Heat

Wesley worked for a while, moving to Rupert's desk and barely noticing that the cup of coffee at his elbow remained full and hot the entire time. His mind was fully on the translation, puzzling through the archaic speech and the author's own rambling style. The use of what amounted to run on sentences only made his task more difficult. Not that it wasn't always difficult when an object was being described. To translate what he was reading into current terms he had to be able to see it in his mind. This meant pondering the slang of centuries ago, as well as the forms of the language in which the description was written.

Sighing, Wesley removed his glasses, polishing them as he thought, chewing on his lower lip. He looked up to find Rupert bustling around the flat, dusting books and knick knacks, fiddling for a moment with his antique radio, straightening the coffee table and couch cushions. Wesley had to smile, finding the picture so . . . domestic it was almost laughable, and terribly cute.

Chuckling, he went back to his words, trying once again to understand the elaborate description, pockmarked with rambling 'insights' into how the blade was made. Finally, sighing, he was almost certain he'd done the best he could.

"Well, that should do it for the description. The rest seems to be going on about how useful it is. I shall translate that as well, of course, but I think this will give us an idea of what we're dealing with."

Rupert leaned over him, reading what he had written. Wesley shivered at the feel of hot breath against his neck and couldn't stop himself from leaning against the older man's body. Rupert made no remark and Wesley let out a sigh of relief.

"Hmmm. So, what we're looking for is a punching dagger, split double bladed with short, edged quillion, and . . . what amounts to a Belgian pistol grip? Hmmm. Doesn't sound at all familiar, but that doesn't mean much. Do you think it might mention locations?"

"I think so, but I have to get through all the tripe first. The author writes like a child and was quite interested in singing its praises, which . . . makes me nervous," Wesley admitted in a small tone, knowing he sounded paranoid.

"Hmm. Yes, and rightly so. I always get a little nervous when they can't shut up about something."

Rupert's easy agreement made him smile. Glancing at the clock, Wesley cringed. "Oh, dear god, I'm surprised the children haven't come knocking by now. We'd best go before they tear down your door."

"Oh, I called. We both took the day off."

Wesley blinked, his mind spinning. "Uh, you . . . called for both of us?" He didn't know how to feel about that. Had Rupert . . . just given away to the children that they were . . . lovers? How else would he know, so early in the morning, that neither of them would be in that day? Wesley would have thought that seemed a little suspicious, but perhaps that was only him? Or perhaps . . . Rupert wanted the children to know?

Part of him jumped at the thought, amazed that Rupert would admit . . . would openly even hint that they were lovers. The other was wondering how in the name of hell he was ever going to look those children in the eyes again. How was he to manage to ignore snide, snarky remarks about his personal life? Perhaps they wouldn't do that . . . with Rupert involved?

No, he knew they respected the man, certainly more than they did him, but they didn't spare the other man when it came to their little comments. Especially Xander. How was we going to . . . oh, god.

Rupert looked at him and nodded. "I told them you'd called to tell me you'd found something on your attackers and that we would be working in the field today, looking for an object that might have something to do with your attack."

Wesley wasn't sure how to react to that either. He was glad the children remained unaware. Truly. Still, he was astonished to discover he might have liked Rupert's public acknowledgement of their . . . relationship. Of course, perhaps it was too early for that? He was probably rushing things again, of course. Trying for too much too quickly.

Nodding, he went back to the translation. Rupert leaned against the desk for a while, watching him, and Wes found it hard to concentrate with the older man's eyes upon him, that warm body so very close.

"Uh, Rupert?"

"Hmm? Oh. Is my--of course having me looking over your shoulder is distracting. Sorry. Why don't I make us some breakfast while you work through that?"

"That would . . . be wonderful." Wesley smiled up at the man, enjoying once again the easy interaction, but also surprised at its return. He'd thought, last night, that such a thing must be . . . special. Not that it wasn't still special, but . . . now, seeing how quickly both he and Rupert had slipped into it . . . it seemed perhaps a little more . . . everyday, more attainable. It seemed like something he could, perhaps, look forward to having again and again.

"Bugger," he heard Giles sigh from the kitchen. "I'm afraid I've been a little too, er, distracted to shop. Why don't I go pick something up instead?"

"Lovely," Wes commented, half-distracted by a particularly difficult bit. He looked up only once before Rupert left and that was when the man brushed his fingers across his back on the way out. Like the kiss, a simple, easy gesture. Comfortable and comforting.

His smile widening, Wes dove into his book. In fact, he was so enthralled, he almost didn't hear the scuffle outside. However, a loud, crash caught his attention and Wesley stood, chair falling back as he ran to the door, grabbing a crossbow from its place in one of the wall niches.

Throwing the door open, he saw Giles being held down, kneeling, by two men. He was struggling, but had no leverage, his feet pressed under him and both men pushing their weight against him.

There was a third saying something. When Rupert shook his head, the man lashed out with a foot, catching Rupert squarely in the ribs.