Heat

Wesley barely remembered leaving Rupert's flat. He'd all but flown past the children with a quick nod at their surprised greetings. He had no idea how Rupert would explain his presence, but needed to get away for a while, to think.

So much had happened so quickly and he'd been simply content to go with it, to let it happen because it felt so very good, but . . . now he was unsure. The past two days had been beyond words. The easy feeling between Rupert and himself, the way the man touched him, kissed him . . .

Swallowing hard, Wes struggled to keep his thoughts from running off. Still stiff and sore, he ignored the ache of his muscles, walking to his own flat before remembering that his car was at Faith's motel. Closing his eyes, he tried not to think about her hands around his throat, but the memory that came instead was Rupert bundling him into his car, driving without a thought to his own flat and not to Wesley's.

Sighing, he turned his feet to the park instead. Going to check on Faith was the right thing to do, but it would wait just a little while. He needed to think, needed to sort his mind into something at least resembling order. Sitting a park bench, he breathed slowing in and out, focusing on the cobblestone-paved walkways and refusing to let it move to anything else. Once he'd reached that small, calm space he'd be able to think about all of this more clearly. Or such was his hope.

Opening his eyes, he ran through everything that had happened, trying to pinpoint the moment when what was between Rupert and himself had become a relationship rather than . . . what? Casual sex? No, he couldn't say it had ever actually been casual, at least not on his part. The things Rupert had done to him, that . . . that they'd done together were, to his mind, far from 'casual'.

Rupert seemed to think the same. He'd called it a relationship, after all, but that could mean anything, really. Wesley tried to define it to himself, what he thought of and wanted and . . . he couldn't. Not because he didn't know, really. He wanted what they'd had these last few days. He wanted the ease between them, the way Rupert touched and talked as if it were perfectly normal, as if they were . . . friends as well as . . . lovers.

However, they hadn't been friends. Rupert hadn't seemed to like him much at all. What had changed? His being injured? Was all of this based upon some caretaking need in the other man and . . . god, he hoped not. There would be no chance for something solid, or equal, or real.

That last thought caught Wes by surprise as that was something he hadn't realized some part of him wanted. An actual relationship . . . with Rupert Giles. God, he must have been hit on the head harder than he'd thought. He didn't even know if Rupert wanted the same thing and . . . if he did, what would that mean?

His mind kicked into planning mode, cataloguing all the changes that would occur in his life. Rupert had said he didn't want to hide. Did he mean just from the children? Wesley wasn't even sure he could handle that, and if it were a more general openness . . .

The Council would not look kindly upon his new outlook concerning the man, he was sure. Still, he'd already decided that the Council was wrong to have sacked Rupert, that the bond between the man and Buffy had only strengthened her will to fight. That had been why he'd gone to Faith in the first place.

And look how that turned out, sniped that damnable voice in his head. Wes bit his lip, ignoring the sting of the words and pushing them aside to continue his thoughts. Would the Council eventually sack him as well? There was terror at the thought, the disappointment he knew his father would feel fueling tremors in his hands. Wesley blinked at that, his forehead crinkling. He'd spent his entire life training to be a Watcher, studying and striving to get where he was, to be the--official--Watcher to not one but two Slayers. Yet the idea of the Council letting him go made him worry not about what he would do with his life, or how disappointed he himself would be, but rather how disappointed in him his father would feel.

Something about that jostled him. Sighing, Wes raised one hand to remove his glasses and the other to rub at the bridge of his nose. He wanted to talk with Rupert about this. The talk he'd had with him about Faith had been helpful and friendly; still, he knew he couldn't, not until he knew what to say. 'I want the possibility of something more with you, but the thought scares the bloody hell out of me because I don't know what it means to me and my life' didn't seem like a wonderful way to start them off.

No, if he were going to discuss this with the man, he needed to have it all laid out in his mind, needed to know what was going on in his thoughts. He knew Rupert wouldn't let him off easily, nor should he. If he started this conversation, if he broke the easiness between them--something he greatly feared this would do--then at the very least he had to know why he was doing it. He had to know if it was worth it.

Then again, knowing what Rupert was thinking, what the man wanted from him, with him . . . that might very well be all the motivation he needed. Rupert's actions . . . he wanted to understand. What had made the older man look at him and see something worth . . . caring for? Caring about?

His breath caught at the second idea, sending a small shiver through him. Yes, knowing whether Rupert cared about him might just be worth it.