Heat

Wesley took in several factors as he raised the crossbow, his mind flying in many directions. Refusing to listen to the voice, refusing to hesitate or let the chest clenching worry overwhelm him, he took careful aim.

All three were human. Wounding shots, then. His bolt caught the first man in the thigh and he went down, screaming. Wes was already loading a second bolt when one of the men holding Rupert turned to him.

That put him off balance and Wesley shook his head, tsking loudly as he raised his crossbow, but didn't fire. Rupert surged back, focusing his force on the off-balance man and pushing to the side. He made it to his feet, ripping his arm free from the third man. Rupert dived to the side and Wesley fired, hitting the one man still on his feet. It took him the arm, the force of it causing him to stumble and fall.

The other had hit his head on the ground, but was even now standing. He grabbed the man with a bolt through his thigh and together they hobbled from the courtyard. Rupert was standing, brushing himself off as the man with a bolt in his arm stood.

Wes pointed his crossbow and heard Rupert tell the man not to move.

Freezing the attacker watched them carefully, his jaw clenching and unclenching. Wes kept the crossbow trained on him, letting Rupert do the talking. He wanted to have complete concentration. If the man so much as twitched in Rupert's direction, he'd be dead. Period. Wesley was a little disturbed at the white noise that seemed to fill his head, the way steadiness of an arm that should be shaking with relief or . . . tension or . . . something. Some feeling. Shouldn't he feel something?

"What the blood hell was this about?" Rupert's voice was colder than Wes had ever heard it. Still the voice of the man he'd come to know, though, still Rupert and therefore strangely comforting.

"You're both dead men. We should never have left you breathing," the attacker said to Wes, who started, blinking, but did not so much as twitch his crossbow. "And you? We'll get it out of you, kill you slow." The man's smile as he said such things to Rupert made Wesley want to pull the trigger. Wipe that smirk off his face with a crossbow bolt to someplace that would hurt, but not kill him.

Shuddering slightly at those thoughts, Wesley clamped his mouth shut to keep from speaking them aloud.

"And why is that?" Rupert sounded so calm and Wes wondered if the other man felt the same as he did, filled with noise and yet empty as if his stomach had dropped out somewhere along the line.

"We will find it. You can't keep us from it--" the man suddenly stopped, words trailing off into choking sound, foam spilling from his mouth, his limbs jerking grotesquely. A puppet with cut strings. Wesley watched in horror as the man collapsed to his knees, eyes bulging from his head as he fell to the courtyard paving stones.

"Bugger," Rupert murmured and Wesley's eyes flicked to him, crossbow now hanging useless at his side.

Bugger? Blinking, Wes swallowed hard as his throat constricted with the urge to vomit.

"What . . . uh, what happened?"

Rupert moved closer to the man, cautious. Wesley immediately brought the crossbow back up, shuffling closer as well.

"He's dead," Rupert said after a quick check of man's pulse. "Uh, I'm . . . not sure yet. Help me flip him over."

Blanching at the thought of touch the . . . body, Wesley nonetheless put aside his weapon and knelt next to Rupert. His fingers were trembling now. He felt something now. Of course, he wasn't exactly sure he didn't want to go back to the noise and emptiness as mostly he felt rather nauseous.

With his help, Rupert flipped the man. Wesley flinched back at the smell of . . . bitter almonds?

"Cyanide," he and Rupert said together, though Wes thought his own voice was a bit less steady. He looked at the man and wondered why it didn't seem real. There was a dead human in his lover's courtyard and it . . . felt like a rather bland nightmare.

"He killed himself. That's . . . odd."

Wesley blinked at Rupert, shaking his head, his voice an indignant whisper. "Odd? There's a dead man lying in your courtyard and it's . . . odd?"

"Hmmm? Well, yes. It's certainly never happened before."

And somehow that was the last straw. Turning on his knees, Wesley crawled to the nearest bush and heaved the contents of his stomach, trying to stem the tide of laughter that seemed to be welling up inside.

Odd. A dead human, whom he'd been ready to . . . and it was . . . odd. And that was funny. What was wrong with him? What the bloody hell was wrong with Rupert? How the could the man be so damn calm?

And then there was a hand on his back, warm and soothing. Rupert knelt next to him, offering a handkerchief and Wesley took it without hesitation, wiping his mouth and blowing the taste from his nose.

"How can . . . how can you be so bloody calm?" He regretted the question as soon as it came out. God, how weak he must look, but . . . a dead human. A dead body. And the image of bulging eyes and foam spewing lips and . . . oh, god. Feeling bile rise in his throat once again, Wesley forced the images from his mind and pressed the handkerchief to his mouth.

"Uh, well . . ." Rupert gave him a worried look, that warm hand moving over his back. "We don't . . . can we at least get the body inside before we discuss this?"

Once again left blinking at the man, Wesley only nodded, his mind filled with a tiny, giggling voice that said, 'of course. They should get the body inside. Inside Rupert's flat . . . where else did dead bodies belong?'

"Right," he managed, trying to keep his voice from cracking as he stood, neatly folded the handkerchief, and turned to help move a dead man into his lover's flat.