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The thing about living in LA is that he *knows* he's in California,
but he doesn't, really. He's in LA, which is this huge world of
cement and thick air and chemically-coloured sunshine. Maybe four
times in his life, he's left the city, and only once he made it up the
coast as far north as Santa Barbara. That was when he first got a
sense of the world outside the Los Angeles basin. Huge rocks, huge
trees, a lot more wind and something sharp and blue which is what the
ocean smells like when there isn't a shitload of city waste pumped
into it.
He knows that there are more songs written about driving this highway
than he could listen to consecutively without being driven to commit
serious property damage, but he doubts any of them were written about
driving it at night. Not in the open air, with low beams and Wesley
Wyndham-Pryce jammed between the singer's thighs. So there's at least
that much of a split between the Twilight Zone of classic rock radio
and both of them on Wesley's motorcycle.
He's thinking that Wes must have out-butched him at some point,
because Wes is, in spite of Gunn's bitter protests, driving.
There's a hot place under the palm he laid against Wesley's ribs, and
he doesn't need vampire senses to know it's bleeding there, underneath
the skin and possibly even on top of it. It's been half an hour since
he could distinguish between just hot, and hot-and-sticky. An hour
since he snaked a hand under Wes' jacket and shirt and felt for his
breath and heartbeat. Belly and ribs, both still there, and only a
bit the worse for wear.
Three hours since they stood panting over the corpses of three
Shibboth demons who'd been hell-bent (and isn't that a phrase just
made for the occasion) on gutting every homeless kid they could get
their hands on. Fourteen human bodies for the city to bury, or
cremate, or do whatever they do with the bodies of dead people nobody
cares about. If Gunn had died just a year ago, his body would have
gone to the great beyond the same way. Unless he vamped first.
Gunn crouched on the floor after and watched Angel. Who was almost
twitching with the smell in the place. Human blood all over, and some
of it was so warm that it was steaming. Angel'd walked around,
checking everyone. Held Cordelia by the chin and wiped the blood off
her face with a bandana of some kind (black, cotton), then stashed it
inside his coat somewhere. Rubbed Gunn's shoulders with one big hand
when Gunn refused to stand and look him in the eye. Wrist-clasp with
Wesley, who'd pulled himself out of the tangle of two-by-fours he'd
been thrown into when his spell released. He was bleeding, too, from
scratches on his arms. Rusty nails, probably, and it occurred to Gunn
that if Wesley were in any other profession, he wouldn't *need* to
have his tetanus booster up to date.
Gunn stayed in his crouch as Angel passed him and watched the way that
coat moved. Thinking that Cordelia's blood was in there, somewhere.
That Angel could take it out, later, and smell it, or suck on it, or
jerk off into it, or whatever repressed vamps do with bloody rags.
When they figure out when Angel's birthday is, Gunn's going to get him
handkerchiefs, the big white ones you can buy in discount linen
stores, so that he'll be able to track the blood that Angel collects.
He didn't get up until Wesley walked over and offered him one too-
white hand. Something dark under his nails that Gunn didn't ask
about. He'd walked through Wesley's apartment once and looked at
everything, and he knows now that he doesn't want to know any more
about spell components than he currently does.
He flicked his eyes around the warehouse twice to see who was watching
them. Not Angel, not Cordelia. Maybe the bodies. Wesley had pulled
him forward and wrapped arms around him. Just a loose hug -- bodies
touching from groin to shoulder and their weight bracing, but no tight
grip, and no huge post-adrenaline passion that might scare the
children. Maybe just the edge of a hard-on that he rubbed carefully
against Wesley's belly. Until he felt the itch that meant Angel was
watching them and stepped back. Walked out of the warehouse about six
inches from Wes' shoulder but didn't touch him again. And just stood
in the night almost-chill, watching Wes and Angel wrap everything up
in the philosophical parts of their brains so the rest of them could
go home and sleep soundly.
Gunn wondered if Angel had noticed that the second helmet on the
motorcycle wasn't pink anymore. Most of the time if Gunn wanted to go
somewhere, he took his truck, but once or twice they'd taken Wesley's
bike, and he'd growled about the pink helmet loud enough that now
there was a new one. Matte and unguarded in front, so that he could
see. Obviously male. A little too obviously his.
Which alone was enough to make him flinch a little, and it was worse
because Wesley turned around then and saw him. Froze like a troll in
sunshine (and when did he start making Tolkien references, he hadn't
read the books in years) and watched Gunn shift his ass against the
cycle. Big vulnerable eyes for a second and an answering flinch.
Then both dark eyebrows pushed together and he walked from Angel back
to Gunn. Stepped into his personal space, so close that one thigh was
between Gunn's legs, and just stood there, staring into his eyes at
close range.
At some point, Cordelia coughed nervously, then whimpered, and Angel
said he was going to take her to the hospital to get stitches.
Washed-out blue eyes three inches from his.
Then Wes leaned in and kissed him, very softly with an open mouth.
Just one tongue-touch to Gunn's upper lip, but it was enough to let
energy crackle between them.
"Come on," he said, and at some point after that they left LA, and
since then they've been driving.
On this highway. Out north of LA, and they're driving fast enough
that if Gunn was driving instead of Wes, they'd have been pulled over
by some bitchy traffic cop long ago, and both of them would be face-
down on the ground while the bastard screamed at them how they'd
stolen the bike. Kinky, if you're into that sort of fantasy. Mostly
it's boys who look like Wesley who seem to be. If they looked like
Gunn, it wouldn't be a fantasy. All they'd have to do would be stand
around long enough.
An hour into the trip, he pulled the collar of Wesley's jacket down
and kissed the naked base of his neck. Wes shivered and the bike
swerved, so that for a dozen seconds they were in the wrong lane,
suddenly so close to the guard rail that Gunn could feel the
vibrations of the surf a hundred or so feet down the cliff. They
turned back into their own lane, eventually, and he got the rare twist
of Wesley's ass against his crotch, which felt better than it should
have and nearly pushed him into the realm of indecent assault.
*boy, you been molesting this man?*
*nothing he didn't ask for, officer*
*OK, asshole, you're under arrest no more feeling up pretty white
wizards for you*
And isn't that a strange thought. Wizard. Because it's becoming
clearer that this is exactly what Wesley is. In their last handful of
fights, he's cast more spells than he's thrown punches, and the spells
are making Gunn's job a lot easier. The rest of the time, he walks
around like Wesley, looking over-neat and English and book-addicted.
Like he could get a high out of decomposing paper. Cordelia hasn't,
as far as Gunn can tell, noticed the mild charge that Wesley now
radiates almost all the time. Maybe they just don't touch enough for
her to think it's anything but socks on a wool rug. Angel hasn't said
anything.
Up to his right, the rock face is slanting back, but it's still huge
enough that it blocks out half the sky. His world's been reduced to
rock and dark and Wesley pressed back against him. Satisfying enough,
and he's too tired to figure out what corner of wherethefuck they're
in now. As long as he stays hanging on, he can just doze until the
sun comes up.
In fact he doesn't get to, because at some point trees grow up on
their left and they're not in danger of falling into the water
anymore. A semi rolls past them and rocks the bike hard towards the
rock, so that it takes all of Gunn's and Wesley's balance to keep them
from sliding out.
Reflective sign announces gas-food-cheap motel in fifteen miles, but
Wesley pulls in at the next rest stop. It isn't quite morning yet,
and the trees around them have this huge, strong smell that he can't
shake. Lots of water and salt in with the needles and leaves. Smells
good, so that he walks off into them to stretch his legs, and relieves
himself there in the dark. Cold air on his cock and chill on his
balls that wakes him up really well. The backs of his knees hurt from
having been bent the same way for so long.
When he comes back, Wesley's standing across the gravel lot from him.
Behind him, there's some kind of cedar-lined path leading into the
dark. Which isn't comforting for a guy who's used to there being big,
ugly monsters in the dark, and Gunn doesn't care that right now it's
probably just deer or maybe bears. In his boot, he has a couple of
short-shank knives, and there's a stake inside his jacket. He can't
walk towards Wes with his hand on one of them, not without being
really obvious and paranoid, but he would if he could.
Wes leans into him for a second when he finally does come. From out
of the dark, suddenly, there's this *boom* that makes all his skin
crawl two inches higher than it was a second ago, and it's only Wesley
holding him down that keeps him from jumping like a cat.
"What the *fuck*!"
"Shh. It's the ocean. We're only about thirty yards from the beach."
"It's loud."
"The tide's coming in. And you can hear it better now that the
motorcycle isn't running." The hand at the small of his back presses
in and rubs down an inch inside Gunn's jeans to brush his tailbone.
Clever fingers probe the shape of the bone and the flesh around it.
Something rings.
Softly, Wesley says, "Bugger." Steps back and digs in some inner
pocket of his coat, comes out with his cell phone.
Gunn snatches the plastic wafer out of Wes' loose grip and answers it.
"Yeah."
"Gunn?" Cordelia's voice is way too vivid, like she's standing right
behind him and bitching again about how he's a danger to himself and
others.
"Yeah."
"Why are you answering Wesley's phone?"
"Because I stole it from him."
"Why would you steal someone's phone? I mean, all someone has to do
is call you on it and they can prove it's not yours . . ."
"Cordelia, he's right here."
And he is, but not in front of him anymore. Wesley circled him at
some point and came at him again out of the dark, pressing that too-
thin body against Gunn's back and wrapping an arm around his waist.
The other's somewhere up by his collar. Cool touch on the back of his
neck an instant before Wesley's lips press against it. Making Gunn
arch back like some kind of fucking alley cat, slutting himself for a
touch.
"Gunn?"
Oh *fuck* yes. Wesley's crotch pushes up against his ass, warm and
hard. And he keeps thinking that he's supposed to being doing
something, but he's happy right now just being the object of Wes'
slightly perverted attentions, and now that he's getting used to the
sound of the ocean it's just an interesting extra rhythm he can use to
push himself up against the man behind him.
"Gunn?!"
Cordelia. Right.
"*What*?"
"Where are you?"
"Fuck if I know. Somewhere up the coast." Holds the phone away from
his mouth. "Wes, where are we?"
"About a hundred and eighty miles north of Los Angeles." That second
hand working at his shirt, at his belt, working its way into his
clothes to stroke his navel.
"We're up north." Something sticky on his belly that he's worried
might be Wesley's blood. "Why?"
Awkward pause. "I don't know. I got scared. I don't know where
Angel is."
Fuck. "Do you think he's in trouble?" It's three hours, maybe four,
back to LA, and he doesn't want to abandon this spot. Not yet, and
maybe not for a couple of days. Even though Wes isn't groping him
anymore, just draping an arm around Gunn's neck and paying attention.
"I . . ."
"Vision?"
"No. I just . . . I don't know where he is and my head hurts and I
didn't know where Wesley was either. Or you. And my head hurts.
There's almost nobody awake in the hospital and it's dark and they
told me I couldn't sleep. This nurse with pokey fingers swings by
every fifteen minutes or so and makes sure. So all I can do is sit
here and think, and I hadn't seen you guys since we left the
warehouse, and . . ."
"You should talk to Wes. He does reassuring way better than I do."
Hands the phone back over his shoulder and closes his eyes. Wesley,
even talking on the phone, is still there, pressed very close against
him and rubbing gently against his ass. Warm arm on his shoulder,
though he misses the one around his waist and his belly's getting cold
way too fast with his shirt hiked up. Gunn slides a hand down to
cover up, but the arm on his shoulders snakes down and catches him,
pushes him aside and resumes the earlier stroking of his navel and the
line of fur that runs up and down from it. Teasing at the waist of
his jeans and the thin skin underneath it. Only once reaching farther
down to rub the heel of that way-too-busy hand against the bulge of
Gunn's erection.
Fucker.
Fucker who's still talking in that low, soothing English voice to
Cordelia on the phone and keeps petting Gunn into horny incoherence.
Whose eyes, from the sound of his voice, must be almost closed behind
his glasses. So goddamned calm, just like he isn't the walking bundle
of nerves that he is. Like he doesn't vibrate when anyone someone
looks at him funny.
"Yes. Yes. Yes, we're fine. We're safer up here than we would be in
Los Angeles." Angel-ees, the Englishness seeping off of him.
"I know. I will." Reassurance and promise to something she's
demanded of him. Something that Gunn suspects he doesn't want to know
about, because if it's about Angel, it's another case of too much bad
information, and if it's about him . . . he doesn't want to know what
Cordelia thinks about him. He still hasn't shaken off the I'm-being-
watched feeling that Ethan Rayne stuck him with, and sometimes he
thinks he remembers Cordelia in the room with them, the first day he
and Wesley slept together. One of those fucked-up dreams that refuses
to go away.
"Hush, now. It'll be all right. We'll be back today or tomorrow, I
promise. All right. Goodnight, Cordelia." Snaps the phone shut and
buries it in his coat again.
Without the necessity of holding the phone steady, Wes is free to push
himself into a full-body *rub* against Gunn's back. It's hard enough
to knock him forward. Gunn staggers for a second, and by then
Wesley's moved. Out in front of him on the tourist-safe past, looking
again like the too-awkward Englishman who does Angel's research and
keeps his files in order. Not looking at all like a wizard, or even
particularly sexy. Maybe a little like he's hurt, which is something
Gunn's going to have to check on.
Except that Wesley's disappeared around a smoothed corner of some
rock, and Gunn has to run to catch up with him. Loose bark under his
feet -- cedar, he thinks. Sharp wood-smell like the insides of the
boxes in Wesley's apartment. Pine and salt over it. Wesley still out
in front of him, ducking through the trees and vanishing suddenly.
It's a drop-off, he finds. Only about six feet down, and the rocks
are way too smooth, like they're under water sometimes. The sand down
below is brilliant-white in the dark, running down to the huge shock
of sound that's the ocean. The next boom makes him start, and then
it's jump or fall, so he jumps, lands with his legs curled under him
and crouches there, watching.
Wesley's peeled his jacket off, and his shirt. There's a dark splash
across his abdomen that's probably blood, but Gunn can't smell it for
the ocean (and when, exactly, did he get to know what blood smelled
like?).
White fingers catch a little of that mess on their tips and mix it
with the breath-fine sand that's everywhere, even getting into the
hollows of Gunn's ears. Rub and rub and then Wesley stands up and
wades into the water, barefoot but with his pants still on, and rinses
his hands. A huge wave hits him at the same moment that he turns to
look at Gunn, but he just leans back into it and lets the water slide
down around him. Very bright in the dark. Like he's radiating
something. Not sunshine, or even something as pure as moonlight.
More like he's radioactive or wired up to some particularly nasty
brand of demon that glows in the dark.
Hears Ethan Rayne again, saying *wizard*, and realizes for the first
time how scary that is.
Wesley comes back out of the water, dripping. He should look like a
wet cat but for some reason he doesn't. More like a snake, or a sea-
thing getting loose. The hollows of his skull only gradually start to
look like eyes as he gets closer. As he steps up to Gunn, then into
his personal space again. Undresses him, efficiently, like some kind
of manic butler. Jacket, shirt, belt, boots, pants, jockeys, socks
all hit the sand. Leaving him naked and very aware of the air all
around him while Wes stands back and looks him over.
This close, he can see that Wes is cut, but not badly. The wound's
long and shallow, and it isn't really bleeding anymore. Must've hurt
like a mother, though, when Wes pulled his shirt off, and the edges
are newly seeping where the shirt must have stuck to the congealing
blood. One more mark on that body in the course of Angel's quest for
whatever the fuck it is he's after. Redemption or some shit. Right.
You'd think in two hundred and whatever years he'd get over himself.
Cold and sticky on his abs when Wes presses into him again. Wet pants
against Gunn's naked skin, some blood. The cold makes his balls try
to crawl back up inside his body, and his cock isn't even half sure
whether it wants to be hard or not. He's only warm where Wes' mouth
has latched onto his.
Somewhere back through the trees, a semi screams past them and Gunn
jumps.
Wesley looks at him hard. Blue eyes sharp behind the glasses. "You
don't like it when I kiss you."
"No." Meaning, *no, that isn't it* instead of *no I don't like it*,
which he'd like to explain, but he can just picture himself trying to
stammer it out, and it sounds entirely too much like Cordelia, so he
just swallows it.
Blue eyes watching him. Then one bony hand closes around Gunn's wrist
and drags him forward until they're halfway between rock and ocean.
Pulls/pushes him down to sit. Wes isn't actually strong enough to
make him do anything -- Gunn has twenty pounds of solid muscle on the
man -- but he's radiating again, and the sparks running from his hand
to Gunn's arm whisper that he's angry. And it's definitely anger
sparking out of his eyes when he folds himself down and straddles
Gunn's legs, putting their eyes a handspan apart.
Wet mouth on his, kissing shallow and sharp.
"Feel that." Sharp, itching power runs across his chest, and he can
feel/see the blood marks Wesley made over a week ago on his skin.
"Let me make this clear.
"You are mine"
Kisses him harder, and presses down into Gunn's lap. But not the way
he usually does, with his ass pushing in towards the erection pushing
up towards him. Just down, holding Gunn down awkwardly enough that he
can't get away without hurting them both.
There's something other than anger pushing to the surface. Hot and
bubbling. It could be hurt, he thinks. Because he *knows* it bugs
Wes whenever he flinches away. But he just doesn't see the point in
them getting their asses kicked if they don't have to. One vamp, two
vamps, OK, but half the homeboys in South Central just might be a
match for them, and he'd much rather be a quiet
//closet//
case happily fucking Wes in the abandoned rooms of Angel's hotel than
a faggot kicked to the curb and crucified there. And he's *sorry*
about that, but survival's kind of an issue with him.
He's gonna have to explain that in really careful words, though,
because what Wes will get out of it otherwise is that Gunn's ashamed
of him. Doesn't
//love//
want him. Because Wes got to go to school in some stick-up-the-ass
private academy thing back in England, where rich Brits learn to be
secretly OK with boys fucking each other.
He opens his mouth to say so, figuring he can maybe find the words as
he goes along, but the instant he does, he has Wesley's tongue down
his throat. Wesley's hands are clamped around his skull, holding him
steady, and Wes is up on his knees again, pressing his whole weight
down on Gunn's mouth. So hard that it's not reasonable for those
glasses to still be resting perfectly on his nose. Wet, slick, very
serious.
Gunn slides back onto his elbows and looks up as Wes. Who's digging
something out of a pocket of his coat, reaching out long and lean with
his knees still clamped around Gunn's hips. Who uses his thumb to
crack open the bottle of something liquid and slick that he comes up
with. The smell of it almost blue, sharp like the surf making huge
bass rumbles in the background.
Body-warm when it pools on his belly, sliding into his navel and
making snake-slick trails down to the dip of his pelvis. Wes' hand in
it is warm, living, moving like greased fire along him. Just
massaging right now, working out some of the tension that Gunn hadn't
realized he was building, but which is now almost cramp-tight. "Shit
that feels good."
"Mmm." The kiss he gets this time is gentler.
He could stay like this for hours, drifting and almost asleep, while
Wesley strokes him. Only half-aroused, the rest of him just happy to
be touched and to be warm. The sand under him must have been
viciously hot during the day; even now it's radiating heat slowly into
his back.
Wet, messy kisses. Girl-soft mouth on Wesley. The rest of him isn't
even noticeably *off*, it's the mouth that makes people squint at him
in the street, that makes him just a little implausible on the arm of
a woman.
Wes' tongue stays gently in his mouth while the first warm, slick
finger comes to press against Gunn's ass. For a second he only
blinks, and for ten after that he wants to shake his head like a dog.
No. But it's not invasive yet, just stroking, and he's still getting
kissed. And when it is invasive, it's only a little, full and
startling in a way that makes him gasp and then snake an arm around
Wes' neck and pull him down closer.
Two fingers is more startling. Not because he's never done it before,
but just something about the fingers themselves, their shape and
leanness and the power that he *knows* is radiating through them, even
if it's not transferring right now. Stretched at the same time that
he's just a bit threatened. Watch it, mister, or you'll be magicked
to kingdom come, and won't you have an interesting time explaining
yourself when you get there? Growls, pushes his hips down against the
fingers, manages a breathy obscenity or two when they catch on his
prostate.
When Wes nudges him onto his side, then onto his stomach, he's willing
to go with it. The sand's comfortably warm, and the warmth of Wesley
curled against his back works against the air. Sometime while he's
been locked in the sharp strangeness of his own body, Wes' pants have
disappeared. Skin on his skin. Breath in his ear. Warm, long kiss
that wraps its way around his neck.
Nudge of Wes' cock against his opening, slow and careful. Just an
inch on the first thrust, more on each one after it. A long time
before he's all the way in, and by then Gunn's panting, wanting it
bad, almost prepared to beg for it. Almost. He's prepared to push
back, to make himself an active participant in this fuck even with his
body plastered against the sand and no purchase to speak of.
Hard thrust. "Mine." Just a hiss, but there's a spark on one
shoulder where Wes is touching him. Wesley whispers something in a
not-living language that somehow translates in Gunn's head. Telling
the earth who he belongs to.
"Mine." Telling the water that keeps making a sound so huge he's
going to be buried by it soon.
"Mine." Telling the rocks. "Mine." Telling the rock face. "Mine."
The air and the sun that's going to be rising soon.
"Mine." Naming the elements. Some kind of spell. Gunn wondered if
he can feel them reaching back, or whether he's just tired and wired
and getting fucked too hard to sort out his senses.
"Yours." Not a whimper, he's quite sure of that. A hiss, maybe. A
growl if he's lucky.
"Ashamed of me?"
"No!" Fuck, so good. Wes's got one knee down and thrusts in at an
angle, and it's suddenly deeper and lodging in a different place than
he's felt before. Enough to make his eyes go wide and the big shock
of pleasure that means he's going to come run down his chest towards
his groin.
Wesley kisses his ear, then just traces it with his tongue. There has
to be sand getting into Wes' mouth, but he doesn't complain or even
spit. Just takes the grains and lays them onto Gunn's skin in the
next open-mouthed *suck* on his shoulder. Thrusting quite fast now,
desperate like a kid on his first time. Pushing Gunn hard enough
against the ground that he comes without a reach-around. Howling and
thinking in those ice-white seconds that his cock is raw from the
sand, that if anyone touches it he's going to turn inside out and run
screaming into some wild place and not come back.
Wes is still on top of him, still thrusting. Gunn's just panting now,
waiting for it to be over and whimpering every time the hit on his
prostate comes too hard. If he was as pale as Wesley, his whole front
would be red from friction. He needs for this to be done, before it
starts to hurt. Wes' half-words in his ear sound apologetic, but if
he can just . get . himself . up it'll be less of an issue.
It takes all his energy to clamp down, but that and a twist of his
hips push Wes over. For long seconds he howls at the world that keeps
pushing in at them, with more breath than someone that slight should
have at this point. Relaxes in stages until he's just laid along
Gunn's back and holding him in a full-body hug that seems like it
should belong to a kid instead of the man who just topped him.
Quick, sharp pain when Wesley pulls out, but after that Gunn can roll
over and breathe easier. Wesley's head presses into his chest and
doesn't lift again. Softer, shallower breaths until he's clearly
asleep.
Even in the dark, something quick and brilliant catches one lens of
Wesley's glasses in the sand next to them, and Gunn makes a mental
note (an order? something fierce that he can carve into his memory)
not to roll over onto the specs, even if it would mean he gets to
drive home.
There's booming water around them, pushing in towards the rock face.
Overwhelming until his heartbeat matches it, and then it almost
vanishes, and he can finally drift a bit.
*
He wakes up at midday and there are huge rock towers in the surf.
Farther out, there are islands. Just this one shallow sandy place
inside a world of rock and lichen and big, soft trees. The sun on his
skin's been baking him slowly for several hours, but it's a
comfortable bake that's going to leave him happier and gentler than he
was last night.
Wes isn't on him anymore, but the air still feels electric, so he
can't have gone far.
In fact, he's down at the water, kneeling ankle-deep in it with
something on his hands, muttering. Sand and blood, Gunn thinks, like
last night, but with something else in it. Gunn's eyes track sideways
and inform him that Wes has carefully gathered up his semen and left a
handful of actually kind of interesting rocks in the resulting hollow
in the sand.
He's naked when he turns. The glasses at this point are bizarre,
something extra on a slick, wild animal, and he wonders just how blind
Wes must be without them. He's still got the mix of bodily fluids and
sand on his hands, and it occurs to Gunn to ask if Wesley has *any*
idea how un-nineties (zeroes? some modern decade where blood and come
are dangerous) that is. How messy. And he probably would ask if Wes
didn't rinse it off right then, but he does, and comes back, sits down
cross-legged in the loose sand.
"Good morning." Soft, crisp. Like someone imported him straight out
of that rainy European island he comes from and dropped him here,
naked, to deliver Gunn's morning wake-up call.
"Hey." He reaches out to trace the line of Wes' thigh and breathes
easier for some reason when neither of them flinches.
"I should probably apologize for last night. A bit much."
*You don't say.* Not the first time Wesley's cast something while they
fucked, but definitely the most intense. Pulling them inside out
together. But Gunn isn't as angry as he thought he'd be, and he can't
think of anything creative to say, so he just watches the skinny,
curled body sitting next to him and waits.
"I . . ." Hesitation. He's starting to wonder whether the glasses
aren't more for armour than vision. Twitch of his lips that Gunn,
strangely, reads as *fuck I hate being English*. Interesting enough
to coax him into a full sitting position, to lean him in towards Wes.
Who's currently got what looks like a broken shell in his hands.
Knife-sharp. He keeps testing the edge and flinching away, coming
back to it and not looking at Gunn.
"What?"
Wesley looks at him then. Very bright, pale eyes. And hold out the
shell and a forearm.
It takes him a long minute to figure out what Wesley means, and a
couple more to think hard about whether this is something he wants.
*Just think. Your very own wizard.*
Gunn nods, and takes the shell, steadies the bony wrist against his
knee. The first cut isn't deep enough, but even with Wesley's
determinedly steady breathing, he knows it's gotta hurt. So he's more
careful, makes the next one deep enough to draw real blood, high on
the arm where there aren't any life-threatening veins.
His own, next. Third try's the charm, and this is the cut they needed
to begin with. Part of his brain is howling about blood sharing, but
it's a stupid quibble considering the sheer number of times they've
fucked bareback.
He mixes their blood together on his fingertips, watching Wes for
small 'yes' and 'no' cues. Because he isn't any kind of a wizard, but
even he can feel the mass of the energy he's channelling, well enough
to feel that it's huge. Blood like kindergarten fingerpaints.
Sticky, warm, already congealing. Wes is holding the sleeve of his
ruined shirt against the messy cut on his arm and holding his arm up
to slow the bleeding. Gunn hasn't looked at his own yet, but he can
feel the warm drip of something that isn't water running down towards
his wrist, so he'll have to deal with it sometime soon.
Wesley's hand on his wrist helps him draw. He doesn't know what the
symbols are, but he recognizes the answering ache on his own skin, so
he has a fair idea what they mean. *Mine.*
He whispers that. "Mine."
"Absolutely."
Wesley. Huge eyes and too-pale skin and all the dark hair on him
stark in the brilliance of morning. The blood marking out his skin
looks not quite real, but it doesn't drip after it touches him. Every
so often one of them flinches when the salt in the air gets into one
of their cuts.
When Wes releases his wrist, Gunn pushes his red, sticky fingers into
the white of the sand and leans in to kiss him. Wet and messy, salty
and sour and electric. Spark of unnatural energy when their chests
touch.
Bright and huge, this morning.