Slashed Sonnet Sequence

Title: Change My Mind
Pairing: Giles/Wesley
Rating: NC17


From Sonnet #10:

* * *

Giles does not love him.

But he has been waiting for him all the long day, and welcomes him when he returns from his wandering of the downs. Dampened by spats of rain and grey as the sky, he barely seems to notice the cottage door opening or Giles’ supporting arm about his shoulders, helping him inside.

He's been out since dawn or soon after, aimlessly walking as is his habit. Searching, seeking - for what he will not say. Giles knows, because he was gone from their bed when he himself awoke. His half of the tangled sheets – long cold.

No breakfast leavings, no half-empty teapot. No obvious food missing. So he’ll have been hungry all day, but won’t have thought of it. Foolish boy. No, not a boy, a man; nothing pains him more than to be mistaken for young and lacking in experience.

Giles must remember that now.

It’s almost gone sunset when he returns. This is cutting things dangerously close for Giles’ liking. Though he had occasionally glanced out the window and worried, he’d assumed that if his companion were still alive he’d be home by dark. Some old habits will not die, regardless of other changes in one’s life. Night is equivalent to danger, and the need to come in away from it. He had begun, despite himself, to fret about --.

But he’s home now.

Chiding and cosseting, Giles half-carries him through to the sitting room and arranges it so that he may collapse into a chair by the fire. He’s glad that he thought to make up a good brisk blaze and have it ready. The day was warm, but evenings tend to grow cold quickly in Northern England. Besides, he sees now that beneath his Burberry, his companion is soaking.

Giles tsks over that. Truly, the man can make such astonishing messes of himself. Did he lie on the dying autumn grass to watch the rain? He’d not be surprised. Or did he roll in reeds, or simply jump in a pond?

He goes to fetch towels, old and worn but dry. When offered, they are stared at blankly, as if part of some complex mathematical equation not yet understood.

“Must I do everything for you, then?”

One hand creeps out to touch the ratty softness of terry. Petting it.

Giles shakes his head. “Very well, then. Can you remove your coat for me? Can you do that, at least?”

The man bites his lip in an agony of uncertainty, and Giles moves to help. He takes care of this man. He cannot *not* do so.

But he does not love him.

* * *

And he no longer believes, really, in dr. It. It had been easy to fall into the habit when surrounded by American youths, so full of what they hoped tomorrow would bring. Almost uncrushable, though they faced death every night. It had been – satisfying, somehow - to let himself believe in better things while he remained with them.

Now his reason for living has gone, and he’s no longer able to think of brighter tomorrows. They have all gone down with her golden hair, six feet into the grave.

The children felt betrayed by his decision to leave. It showed through their brave masks at the airport when he left. But they knew he had no reason to stay – without her. It had been a long time coming, this separation, and though he shed a few tears behind a newspaper once on the plane, he felt some of the damning weight lift from his soul at the parting.

He has been away from them for over a year now. And he still has no regrets.

It gladdened his very soul to come home. Returning to a peaceful existence, painstakingly re-carved from countryside life. The purchase of a good bay gelding to ride across sprawling green spaces, fresh eggs for breakfast, a pint of genuine English beer at the pub of an evening. Browsing at antique fairs, watching his pennies though he didn’t need to. At peace for the first time in ever so long, longer than he could remember. Just peace, a whole calendar-span of it.

Then he arrived.

*His* presence burst every carefully-crafted bubble. Let the dark night back into Giles’ pleasant afternoons.

He did not love him then.

He cannot love him now.

* * *

The man blinks once, twice, again, processing Giles’ request. Before Giles can help him, he stands under his own power and peels his arms out of the coat, so much overcooked spaghetti. The heavy weight of wool collapses to the floor. Droplets of water land on the fireplace gridiron and sizzle; both wince at the unpleasant sound.

Giles inspects the damage. Mercifully, the chair is only damp, but that still won’t do. He spreads two of the thicker towels across it to blot up the excess.

At this, his companion slowly develops a worried look in his eyes. He glances from his coat to Giles, seeking some acknowledgement that he has done well to obey. Giles touches his shoulder to soothe him. The warmth of his fingers brings a flash of relief across the man’s face, a softening that turns him from looking every one of Giles’ years to his proper, younger status.

Giles smiles to encourage him. “The shoes, next? Can you remove them?”

The man blinks, confused again. Giles expected no less. He kneels. “Lean on me for balance, and lift your left foot,” he directs.

He tries not to react to the over-cool feel of wet, clammy fingers on his shoulder as he is obeyed. Instead, he tucks his head close to the man’s hip, butting against it in support and mostly-real comfort.

The shoe slips off damply to reveal a nicely-shaped bare foot, long and narrow with an aristocrat’s arch and ankle. Giles regards both for a long moment before putting the loafer aside. Resists the urge to caress the sole of that foot, make the toes curl up. It looks so cold that he wants to warm it with his own fire-toasted hands.

It is not hard to *touch* him. Oh, no, not at all.

But it is impossible to love him.

* * *

The afternoon his companion arrived had begun as the most pleasant of Giles’ new peaceful, lazy existence. He’d bargained hard at a rummage sale and come away with two very nice copies of Dickens. The manager, short and appealingly squat as the display of Edwardian teapots also in her booth, squinted and haggled with him until both were satisfied. Most enjoyable. He bought a teapot, too, to remember her by

On his way home he stopped at the local shops and bought two pounds of the richly scented tea he liked best, some Wensleydale, and a supply of imported American chocolates (there were some things he did miss, after all). He planned to go out for a long, rambling walk in a bit, or if it got too dark, to have an ale by his fire and a dozy skim through the newspaper.

*His* arrival changed all of that. Just as Giles had finally decided where best to store his new volumes – their leather bindings were ancient, and his cottage hardly climate-controlled – he heard it.

Scratch, scratch, scratch at the door. He’d thought perhaps it was a dog.

But when he’d opened the door, there *he* stood. Unshaven long enough for stubble to become a thin beard. His clothes stank to highest heaven and lowest hell, stained by mud from the road and splashes of railway coffee. His glasses, broken and slightly askew. His hair a filthy tangle. His shoes? Gone. Feet badly cut by rough cobblestones. Hands chapped and raw from cold. A long, mostly-healed scar ran the breadth of his throat. He said nothing, only swayed a little, and gave Giles the look of a terribly lost and confused child.

A sensible man would have shut the door in this apparition’s face and promptly rung up the police. Giles did neither. He touched him. Put out his hand and grasped the arm, feeling scrawny but solid heat underneath. Too hot; feverish.

Though he recognized the gaunt figure, he heard himself blurting: “Wesley?”

Wesley touched him back, hand flat to his chest, expression solemn and shuttered as a cat. He nodded once, wincing as if the movement hurt his throat.

Giles hesitated, knowing things would change forever if he let him in. But he could not turn this creature away, no more than he might the homeless dog he’d come in search of. He stood back from the door and gestured Wesley in.

Like a vampire, only able to think of crossing that threshold now, Wesley sidled inside. He stood still for an eternity while Giles struggled for something intelligent to say, then turned around, blinked once, took Giles with one hand to either shoulder, and calmly kissed him.

Giles was startled, not smitten. He did not love him then.

He does not love him now.

* * *

He works slow and careful as a nurse, not a lover, unbuttoning Wesley’s wet shirt. Long of sleeve but made from thin Egyptian cotton, all wrong for this weather. Utterly spoiled now, of course. He would throw it in the fire if not for the stink. There’s no undershirt, only an expanse of pale skin, a down of honey-colored hair and two nipples dark as chocolate, pebbling up in the sudden chill of exposure. Giles strokes them with the ball of his thumb, softly, thoughtfully. Wesley gives a shiver of a different sort.

He does not speak.

After some thought, neither does Giles. He moves his hands a little further down and kneads Wesley’s stomach lightly. To bring some warmth back to the skin, he tells himself.

But his hand wanders a little further south, to the buckle on Wesley’s belt. At least he remembered to wear one. He’s grown far too thin for even the trousers Giles bought him to fit. Much more weight lost and he will become skeletal.

Giles frowns unhappily at the realization. He’ll have to think of things to tempt that fragile appetite, that won’t hurt a still-sore throat.

Appetite… he traces the soft line of hair that disappears into Wesley’s belt, from top to bottom. The soft gasp pleases him. He touches a slim flank with his other hand, squeezing ju lit little. Gently. Wesley begins to sway back and forth, but Giles has learned that when words desert the other man, this means he is pleased.

It pleases Giles as well. He glances up to be sure, and sees a slow heat growing in darkened eyes, eyes that grow stronger in an awareness of himself, his surroundings, his seducer. He nods once, daring to push at the hand on his belt.

Giles dips his head. The belt, too, is loose – threaded through the loops but not pierced by the buckle – and comes off easily. Without needing to be unzipped, Wesley’s trousers slither partway loose until they stick to his thighs, still wet. His cock, half-hard, springs loose and hangs temptingly before Giles’ mouth.

Giles takes it briefly between his lips, giving one hard suck. Savoring the taste of autumn and Wesley, he draws him in far as can be, then laves the organ with his tongue until it swells into full hardness.

Too soon, he pulls off with a wet *pop*. Wesley’s hands are on his shoulders now, fingers curling and uncurling. ~Please~, they beg while his voice is silent. ~Giles, please!~

But Giles has never claimed to be merciful, and he is no longer obliged to be kind.

A final flick at the engorged crown with the tip of his tongue and he lets go. Hard as stone, it slaps Wesley in the belly and leaves a spot of the sticky pre-cum he's leaking. With a secret smile, Giles peels the remains of the rained-on trousers away from his companion and eases them off one foot at a time.

He gives in and kisses the tops of those feet. He would swear his lips leave burn marks in their wake.

But he only wants him now.

He does not love him.

* * *

Giles took in and took care of his bewildered stray, feeling at first a vague sort of obligation. A sense of fellow-feeling among their rarest breed of ex-Watchers.

Wesley rarely spoke, or speaks even now, but ever with a grimace. His once plummy voice, smooth as cream, rasps unmercifully.

But despite that, Giles soon began to understand.

Wesley needs to be wanted. His serious, solemn kisses were first disquieting, then pleasant, and finally loaned a sort of borrowed peace back unto Giles’ soul. When hands began to wander, he allowed and then encouraged them, until he realized that rather than taking, they sought; instead of demanding, they begged for attention.

Wesley needs to be ruled. Not necessarily a weakness – but now, a burning obsession. And Giles he fell back into a role he had not played since his adolescence, the days of demons and bloody wine. He became Wesley’s master. Bought him new clothing, for his companion had not a stitch save that on his back. Plied him with food and drink to make him a strong pet. Kept him warm, permitted him to sleep in his own bed. Rolled him onto his flat stomach and used slippery fingers to spread him open, thrusting in to claim him deeply. Entwined their fingers tight to signify his commitment. Muffled the cries of ecstasy or pleasure/pain with his own lips and tongue.

He will not beat Wesley. This is a sore point between them that the younger man insists on jabbing at with sharp sticks, never permitting it to heal over. He thinks he deserves it, though he will not say why, and cannot be convinced otherwise. If the temptation grows too strong Giles binds his wrists to the bed with rough hempen rope and takes him that way. He is always careful not to lavish extra attention at these times, not to reinforce Wesley’s idea that this is good.

Wesley needs to feel that he belongs. So Giles lets him stay. Gives him all he needs. Doesn’t push or pry for knowledge of hows and whys. Doesn’t bring up the past, where they cordially hated and were hated in return.

He knows Wesley has been with Angel, and that he fled to safety in England – to him. Somehow, that explanation is enough.

He wonders if he should go back to America. Or ring them. If Angelus has gotten loose again... He could slit a friend’s throat, leave them in this state.

But neither Willow nor Xander calls, so he lets it drop. He simply adjusts his life to include Wesley, and goes on much as before.

But he does not love him.

* * *

Wesley is bare from tip to toe, nude and elegant in his form as a Grecian statue. Apollo? Eros? Perhaps Priapus, with his angry red, dripping erection. His hands are clenched into tight fists as Giles walks around and around him, pretending to dry and warm his skin, but truly just feeling through the towel, gentle sweeps and long strokes. When he comes round Wesley’s front again, the younger man puts out a hand to stop him. Flat-fingered on his chest, just as he did when he did when they first met here.

“No,” he grates.

Giles’ blood, long since simmering, rises toward a blissful boiling. He runs a hand through Wesley’s hair and tugs him closer. Their groins meet; he rolls into the contact and grows harder at the sound of a catlike hiss. “You’re willing? Able?” he asks softly, carding his fingers through soft, drying locks.

“Yes. Now.”

Giles smiles, and it is not a nice smile. “Then say please.”

And there is no love there, none at all.

* * *
His clothes have joined Wesley’s in a heap by the chair. Wanting has made Giles loose and limber, coiled as a tense spring. He kneels and leans back on his heels easily. He strokes one tight thigh muscle, inviting: come to me.

Wesley draws close, sinking onto his haunches. Giles has oiled him, drizzling it down his back and between the cheeks of his arse. Stretched him past the point of pleasure with one, two, three, four fingers, and finally his thumb, till he rotated his fist deep inside and knuckled that hidden bundle of nerves until Wesley screamed. Has knelt the man down before him and run the tip of his own weeping cock across Wesley’s lips, letting him suckle strongly as he could, permitting him to lap up and down the length of it until his strength threatened to break.

He is not a rude lover. He will not give what he will not take. But all Wesley wants to do is give by taking. Already he’s lowering himself over Giles, his stretched hole widening yet more as he sinks down and takes him in, every inch, until thin hipe fle flush against groin. Giles shows his approval with searing kisses over the bared shoulderblades and down the curve of spine, rubbing his arms until Wesley lets himself be held around the waist.

They know this dance well. Wesley lowers; Giles lifts. Flesh meets flesh with a hot, sweet sound. Though Wesley would pick up the pace, Giles holds him back and angles to hit the pleasure spot every time.

Soon enough Wesley is a whimpering mess in his arms, thrashing back for greater contact. Giles holds on as long as he can, then lets go, allowing Wesley to plunge and impale himself as hard as he wants. His legs are strong enough for the impact. When they come, he from the spasming flesh encasing him and Wesley from the pain and Giles' own hands pulling at his cock, it is almost as one.

Exhausted, they tumble like puppies on the threadbare rug before the fire. He slides free of Wesley, dark flesh against a creamy pale thigh.

As ever, Wesley turns his back and curls up on himself, making a minature ball out of a tall man. Giles strokes him soothingly, up and down the side of his legs.

Slowly, he edges closer, until he is able to wrap his arm around Wesley's trembling ones and hold on tight, murmuring soft hushing noises into the ear. Wesley pushes himself backwards itno the embrace... and weeps.

Giles holds him with all of his might. He has strong hands, powerful enough to kill... orsavesave a life. He holds him, and tells him silently that he will never be cast aside.
But he will not love Wesley. Will never love him. He won't permit himself to.

A lone tear rolls down his cheek. He breathes Wesley's scent in deep, presses them together skin to skin, holds him as if he will never let him go.

And he lies to himself, one more time.

*Never* love him, not *ever*...

* * * * * * * * * * *

For those interested...

Sonnet #10

For shame deny that thou bear'st love to any,
Who for thy self art so unprovident.
Grant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,
But that thou none lov'st is most evident:
For thou art so possessed with murderous hate,
That 'gainst thy self thou stick'st not to conspire,
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
Which to repair should be thy chief desire.
O! change thy thought, that I may change my mind:
Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?
Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,
Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:
Make thee another self for love of me,
That beauty still may live in thine or thee.