Heat

Wesley barely noticed when they arrived at Giles' flat instead of his own. His mind was churning over the encounter with Faith, looking for any opening, any opportunity he had missed. It had been there, he knew it. If he could just find it . . .

"Wes?" Giles' voice called him from his thoughts and he looked over to the older man, realizing the car had been stopped for a good few moments now.

"Oh! I'm-I'm sorry, I was . . . uh, thinking. Thank-thank you for the-the ride. I--" going to open the door, he realized where they were and he looked to the other man, confused.

"I can take you to your flat, if you'd rather." Giles' voice was soft, soothing and Wesley didn't know what to say.

He didn't want to go to his place. It was bare and lonely and . . . Giles' flat was so much more inviting and . . . warm, but he'd have to go home eventually. Giles would surely rather not look at him tonight and the last thing he wanted to was wear his welcome thin--

"That's it," Giles' voice once again invaded his thoughts. The man smiled gently, reaching a hand out to brush over Wesley's cheek. "If that simple question takes so much thought, you're not to be alone tonight."

Wesley smiled a little at that, ducking his head. Giles had asked him to stay. Well, more insisted really, which made him feel less like an imposition and more . . . wanted.

Shaking his head at his own silliness, Wesley undid his seat belt and got out of the car. Neither he nor Giles spoke until they were inside. Wesley wanted to ask Giles a few questions, but he didn't even know how to begin. Surprised when the man handed him a glass of scotch, Wes took it automatically, staring into the tumbler.

"You looked as if you could use it," Giles explained, relaxing back onto the couch beside Wesley with a glass of his own. He laid one arm along the sofa-back and fixed Wes with a direct gaze, waiting, as if he knew Wes wanted to say something but couldn't find words.

"I . . . I wondered if, uh, if you could . . . help me to understand how I . . . help me pin down what mistakes I made?" Wesley looked into the glass rather than at Giles, uncertain as to whether he wanted to see the other man's expression or not.

"Certainly, if you really feel you made a mistake."

"I had to have done," Wesley insisted, taking a small drink of the scotch and wincing as it slid down his throat. Putting it on the coffee table, he stood, pacing the small area between bookcases and couch. "She ended up choking me, after all."

"That doesn't mean you made a mistake. It's possible that the same would have happened to anyone. Why don't you tell me about it?" Giles kicked off his shoes, crossing his legs at the ankle, though his gaze was always on Wes. Wesley could feel the weight of it, even when he wasn't looking at the older man.

Sighing as he collapsed back onto the couch and taking what he hoped would be a fortifying gulp of the scotch, Wes explained. He went over it all, from the moment he'd knocked on Faith's door to the moment her hands wrapped around his throat, flinching when he repeated what she'd said about Giles.

"Hmm, so she was defensive? Why is that, do you think?" Giles' quiet question had Wesley turning to him, considering.

"Well, she-she was obviously frightened. The more I said that I wanted to help, the angrier she became. I . . . I don't understand. Shouldn't it have felt good to know that someone was on her side, willing to help?"

"Perhaps Faith didn't like the thought that she needed help. You're right, she's scared, but does she strike you as the type to admit that?"

Wesley opened his mouth and then snapped it shut. He leaned back into the couch, his mind filled with so many thoughts he barely noticed when Giles' hand stroked his neck. He felt . . . comfortable, relaxed, even as he considered his mistakes. The older man wasn't getting angry or shouting at him. It was nice to have someone listening.

While Wes knew that, in Faith's situation, he'd have been grateful to have someone willing to help him . . . he could also understand the fear of needing that help. The fear of others seeing his weaknesses and, perhaps, using them against him. It hadn't been long ago--God, has it only been two days?--that such a fear haunted his every step. It still did, at times, around most people.

Shifting, suddenly uncomfortable, Wes cast a sidelong glance at Giles. The man stared contemplatively at the wall, giving Wesley as much privacy with his own thoughts as he was able to . . . without leaving the room. Wes noticed the brush of fingers over his neck and the touch, so casual and unplanned, made him smile.

"No," he finally answered on a sigh. "She must feel so helpless and she doesn't want anyone to see that. She's afraid that, if people see how off balance and out of her depth she is, they'll use it to hurt her." He sat bolt upright at that, turning to Giles. "Angel won't hurt her, will he?"

Giles' gaze snapped back to him and a small smile touched the other man's lips. He shook his head before his eyes flicked down to the Wesley's throat. Wes' hand rose, touching the new bruises there with a sigh.

"Strangled twice in two days. That's a new record even for me," his laugh was bitter, but he didn't understand the flash of anger that ripped through Giles' jade-colored eyes. Confused, he looked away, trying to figure out what he'd said.

"You've been strangled before?" The question was soft in volume, but hard in tone.

Realizing what he'd just let slip, Wesley bit his lips and forced a shrug.

"Things happen," he whispered, once again staring into his scotch before he put it back on the coffee table, swallowing hard. He'd had too much of it already if he hadn't thought before saying that.

There was silence between them for a moment. Wesley was just beginning to feel agitated when Giles shifted closer, his arm circling Wesley's shoulders and pulling him against the older man's side. Wes went willingly, allowing himself to be pulled in. It felt good, but he was afraid to speak in case his words broke it all apart, or he said something else he shouldn't.

"Yes," Giles finally said, taking a sip of his scotch. "They do. Hopefully, eventually, to the people who deserve it."