Title: Snapshots of Wesley
Pairing: Some gen, some Giles/Wes
Words: 6 x 100
Feedback/Concrit: darkhavens @ slashverse.com
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. No harm, no foul, no money made.
Notes: Written for winter_of_wes, where literati and I share a posting day. She made icons and I drabbled on them. :D
He'd always been taught that the pen was mightier than the sword. He'd believed it then and maybe he still did, on some level. A vault full of crumbling, ancient prophecies had set this whole game in motion, after all.
He'd also been taught that the Slayer would be the one to do the fighting, that he'd be standing back and playing puppet master. Somehow, he'd never expected to be the one dancing wildly at the end of someone else's twisted strings.
The sword weighed heavy on his shoulder.
Wesley hoped he'd finally have the strength to cut those strings.
02. Too Close
Children were amazingly oblivious, they noticed. Underfoot all day and bursting in at odd hours, they never seemed to pick up on the clues, which were legion.
Stuffy, uptight Brits standing just a little too close together, ties askew and buttons misaligned, jackets rumpled.
Locked office doors that called for yelling and/or pounding. Forced smiles and not quite perfect hair. Swollen lips.
Of course, the matching bathrobes when they all burst into Giles' apartment did eventually give the game away, and quite amusingly.
Willow did a creditable impression of a goldfish. Buffy sputtered, scowled and wanted answers. And Xander grinned.
03. Forget the Parry
Fencing, in Wesley's mind, was now a stylised form of foreplay, thanks to his last bout with Rupert Giles.
Eye contact, strong and steady. Long limbs, loose and ready. Two firm hands clasped around respective phallic grips.
Engagement - a gentle press of blade against blade. Not threatening, foreshadowing what was still to come.
Advance, retreat, attack, riposte, parry, parry, thrust - a careful-footed dance interspersed with eager lunges.
Tempo raised, the distance closes. Knee to knee, they clash, up close.
Heartbeat, respiration races. Slick skin, perspiration gleams.
Invitation issued, taken. Slender epees cast aside.
Touch, a panacea for the soul.
Fencing terms taken from here.
So very similar in so many ways - training, language, lineage, education, dress and habits. So close, and yet nobody ever guessed the obvious truth.
The glasses thing, that nervous, anxious, 'give me time to think, please' polishing, should have been the clue to end all clues but somehow didn't parse.
No one figured out they'd once been intimate, not just acquainted. No one recognised the dark, shared history in their shuttered eyes.
No one thought it odd when they went off into the stacks, searching for a mislaid book they never seemed to find.
No one ever watches the watchers.
The tuxedo is tailored to fit his slender jib. Cut by careful hand to frame his tapered swimmer's shoulders, sleeves just long enough to kiss the bone points of his wrists.
Seams and planes and angles hang perfectly from narrow hips. Hand-stitched cuffs rest on shoes mirror-bright with polish.
The tie is where it all went to hell, relatively speaking. Sleek black silk, slippery as oil in nervous, sweat-damp fingers.
Loop around the neck, adjust, cross, through, angle, drop, angle loop and push through, tighten up the knot and even out.
The seventeenth time is the charm. He is ready.
He'd never considered fatherhood, not with his predilections. But then, he'd never expected to have to steal a vampire's human son. Things change.
The first year was the worst, running scared from every sound and shadow, neck almost permanently cricked from looking back to check.
They'd crisscrossed the country, never staying more than three short months, always staying rootless, unattached - he had a plan.
Five-year-old Connor babbled happily in Québécois as Wesley felt the first real smile in years crack his face. News had arrived of Angel's victory and shanshu, and also of his death by dragon.
They were free.
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