Heat

There were enough confusing thoughts in Wes' head that he welcomed the simplicities of language. Even written in looping, running sentences, it was more straightforward than Rupert. Hell, at the moment, it was more straightforward than he himself was and it was something he knew, something he was good at.

There wasn't much left, really. Still, his eyes were stinging with fatigue by the time he got to the end of the book. He had, however, narrowed down their search to two cave complexes. Between the texts and the maps the others had found, he was almost certain the knife would be in one of two places.

Of course, these weren't exactly small caverns. They were complexes, though not as large as some. Regardless, he had reason to hope that they'd get this all over with soon. He wanted that more than just about anything. He wanted time with Rupert, time to really get to know one another, to test out this possibility of . . . more.

The thought made him smile, his imagination wistfully conjuring days of researching together as they had the other night. Nights curled around one another, warmed by one another's skin and . . . other things they could do with those nights occurred to him as well. The thought of Rupert's hands on his body, lips and tongue traveling his skin, of Rupert preparing him, stretching him, pressing inside him again . . . swallowing hard, Wes told himself to calm down. There would be time for that later, but now they had to concentrate on other matters.

"I think I've got it," Wesley said, pulling himself from his thoughts and turning to Rupert. His lover sat in the living room, going through a selection of books of his own. The other man looked over at him, a tired smile appearing on his face.

"Good. Now all we need is Buffy and the others. I suppose I should begin getting the weapons ready. Hmmm." The last was a thoughtful sound and Rupert was looking at the bits of paper he'd found on the body.

"What is it?" Wes asked, shutting his books and tidying up the desk.

"I don't like the idea of all of us going out there with these people probably searching for the same thing. We don't know anything about them. Their numbers, their purpose . . . well, we do know they're willing to die . . . and kill."

"I know," Wesley agreed with a sigh, moving to sit next to Rupert. "It's not as though we can look them up in a book. They're human. Until we know what they're after, well, we have limited means of research. They could be looking for this knife for its properties alone or . . . perhaps it has some significance. We'll know more when we find it."

"I just don't like the idea of Willow and Xander . . . any of us," he said with a glance toward Wesley, "going out to find this thing."

"I'm not jumping for joy, either," Wesley said with a sigh. "I . . . I don't understand why you let them. I mean, I certainly couldn't stop them, but they respect you. Why . . . why do you let them go out when they could be injured? This isn't their fight."

Giles snorted, shaking his head. "Isn't it? It's their school sitting on top of the Hellmouth. Their friends, neighbors, acquaintances getting 'stabbed in the neck' with sharp objects." Giles shrugged and Wesley saw a weight in his eyes that he'd never noticed before.

"I don't want them getting hurt, but, then, I don't want Buffy to get hurt and, yet, daily I . . . we both do our best to prepare her to go out and fight. We didn't choose this. Not you, or I, or Buffy. We had no choice. It is our duty. Willow and Xander and Oz, they have their own reasons, but each of them chose to throw their lot in with us, to fight and not be blind like the rest of this town. I don't think it's my place to deny them that choice. I want them safe, but . . . it isn't as if they really can be, not here. Coddling them is only more likely to lead to their deaths."

"So? Why not train them," Wesley asked after a moment, his Watcher-trained mind rebelling at the thought. "I know . . . well, if you're not going to stop them . . . wouldn't it be better if they were trained?"

Giles nodded, smiling. "They have an open invitation to Buffy's training sessions. I'm not going to force them. It's their choice to be here and it should be their choice to train."

Wesley nodded at that, remembering how often Buffy didn't even want to be at those sessions and she . . . well, she should know the value of it. He still wasn't certain he agreed with Rupert, but he didn't want to argue about it. Not now. One day . . . when they could both think of it as an intellectual debate, when they wouldn't be taking the children out. Then they could talk about it more rationally, less . . . well, he wasn't quite sure if Rupert had a 'less emotionally' yet, and . . . he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

He was quite enjoying Rupert's emotions at the moment, especially when the man ran his fingers over Wes' neck as he was doing and--Wesley heard the door opening and jumped to his feet, picking up several weapons and keeping his eyes firmly away from Rupert's. If he looked at his lover just then, he knew he'd blush.

"Hello, Watcherguys," Buffy said, voice cheerful as she walked into Rupert's flat. "Oooh, weapons. I want the shiniest," she joked as she came into the living room.

"Good evening, Buffy. Wes thinks he's narrowed it down. We should, uh, get the others here."

There was a knock on the door and Wesley glanced toward it, stifling a chuckle when he heard Angel's voice say, "Body removal service."

Rupert looked resigned as he stood to go answer the door.