November 2007
4,800 words
Written for Mireille719 in the WatcherLove annual ficathon. Request found after the fic.
Thanks to LostGirl for the swift and very efficient beta.
* * *
Rupert hated LAX. The airport was always overly crowded, no matter the time of day, and after a long flight all he wanted was to be finished with customs and security and able to escape the crowd. There was jostling to his left, and Rupert stepped aside to let the young girl belonging to the couple behind him walk past as she mocked her toddler sibling into a giggle.
Oh yes, he couldn't wait to be done.
He hadn't planned this visit. Wesley had missed a second weekly phone call in a row, and when Rupert had been unable to reach him directly, he'd tried several hospitals in the L.A. area. None listed Wesley as a patient, but one receptionist had remembered the name from the previous week. Wesley had been released just before the weekend, and not seen since.
Subsequent phone calls to Wesley's flat still remained unanswered, and Rupert, now sick with worry, had stuffed a change of clothes in his smallest travel bag, and grabbed the next flight to L.A. out of Heathrow.
And now here he was, waiting in line to get cleared at customs. At the very least, he hadn't forgotten his passport. "What's the nature of your visit?" the man behind the glass asked morosely.
"I'm visiting a friend," Rupert replied. The easiest answer would have been "pleasure," but he couldn't bear to say that word when he had no idea what had happened to Wesley in the first place. Being in the hospital at least explained the first missed call, but not the second, and the worry over that had only increased through the whole flight.
"How long are you staying?"
However long I need to, Rupert wanted to say, but instead, he smiled and answered: "No longer than a week." His return ticket had an open date, and his VISA was still in working order, so he knew that he could very well stay as long as he was needed, but trying to explain that to the officer would have been more trouble than it was worth.
"All right, just show this to the officer on the way out." The man stamped Rupert's papers, and handed them back to him.
"Thank you," Rupert said, relieved. He grabbed his bag and made his way down the corridor, showing his papers to the right people, and finally emerging through the doors into the late afternoon heat of California.
He followed directions to the cab area, and climbed in, giving Wesley's address to the driver. Rupert had very little hope of finding Wesley there, since his calls had gone straight to voicemail, which implied that Wesley wasn't home, but it was the only place Rupert knew to start.
Their last phone call had been puzzling; Wesley had sounded distant and worried, and he'd told Rupert, just before hanging up, that if anything at all happened, Rupert wasn't to contact any of Wesley's friends, not even Angel. Not that Rupert would have trusted Angel, even in this matter, but the warning had confused him, and still did. Especially now.
Rupert had the address to Angel's hotel, and might head that way if Wesley's apartment was as empty as he feared it would be, but it certainly was not the first place he wanted to check out. "Thank you," he said to the cab driver when they stopped. He handed the man the money and didn't wait for his change before climbing out.
Rupert had never been to Wesley's flat. Their relationship -- friendship, perhaps, although Rupert would be stumped trying to explain it to anyone who asked -- had been strictly carried out over the phone for the past three years, and neither had tried visiting the other in what little spare time their lives afforded them. He felt strangely awkward, standing in the doorway to Wesley's apartment complex, and he took a moment to look around before pushing open the door. Thankfully, there was no lock and no need to ring the apartment in order to enter the complex, and Rupert walked up the stairs to the third floor quickly.
The last thing he expected when he knocked was to have the door swing open to reveal Wesley on the other side, a crossbow in hand, cocked and ready to shoot. "What do you-- Rupert?"
Rupert raised an eyebrow at the crossbow, keeping himself in control, even though his first instinct had been to step back and take cover. Hopefully, all Wesley would see was that Rupert was keeping his composure. "What is going on, Wesley?"
"What are you doing in California?" Wesley asked back, and the crossbow didn't move an inch.
Rupert held up his travel bag and coat, and waved at Wesley. "Looking in on you, actually. You've missed our Tuesday phone call two weeks in a row; I figured it was worth investigating. Now please, do lower that bow, I'd rather no one was hurt." A quick cursory glance at Wesley, this time looking him up and down, told Rupert that perhaps it was too late for no one to be hurt. Wesley was doing absolutely nothing to hide the angry looking scar on his neck.
"Go away," Wesley said, although this time, he did lower his weapon until it was no longer pointing at Rupert's chest, but at his leg instead. "It'd be best if you just left."
"I'm afraid that's not possible," Rupert replied. "See, there is a friend of mine who found himself in a bit of a situation, and I don't think it'd be wise to leave him to his devices quite yet. Now, if I had a clue what had happened, I may be able to amend that judgement."
Wesley rolled his eyes, but he stepped out of the way and held the crossbow down to his side. "Don't make yourself at home."
"Is it just of me that you're distrustful, or of everybody?" Rupert walked in, and laid his coat down on the back of the couch, and his bag on the floor. "Because if it's just me, I'd really like to know what I've done to earn it."
Wesley didn't say anything, but Rupert hadn't really expected him to. The flat was not quite as tidy as Rupert had expected it to be; but then, nothing was as Rupert had expected it. He sat down, Wesley hovering next to the doorway and scowling. "Oh, for Christ's sake, Wesley, put that damned crossbow away, and sit the hell down."
"Who called you?" Wesley asked, and not for the first time, Rupert noticed how raspy and hoarse he sounded. "Was it Fred?" Despite the wary tone of his voice, he did as Rupert asked, leaving the crossbow by the door and coming to sit on the sofa.
"Who called me?" Rupert asked incredulously. "No one called me, Wesley, that's the problem." For three years, ever since Wesley had left Sunnydale atop a motorcycle, the Tuesday phone calls came like clockwork. Sometimes a little late, sometimes a little early, but they always came. After his initial annoyance, Rupert had come to look forward to their weekly chats, and even longed for them on occasion. When he'd moved back to England, he'd made sure to leave a phone number for Wesley to reach him at, and they hadn't even spoken of it the next time Wesley had called. "You didn't call for two weeks, and while you may have me pegged as an insensitive bastard -- I have no idea what goes on in that mind of yours, after all -- I was still worried."
Wesley eyed him suspiciously, and then looked at the wall next to the front door where he'd just hung the bow. "I told you not to come looking for me."
"Yes, and that made it better, of course," Rupert snapped back, rolling his eyes. "That's precisely the reason I did come, Wesley; that's what a friend would do."
Wesley seemed to deflate at that, and he sighed heavily. "Friends -- I don't believe I have any left."
Rupert frowned. "I'm here, aren't I?" There was the question of where Angel and the others were, but Rupert wasn't sure if he wanted the answer to that yet. What he was certain of was that he wasn't going to enjoy the conversation.
"I'll make us some tea," Wesley said a few minutes after he'd stopped talking. "I should have some liquor left in the cabinet to drink it with."
"That sounds perfect," Rupert replied. He needed something strong to drink. He went to the cabinet Wesley had pointed at and eyed the collection of empty and half-empty bottles suspiciously. "Wesley, please do tell me you weren't drinking while on painkillers?"
Wesley's snicker could be heard all the way into the living room. His voice had been getting hoarser as he told Rupert what had happened, and it was low and rough when he said: "That is none of your business."
Words which only made Rupert's worry worse.
By the time Wesley made it back into the room, carrying a tray with teapot and cups, Rupert had selected the remnants of a bottle of scotch that had been hidden behind several other empty bottles of hard liquor. "Will this do?" he asked Wesley, who only gave him a nod in response. "Perhaps we should order dinner also? I haven't eaten since lunch on the plane, and that wasn't much."
Wesley shrugged.
"All right, I'll order us something," Rupert said, raising an eyebrow at Wesley. "Any preferences?"
Wesley gave another shrug and sat down heavily. "The take-out menus are on the kitchen table."
Once in the kitchen, Rupert sat down with a sigh and rubbed the bridge of his nose. This was not a situation he'd ever thought he'd find himself in. He could draw too many parallels with his own reality not even a year ago, when dealing with Dawn, and the truth of where she'd come from. Had he been the only one to know, to understand the dangers she posed, Rupert could see himself doing exactly what Wesley had done, although in Wesley's case the child had lived. Dawn wouldn't have.
Had that happened, Rupert would have been unable to blame Buffy or the others for doing away with him in the manner they preferred. He knew the necessity of the actions he'd have taken, and consequences were bound to arise from them. He could understand Angel's actions as much as Wesley's, and yet he felt both were much to blame.
It was clear, however, that if Wesley stayed in Los Angeles, on his own, he wasn't going to fare well. If one side didn't manage to kill him, the other would -- never mind that both had tried, and so far, Wesley was still alive. Miracles did happen.
After Rupert had placed the order -- Indian food; the menu for it seemed well used, and Rupert made an educated guess that Wesley was fond of it -- he went back into the living room. Wesley was hunched over, elbows on his knees, and looking forlornly at the table, although Rupert doubted he was seeing anything but memories.
"I don't think it would be wise for you to stay here," he said, hoping to draw Wesley out of his reverie. But Wesley barely twitched. "I'll be taking you back to England with me in the morning."
"I am not a child," Wesley finally said, voice tight and angry.
"No, of course not, and I'm not doing this to chastise you at all," Rupert replied. He wasn't, that much was true, but as much as he knew Wesley's pride would be hurt by this, better he was hurt than dead. "I know going home is not on your list of priorities, but please, you've been severely wounded, survived an attempt on your life by someone you trusted, and will most certainly die here if I leave you be."
"I deserve nothing less for what I did," Wesley spat out.
"Do you truly believe that, Wesley? Because if you do, then I will leave you alone come morning," Rupert promised. "I'll leave and won't try to contact you again. But I don't believe that you do. I think that you trust you did the right thing, otherwise, why do it in the first place? Perhaps the execution was poorly handled, or you simply didn't take every variable into consideration, but you took that child believing you were assuring his, and Angel's, safety. It hurt people; that doesn't mean it was wrong."
"Poorly handled is a euphemism," Wesley scoffed wryly.
Rupert shook his head and reached out to pick up his cup from the table where Wesley had put it down. "We all make mistakes, and we learn from them. You need time, Wesley, to come to terms with your own mistakes. Time is not something Los Angeles will give you."
Rupert let Wesley mull this over and busied himself around the room; picking up discarded books and throwing empty bottles into the trash. The living room looked semi-habitable when Rupert had to answer the door. He paid for their food, and coaxed Wesley into the kitchen to eat. He dug out clean utensils and plates, and made sure Wesley had plenty of food in front of him before he sat down. "Eat," Rupert said simply, when Wesley looked up at him with a dubious frown.
He made no other comment throughout the meal. He finished his own plate and brought it to the sink, and then decided that cleaning the dishes in the overflowing sink would possibly be a good idea.
"You don't have to do that," Wesley said. When Rupert turned to him, Wesley had his fork in his hand, but his plate looked barely touched.
"I suppose if you want to be technical about it, I don't have to do much of anything, really," Rupert replied. "I simply want to."
"I can't see why you would--" Wesley stopped himself and shrugged. Rupert suspected the bite of meat he stuffed in his mouth was simply to stop him from finishing that sentence.
"Why I would what, Wesley? Want to be here? Care?" Rupert turned off the hot water, and scrubbed at the first of the plates. "Perhaps this is a foreign concept to you, in fact, I'm pretty certain that it is, but I'm actually quite fond of you. You're a friend in a bad situation, and it is, I believe, my job to help you out of it."
"Rupert--" Wesley sighed.
Rupert put a third plate on the drying rack, and dried his hands with the dish towel. He sat down on the chair next to Wesley with a sigh. "I know you believe you're not worth my help, but I happen to believe exactly the opposite." He grabbed Wesley's hand, forcing him to put his fork down and look up. "You've come such a long way since I met you, it would be a shame for you to destroy yourself now, for doing the best you could with the resources you had."
"Rupert--" Wesley said again, gulping visibly.
Rupert's eyes were drawn to Wesley's scar, and with Wesley's hand in his, the heat of it, the reality of that hand, it was hard to resist leaning forward and kissing the angry red mark; or even simply reaching out to run a finger over it. Instead, Rupert forced himself to look into Wesley's eyes, finding uncertainty and an inkling of fear in them. "I am here, and I'm not planning on going anywhere, unless you're coming with me."
"Where would I go?"
"My family owns a sizeable house in Bath, I've made it my home the past few months," Rupert said, squeezing Wesley's hand before releasing it. "There is more than enough room for you there, and we might even be able to go on with our days without annoying one another much."
Wesley gave a fleeting smile at that, and picked up his fork again.
Once Rupert had finished the dishes, he left Wesley to clean up the food and went in search of the bathroom. The first thing he noticed was the cloth hanging over the mirror. That would explain the unshaven look Wesley was sporting. A quick, cursory glance into Wesley's bedroom supported the conclusion that all the mirrors in the flat had been covered. Rupert thought about taking the cloth down in the bathroom at the very least, but ended up leaving it there. He grabbed a quick shower, brushed his teeth, and pulled on fresh clothes.
Wesley was sitting on the couch again, staring into space, when Rupert came back into the living room. "What should I pack?"
Surprised, Rupert looked up. He hadn't expected Wesley to agree so readily. In fact, if he'd thought the plan through at all, he'd have bet on needing much strength and arguments to sway Wesley. "I'm not expecting you to come back for several months, so perhaps anything you can't live without for months at a time."
"Months?" Wesley asked, frowning.
"You need time, and it shouldn't be limited by anything but your recovery. It may take a week, it may take years, but I'll put my trust in a few months," Rupert said. He sat down next to Wesley on the couch, and touched his arm. "Perhaps you can pack for a week -- some books and clothes -- and if you want to stay beyond that point, then we can arrange for the rest of your things to be brought over, or put into storage."
Wesley nodded, and grabbed a book from the table. He didn't open it to read, just toyed with it in his hands. "I haven't opened a book since I came home."
"Why is that?" Rupert didn't point out the piles of books he'd put away, suddenly suspecting they had been left from before the incident in the park.
"I'm afraid, I guess," Wesley whispered. "Afraid of the lies they may tell."
Unsure how to respond to that, Rupert let his hand slide from arm to wrist to palm, and squeezed Wesley's fingers with his.
"I keep replaying in my mind the events of the days that led up to this, and I can find nothing that I would do differently, and it--"
"There is nothing to change," Rupert reminded him. "You did what you did because of what you knew, and there was nothing you could have done to prevent this. Talking to Angel would have only resulted in more disaster, as you well know, and everyone else was ill equipped to help. There was nothing you could have done," he repeated.
"So you keep saying, and perhaps that's why I'm accepting your offer," Wesley replied. "I want to believe it."
Rupert looked at their entwined hands, and then back to Wesley's face. "Why don't you pack? Perhaps shower and try for sleep. I'll get us reservations on the next plane to Heathrow."
There seemed to have been a reason they'd kept their friendship strictly on the phone for so many years. Rupert had almost completely forgotten this feeling, this attraction he felt. He knew there could be no worse time for him to lose control, to lean in and kiss Wesley's swollen neck; wishing he could make the scar disappear with his lips. And yet, it was all he cared to do.
He wanted, more than anything, to make this right.
Rupert told himself Wesley didn't need to be put to bed. It didn't take all that much convincing, but he did have to exert enough control not to follow Wesley to his bedroom door. Rupert found a blanket in the hallway closet, and settled on the couch while Wesley was still showering. The sound of the water on the bathroom tiles lulled him to sleep.
Rupert startled awake, a piercing scream echoing in his ears. It took him a moment to remember where he was, and by the time he had, he was standing up in full alert, hands grabbing for the stake he knew was in his jacket pocket. Once his heart had stopped beating quite so hard, he realized two things: the scream had turned to whimpers, and Wesley was most probably dreaming. Having a nightmare. With a sigh, Rupert sank back on the couch, covered himself in the blanket and stared at the ceiling until Wesley quieted down, and Rupert fell asleep.
He was woken up a second time, barely two hours later, and he was halfway to the bedroom when he noticed the noise had stopped. He went back into the living room, palm rubbing his face tiredly, and settled down once again, to find sleep.
The third time, Rupert had only been half asleep, and he stayed where he was. It was clear that Wesley wasn't getting the rest he desperately needed, and Rupert felt quite powerless, lying there with no idea what to do to help. He'd had his own fair share of nightmares over the years -- the situation was again, all too familiar -- but he'd never had anyone around to notice, and had no idea what someone in Wesley's condition would want or need.
He didn't go back to sleep. When the whimpers started up again, half an hour later, Rupert had picked up the book Wesley had left on the coffee table earlier, and was trying to read. The mating habits of the Luyhir demon had never interested him, but it made for, if not interesting, at least entertaining reading at three am.
Hearing Wesley's moans of fear, Rupert decided he couldn't just stay there and do nothing. He had no idea if this would help at all, but he stood and padded into Wesley's bedroom. There was a chair in the corner, and he dragged it to the side of the bed.
Wesley was still twisting on the bed, and Rupert debated trying to soothe him. He was pretty certain, though, that if he tried to touch Wesley at all, he'd end up with bruises, so he pulled back, and went into the kitchen for some tea.
He made it back into the bedroom -- a steaming cup of tea in each hand -- by the time the next round of nightmares hit. This time, however, Wesley was thrashing hard and broken words mixed in with screams. Rupert put down the two cups and sat on the edge of the bed. He'd recover from bruising, Wesley, on the other end, seemed to be stuck in an endless loop, and Rupert had to do something.
He grabbed one of Wesley's arms and squeezed. He barely avoided the other arm when Wesley jumped awake. "Wesley, calm down," Rupert whispered. "Just a nightmare, you're safe."
Panting, Wesley scrambled back against the headboard and looked at Rupert, bewildered. "Night--nightmare?"
"Yes," Rupert replied, keeping his voice as low and steady as humanly possible. "You've had several already."
Wesley gulped visibly and rubbed a hand over his tired face. "I don't--"
"It's all right," Rupert murmured. "It's quite all right." He reached out and took Wesley's hand in his. "Perhaps tea would help."
Wesley laughed at that, a short, broken laugh, and squeezed Rupert's fingers. "Tea is the answer to everything, isn't it?" He looked at the nightstand and nodded. "I'd have a cup, thank you. Although, I would think the company will be more help than the tea."
Rupert gave him a smile, and reached out to give a cup to Wesley, and grab his own. "I'll stay here while you sleep."
"You don't have to," Wesley said, automatically.
"You seem to have forgotten already that I haven't needed to do any of what I've done," Rupert said, sipping at his cup. "I simply want to help."
Wesley looked down and sighed. "I seem to be having some trouble accepting that, don't I?"
"Yes, you do."
They sipped the rest of their tea in an almost comfortable silence. Rupert brought both empty cups into the kitchen and came back to sit on the chair again. "Try to rest," he told Wesley.
Wesley had already pulled the covers over himself, and he was leaning back against the pillows, eyes staring, wide open, at the ceiling. "I'll go with you," he said, finally, a few minutes after Rupert had opened his book again.
"So you've said," he said without looking up. He feigned nonchalance, but he felt relieved. Not only for himself, since having Wesley there would help Rupert stop worrying about him, but also for Wesley, because Rupert truly believed Los Angeles was not where Wesley should be right now.
He needed to let the heat die down, give Angel, and the others, time to process what had happened, before any of them did something more that they'd regret.
"I know," Wesley whispered. "But until now I wasn't quite certain that I would. I haven't-- you'll think I'm a bit of a fool, but I haven't felt safe in some time now, and yet, I find myself relaxing right now. It's-- surprising, for lack of a better word." He turned his head to Rupert, and shrugged. "I know you're right, I need the time, though I think I'm afraid of what will happen if I take it."
"I would be worried if you weren't afraid, at this point," Rupert said putting down the book and laying his glasses over it. He reached out to touch Wesley again, feeling that if the touch hadn't been rejected before there was little chance that it would be now. There wasn't much Rupert found more comforting than touch. He squeezed Wesley's fingers, and looked down at their hands. "The one thing you have to remember is that you aren't alone."
Wesley looked up at that and shifted his hand against Rupert's palm until their fingers were entwined. "I'm beginning to believe it."
"Good," Rupert said simply.
The airport was as crowded on Thursday as it had been on Wednesday, and Rupert didn't hate it any less. Finding a flight hadn't been all that difficult, since L.A. to London seemed to be a popular enough destination that there were more than two flights a day. The hardest part had been coaxing Wesley to eat, shave, dress, and enter the cab. They were bringing two suitcases half filled with books, and half with clothing and other personal items. Rupert would suggest hiring someone to pack the rest and put it into storage later, much later, perhaps in a month or so.
Wesley was looking forlornly at the passport and plane ticket in his hand, his blueberry muffin and bland black coffee forgotten on the table, when Rupert turned to him. "You can still change your mind."
"Why would I?"
Rupert smiled at him and replied: "I'm hoping you won't."
"I'm still not sure what I'm doing, but what I do know--" Wesley paused while a family of five passed them by and his eyes lingered on the toddler in the stroller. "What I do know," he said again, breathing deeply, "is that this is the right thing for me to do."
"I am of the same opinion," Rupert agreed. He grabbed the last of his muffin and ate it quickly, before saying: "And I must say I'm looking forward to having company." He took a sip of his own coffee and almost spit it right out. He loathed coffee at the best of times, but this was downright disgusting. He pushed the cup away, and picked up the napkin.
"So that's what this is," Wesley replied. "Just an elaborate ploy to cure yourself of your loneliness."
Rupert laughed and shook his head. "I believe we should head for our gate now. Last chance to leave." He knew Wesley wouldn't leave, not after he'd come all the way here already, but for Rupert's peace of mind, he had to say it.
Wesley glanced at the doors leading outside, and breathed deeply. "Come on." He grabbed the handle of his handbag and stood, breakfast barely touched. He turned his back to the door, to L.A. "That plane won't wait for us."
The end.
Request:
Preferred rating range: anything from G/FRC to NC-17/FRAO
Three things you want in your story: set sometime post-S3 and pre-S7 (of BtVS); a blackout/brownout; an argument
Two things you don't want in your story: character-bashing; intoxication as the excuse/way to get them together
A/N: I used "blackout/brownout" in a (sort of) metaphorical way for this. The "blackout" is the sudden cut of communications between Giles and Wesley that led to Giles traveling to L.A..