot down on someone's shoulder, even someone seated.”
“How did she have your arms?”
Wesley started to move, then hissed.
Giles touched an unbruised patch of his back to still him. “Behind you?”
“Tied at the wrist.” Wesley moved his good arm to demonstrate.
Giles drew back so Wesley wouldn't feel him shiver when the position, and the sight of rope burns on the wrist, stirred his memory. He flexed his fingers and got back to his examination. “I don't think it's dislocated. Probably a first or second degree separation, though the numbness suggests there's been some damage to the blood vessels, and possibly the nerves.” He moved around the chair and held out his hands. “Squeeze my fingers. Good, no one-sided weakness. Close your eyes.”
Wesley looked at him sharply.
“I'm going to see where, if anywhere, you're lacking sensation in your arm.”
He gave a tiny nod and closed his eyes, answering in monosyllables as Giles probed as gently as possible.
“I don't think there's any nerve damage,” Giles said at length. “The tingling here,” he touched Wesley's bicep, “is most likely from the broken blood vessels. I'll put some ice on that while I take care of the cuts.”
The kettle howled, and Wesley flinched. Giles touched his knee, then picked up the basin and went to the kitchen. He made a mug of hot, sweet tea and put hot water in the basin, then got an ice pack from the freezer and carried everything back to where Wesley sat at the desk. “Here.” He offered the mug, keeping hold of it until Wesley had it in both hands and showed no sign of dropping it. “Drink that.” He wrapped the ice bag in a towel, then laid it carefully over the purple-black bruising on Wesley's right shoulder. He wrung out a flannel in the hot water and held it against one of the long cuts on Wesley's stomach. “Sorry,” he said, when Wesley shivered. “The ice can come off in ten minutes.”
“You're very competent,” Wesley said dully.
“Just the Council medical course. They did let you take that, I presume?”
Wesley went on as if he hadn't heard. “She even said so. None of it would have happened if you'd been her Watcher, and I'd had Buffy.”
Giles looked up at Wesley's blank face. “That's not true.” He dabbed carefully at the edges of the cut. “Faith was troubled long before either of us met her.”
“She wasn't a murderer.”
“Not that I know of.” Giles put the damp cloth aside and opened an antiseptic wipe. “This may sting.”
Wesley hissed once at the touch of the alcohol, then was quiet. “She wasn't a murderer,” he said again. “Before she met me.”
“She wasn't on a Hellmouth before she met you. Us.” Giles frowned and checked Wesley's pulse again. “Drink your tea.”
Wesley stared at the mug for a moment, then sipped. His color wasn't getting any better, and he was breathing too fast, still too close to shock. He needed to be lying down and warm, Giles thought, but for that at least either his back or his chest would have to be properly bandaged. “Do you think you can make it upstairs? You’ll need to be lying down for the next bit.”
Giles was gratified to see something approaching amusement in Wesley’s eyes, though he made no comment. Giles bent and put Wesley’s good arm across his shoulders, and helped him up. The stairs were slow work, but a necessary evil. When at last they reached the loft, Wesley leaned against a chair for support while Giles turned the covers down. He straightened up and suggested, as clinically as possible, that Wesley would probably be more comfortable if he took his trousers off. Without waiting for a reply, he went back downstairs to gather up the supplies he’d need, and put the kettle on again to make Wesley a hot water bottle.
When he returned to the bedroom, Wesley was sitting on the bed in his boxers, and Giles could see the bruises down his legs – Christ, it looked as though she’d even given his shins a good kicking – and the rope burns on his ankles. Immediately, he was engulfed by a colossal wave of guilt. His reluctance to help Angel had contributed to this. He should have thought to… No, if he was honest, he *had* thought of calling Angel, and had rejected the idea. He’d acted unprofessionally, and he was lucky that Wesley hadn’t paid for it with his life.
As Wesley was sitting up, Giles took the opportunity to clean the raw contusions on Wesley’s ankles and wrists, smooth in some salve, and bandage them. He worked arnica into the bruises on his legs. When he reached the hem of Wesley’s boxers, he asked once again if anything needed to be done there. Wesley closed his eyes and shook his head. Giles accepted it, again, for now, and moved on to wash and dress the cuts on his back. He concentrated very hard on the job at hand, and did his very best not to recall the burning chafe of ropes about his own wrists and ankles, the bite of jagged glass in his skin.
Wesley dug the heel of his hand into his eyes and rubbed. He wouldn’t last much longer.
“Back to the ribs,” said Giles. “How’s your breathing?”
Wesley focused on it for a moment. “Fine.”
“Have you coughed up any blood?”
“No.”
Giles took the stethoscope from the kit and warmed the earpiece in his hand before pressing it gently to Wesley’s back. “Take a deep breath and hold it.” Wesley complied, several times, as Giles moved the instrument over him, listening for any indication of damage to his lungs or heart. He took the stethoscope off. “Your lungs are fine,” he said. “Lie down for me.” Interestingly, Wesley flushed at this, but he obeyed, slowly. It was painful to watch. When he was down, Giles pulled the duvet up a bit, so that he was covered from the waist down. To give them both a short break, he went back downstairs to make Wesley’s hot water bottle.
When he returned with it, wrestling it into its cover, Wesley smiled at the pattern. “Flying sheep.”
Giles grinned, relieved at the attempt at lightness. “Flying sheep. Robson sent it. He said it was either that, or ‘Barbie’.”
“Ah. Good choice, then.”
“Indeed. I already have the ‘Barbie’ one.” Giles put the bottle down by Wesley’s feet, and moved to sit beside him on the bed, hoping that the laughter had relaxed him a little. He handed Wesley a glass of water and some painkillers, which he gulped down gratefully. “I’m just going to check your ribs again. It might hurt a bit. Or a lot,” he admitted. “I’ll try to be quick.” He examined the injuries as thoroughly as he could, trying to ignore Wesley’s occasional shift and gasp as he probed deeply, feeling for misalignments or lumps.
“Right. Well, as far as I can tell, there are two definitely cracked, quite possibly broken ribs on the right side. More may be cracked, I can’t tell, but the rather spectacular bruising suggests that may be the case. Strapping them isn’t done anymore; current thinking is, you’re better off with rest and some bloody strong painkillers, which you’ve just had. The medication will also help to relieve the inflammation in your shoulder. We’ll get you a sling for that tomorrow, and it should be all right in a couple of weeks.”
Wesley blinked glassily, and Giles wasn’t sure how much he was taking in anymore. “I’ll just finish dealing with these cuts, and then you can get some sleep.”
Wesley nodded. “Thank you. Didn’t sleep last night,” he admitted with some reluctance.
Wesley’s pathetic self-recriminations were an all too recognizable mirror of his own, from that time. Watchers were well-trained to resist interrogation and torture, but nothing in their training prepared them to deal with the aftermath. One was expected to simply get on with it, or else contact a Council counselor – which would have resulted in being recalled from active duty, at the very least. After a moment, Giles offered, “I didn’t sleep either, after I was tortured. Not for a long time.” He’d wandered the house in an exhausted, numb fog, taking too many painkillers in an effort to keep the fog from lifting. When it had, finally, lifted, the violence of his mood swings had frightened the life out of Willow and Xander as they took turns babysitting him under the auspices of trying to locate Buffy.
Wesley turned bleary eyes on him. “I’m so sorry, Giles.”
“What for? It wasn’t your fault.”
“What you’d been through. Should’ve been more sensitive to it… I did read about it in your files, before I was sent to Sunnydale, but I was afraid to… I-I didn’t know how to…” he frowned, fighting his own awkwardness and guilt on top of the medication.
“I wouldn’t have known how to bring it up either, had I been in your place, and there was no reason you should have,” Giles offered. He packed up the kit and threw the bloodsoaked wipes into the bin. “Try to relax and get some sleep now, Wesley. We can talk in the morning.”
“But where will you sleep? I’m in your bed.”
“I’ll sleep in my bed too. Too old for the chair, I’m afraid. Is that all right with you?”
“Yes. Yes, that would be… yes. Thank you.”
Giles tried and failed to come up with a definitive interpretation of Wesley’s response. "I'll put your glasses on the bedside table, all right?" He reached to take them off.
Wesley turned his head away, then slowly back. "Right." He blinked up at Giles for a moment before letting his eyes close. "Lost one pair already this week..."
"The lights will be on," Giles told him, so he wouldn't have to ask.
"Hm-mm."
He sat, watching Wesley's face relax bit by almost-imperceptible bit as the drug and the exhaustion had their way. Guilt and regret stabbed him again. He'd so blithely assured himself that all his own nightmares of torture were in the past, but the fact that he'd so quickly and thoughtlessly dismissed the idea of speaking to Angel - and even to Wesley, because of his association with Angel - suggested otherwise.
"Giles?"
He swallowed. "Yes?"
Wesley moved his head slightly. "Nm-hm..."
Giles watched him carefully for half an hour, until he didn't stir at the sound of his name or a touch to his hand, until his breathing slowed and his lips parted slightly in heavy slumber. Giles drew the sheet up to Wesley's chest, but left the duvet folded down to his waist so as little weight as possible would rest on the injured shoulder. Then, moving slowly and quietly, he eased up off the bed and made his way down the stairs.
Cleaning the partially-dried vomit from the carpet was unpleasant but something of a relief - it distracted him from the problem of what to do next. When Giles had finished, he checked on Wesley again, then sat down at the desk and paged through his address book to find the tiny slip of paper with a Los Angeles number written in Buffy's looping hand, in her favourite purple ink.
The phone rang for so long that he began to relax, but at last there came a click at the other end.
"Angel."
His left hand shook where it lay on the desk; he balled it into a fist. "Giles here."
"Hey."
"Wesley's here with me. He may stay a few days. Faith left him in rather poor shape." The words felt like blocks of wood in his mouth. "Which brings me to the question of where is Faith?"
"Not in Sunnydale. Not your problem." Angel's words were ice. "How's Wes?"
"Not collapsing on your doorstep, not your problem."
"He said he was all right," Angel murmured, after a long moment.
"I would imagine that you could have smelled through that from the next county."
Silence. "Faith's in jail."
"Oh, that's sure to be a success."
"She turned herself in. We... she wants to change."
"A night trading torture tips with you brought her to that conclusion, did it?"
"If you wanted to be partners on this, you could have called me. You could have tracked her to LA. Hell, you could have come up today with Buffy. But don't sit there behind your books and pretend you've got the answers."
Giles’s jaw clenched. “How ironic, that you should be claiming the moral high ground.”
There was a pause. “Giles, I don’t expect you to be my pal, but you could at least have considered Wesley and Cordelia. I don’t think I’m the only person you’re mad at, do you?”
“Good night, Angel.” Giles put the phone down without waiting for a reply, and moved quietly into the kitchen. He’d been so deep in his book that evening, he’d not bothered to stop for dinner. All that research in aid of helping people he didn’t know, who wouldn’t even know they’d been helped, and when he’d really needed to put the sodding book down and make a call, he’d failed. He was a coward, and his cowardice could have got Wesley killed.
With a deep sigh, he took out a tin of beans and a can opener. He put a saucepan on, dumped in the beans, some Lea and Perrins, and a bit of rosemary. He stuck two pieces of bread in the toaster, and waited for it all to heat up. He resisted the urge for scotch. He was too angry to drink, and he needed to be sober for Wesley.
He faffed about in the kitchen, tidying up, until the food was done. He put the plate on the counter, looked up, and saw Wesley sitting on the stairs.
“Wesley, are you all right?”
Wesley smiled ruefully. “I just wanted a bit of company. Pathetic, I know.”
“Not at all. I’ve just made beans on toast. Would you like some? You haven’t had anything in your stomach for a while; a bit of this might help to stabilize you.”
On Wesley’s hesitant nod, Giles transferred half the food to another plate. “Eat it slowly.” Wesley walked unsteadily to the counter, and they ate in silence. Wesley’s pupils were blown; his mind was probably blessedly foggy, thanks to the drugs.
“I told her she’d never hear me scream.”
Giles stopped eating. He nodded, but didn’t push for more information than Wesley was prepared to give. “I’ve spoken to Angel, let him know you’re here. Apparently Faith’s turned herself in. She’s going to prison.”
“I did scream, though.”
“Wesley…”
“I tried not to.”
Giles nodded.
“All that training.” Wesley gave a mirthless smile.
“Nothing could have prepared you for that.” He’d certainly found it to be so.
“And you know, up to the moment she began cutting, I actually believed she could change.” He shook his head disgustedly. “Can you imagine how naive I must have been to still have that kind of…” he smiled. “Faith?”
“These were exceptional circumstances. There are certain things we must hold onto, no matter what, and belief in basic human goodness is one of them.” He thought, but did not add, ‘otherwise, what’s it all for?’ Neither of them were up to answering that question just now.
“I screamed,” Wesley repeated, as though still attempting to process what had happened.
“So did I,” said Giles.
Wesley blinked up at him. “You did?”
He nodded. “And a good deal afterwards, as well.”
“I didn’t know.”
“It wasn’t something I advertised. The Council would have had me retired on the spot. Only Willow and Xander, poor things, ever saw me like that, and then only once. Even Buffy doesn’t know. In fact, we’ve never discussed what happened to me.”
“Have you discussed it with *anyone*?”
“Not until now.”
Wesley nodded. “Thank you.”
The meal finished, as it had begun, in silence. Giles washed up, waving off Wesley’s game but impossible offers of help. “Back to bed with you.”
“Are you coming this time?”
“Yes, I’m coming, Wes.”
Again, progress up the stairs was slow, but Wesley made it more or less under his own power. Giles helped him in, then got ready for bed himself. Sharing his bed was a rare experience these days, and he couldn’t help but think of the last time he and Wesley had done so. That time, he’d been the one in need. It hadn’t been the first time they’d taken comfort in one another, but even then he’d detected a new steel in the man. He’d been more confident, more demanding, more in control, and when Giles had tried to shock him with a bit of a show of force, Wesley had surprised him by becoming rock hard. Giles had played along, gladly, though whether Wesley was trying to prove something to himself, or to Giles, he wasn’t sure. The two of them had spent their lives trying to prove themselves, so it could have been anything.
“You can turn out the light,” said Wesley.
Giles complied. He turned on his side, facing Wesley, and covered his hand with his own, whispering, “I’m here, Wes. Sleep well.”
Still under the influence of the painkillers, Wesley seemed to drop off to sleep almost immediately. Giles lay awake for some time, trying to move as little as possible to avoid jostling Wesley, but sooner than he expected he found himself dozing, and he fell asleep to Wesley’s quiet breathing.
continued here