FIC: "Extraordinary Friends", Giles/Wesley, FRAO
Set at the end of season three. On the eve of the Ascension, Wesley seeks reassurance from Giles, the more experienced Watcher. He doesn't expect the response he gets. Thanks to antennapedia and kivrin for beta.




Wesley Wyndham-Price carefully adjusted his coat and his cuffs and straightened his tie before knocking on Rupert Giles's door. He was all too conscious that he might be tilting at a windmill here, or perhaps even storming the castle. And Giles's door did look curiously like the door of a fortress.

When the door opened, Wesley almost regretted his own sartorial efforts. Giles looked at him with drooping eyes, his glasses dangling from one hand. He was wearing neither jacket nor waistcoat, and his shirt was rumpled, the cuffs turned back, the collar opened, the underarms sadly stained.


"What is it, Wesley?" The exhaustion that hung about the older man was writ large in his voice. Wesley opened and closed his mouth a few times.

"May--may I come in?"

Giles stood back and allowed Wesley to enter. "It's not that late--I don't suppose you're a vampire." He closed the door and put his glasses back on, at the same time sliding a stake back into his left-hand trouser pocket so quickly that Wesley almost missed it.

Wesley stood helplessly in the middle of the living room. Giles went around him as if he weren't there, going to the kitchen pass-through where a bottle of whisky and a half-emptied tumbler stood. "Want a drink?"

"No, thank you." Not that dreadful stuff, at least. He would have enjoyed a glass of ice water--it was so very warm in Sunnydale--but felt rather ashamed to ask for it.

Giles plopped down on the couch with his refilled glass in hand and gestured him to sit. Wesley sat. He did not know quite how to express everything that was on his mind; he had to think a bit, and Giles, mercifully, allowed him to do so.

"I do want to help," he said. It was a beginning, at least. He realized, with some consternation, that prior to this situation, he had always known the right thing to say because someone had told him, beforehand, what it was.

Giles nodded. "You have your orders from Buffy." He smiled, all too briefly. "Just as the rest of us do."

Wesley thought of that quite awkward kiss with Miss Chase. Awkward and, indeed, unpleasant. He hadn't known what to say then, either.

"You seem quite confident in her," he hazarded.

"I have reason to be."

Wesley tried again. "Giles... Rupert... have we any chance of surviving this Ascension? I don't say any chance of preventing it, or even defeating our enemy. But of surviving?"

Giles gave him a long look over the rim of the tumbler. In the dim light, his eyes looked golden-brown like the liquor. "You wouldn't have to ask me that if you knew Buffy, at all." He emptied the glass. "I've been here three years. Been at her side. She once knocked me cold with a single blow so that she could go face certain death, prophesied death, at the hands of a master vampire." Giles got to his feet and waved the glass at Wes for emphasis. "And thanks to her inappropriate friends--thanks to Xander, in fact--she died as prophesied and was revived by him and Angel." He smacked the empty glass down on the coffee table. "They didn't have CPR when that prophecy was recorded. Yet foolish, clumsy, hapless Xander Harris had mastered it well enough to restore Buffy's life."

Wesley blinked away sudden tears. "That's extraordinary." He hoped Giles would hear the sincerity in his tone.

"So it is. Buffy is an extraordinary person. She attracts extraordinary friends."


A fleeting thought darted across Wesley's mind, swift as a hart: That he, too, might be extraordinary for offering to help Buffy in this seemingly hopeless fight rather than going home to England on the first flight he could arrange. He dismissed it and forgot about it, rising to his feet.


"Well, I suppose I should be going. Need one's rest, and all that."


Giles pulled himself to his feet and moved toward the door. He was close enough that Wesley could suddenly smell him--not just the whisky on his breath, but the bay rum on his skin, and the rude sharp smell of a man's stale sweat at the end of a hard day. The scents prickled at his awareness, made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. He found himself wanting to step back, to back away--perhaps even to kneel, as if he were a knight and Giles his lord. Inappropriate feelings, of course. After all, he was the designated Watcher here, whatever Buffy might say. And besides, he was taller than Rupert.

Wes lifted his chin and opened his mouth to say something. He never would recall what it was he'd been about to say, for Giles leaned in and kissed him.

Bay rum, whisky, and sweat. And the height of Giles, mouth to mouth and eye to eye with him, and Wes squeezed his eyes shut as soon as he realized the kiss wasn't over. Giles was nibbling on his lips the way a deer might nibble on grass--browsing, that was the word, browsing on his lips, and if Giles could only go browsing through Wesley's fantasies in the newer, literary sense of the word then he would know--

Wes pulled back. Stared at Giles. Giles said nothing, only wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Not the way Wes had wiped off the moistness of Miss Chase's lips--what a lot of lipstick that young lady wore--but the way a man might wipe his mouth after drinking straight from the bottle. Wesley licked his lips, tasted the remnant of whisky there, and thrust his mouth forward to find Giles's again.

Giles's mouth latched onto his, firmly, and one hand curled, more gently, around the back of Wesley's neck. Wes took half a step closer, and Giles's other hand took him by the arm and drew him closer. Now he was almost chest to chest with Rupert, loosened tie brushing knotted tie, and was *that* was it was supposed to feel like when someone put their tongue in your mouth? He let his hands settle on Giles's hips and took the last half-step to close the distance between them.

Giles's lips slid from Wesley's mouth to his jaw, nibbled there, and dropped to his throat. His hand dropped down Wesley's back at the same time that his lips found a peculiarly sensitive spot on Wes's throat, and Wesley Wyndham-Price heard himself make a noise that, if it came from a member of the fairer sex, he would describe as a squeak. A very loud and high-pitched squeak.

Giles snorted against his neck, then licked the spot. Wesley couldn't help it: He shivered.

"Such a lovely throat," Giles murmured. "Been wanting to do this, actually." His hands slipped under Wesley's jacket, wrinkling it, no doubt, wrapped around his braces just above his trousers, and pulled Wes closer for a full-on kiss.

This, Wesley thought, was how one got a passion mark. This sort of nuzzling and licking and nibbling and was that biting? oh, goodness.... A good deal of blood was gathering at that spot, under Giles's lips, making it very warm, but not *all* the blood, because a good deal of it was also gathering and heating another spot--

He bit his lip on a whimper when Rupert suddenly let him go. Pushed away again, but no, Giles was turning away, wiping his mouth again and reaching for the whisky bottle.

"I'm sorry, Wesley. I let myself get out of hand." Giles bent, picked up the stopper of the bottle, and thrust it home decisively. "Too much stress, too little sleep, too much to drink--"

Surprising himself, Wesley put a hand on the other man's shoulder. Rupert turned round, and Wesley opened and closed his mouth a few times, searching for the right words to say. "I hadn't--that is to say, I haven't ever--and I, really, it's all right--I--" He gave up, closed his mouth, and resorted to giving Giles a pleading look, one that his favorite nanny would have recognized.

It worked on Rupert Giles, too. Giles put down the bottle and kissed him again, and how quickly Wesley had begun to miss the taste of whisky in the other man's mouth and the scent of bay rum on his rough, angular jaw. It did not take long before Giles's arms were around him and his were around Giles and they were chest to chest, thigh to thigh, and... oh. Yes.

He pulled back a little. Blinked. Giles surprised him with a quick peck to the cheek and a grin. "For God's sake, Wesley, if we're going to neck like teenagers, at least take off your jacket and let's sit down."

Jacket and tie were discarded in short order, hung next to Rupert's tweed on the tree. Rupert undid a few buttons of his shirt, and Wesley tried very hard not to stare and was sure that he was failing. That certainly was a hairy chest under there. Rupert slid closer to him and stretched one arm along the back of the couch, and then they were kissing again. Wesley felt he might soon get the knack of it himself.

Giles's mouth found that spot on Wesley's throat again, or rather, a comparable spot on the other side, and worried it contentedly for a while. His fingers toyed with the hair at the nape of Wesley's neck, and Wes allowed himself to stroke Rupert's throat and jaw and try the texture of the stubble there. He was not, however, able to ignore that warming and heating and gathering of the blood he'd noticed before--in his throat, and in his lap.

"Er, Rupert. I think you're going to leave a mark."

Giles pulled his lips away just long enough to murmur, "Want to."

Wesley began trying to extricate himself without appearing to do so. "And I, er, ah, that is to say, I'm--eep!" There was that squeak again, embarrassingly high and sharp, as Rupert's free hand dropped unerring into his lap.

He leapt up--despite a momentary impulse to thrust against that hand until, until--and started to straighten his jacket, then remembered he wasn't wearing it. Giles was giving him a decidedly exasperated look.

"You have an erection, Wesley. A stiffie. It's perfectly normal and, in fact, is rather the point here." He gestured, pointedly, to his own trousers, which were noticeably not lying flat. "I thought we were enjoying ourselves."

"We were." Wesley sat down again, leaving some space between himself and Rupert. "I was." His shoulders hunched up miserably. "Rupert, I'm a virgin." All the blood would rush into his face, now. "I've never had sex. With anyone. Never gone beyond a peck on the lips."

"I rather thought so." Rupert's tone was quiet, detached, rather than mocking as Wes had feared. "They like to keep us celibate, you know--to dangle our Slayers in front of us like the carrot before the mule, the sweet before the child, and all the while keep a firm hand on our balls till they can--" His mouth twisted up, and he shook his head. "Don't let the Council rule you, Wesley. Don't be tame."

Everything Wesley was, everything his father wanted of him, everything he'd been taught, rose up, ready to defend the Council and its policies and procedures, its pomps and all its works. Something else, something that had been asleep until coming to this very peculiar Hellmouth, propelled him down the couch to slip his fingers under Rupert's braces and kiss him again.

This time he didn't leap away or even flinch when Rupert's hand trailed down his chest and into his lap. He responded to the exploring pressure by pushing against it and was rewarded with a slow stroking, back and forth. Rupert's hands were wider and heavier than his own, with calluses not merely from a pen. He began to wonder how those hands would feel touching him there with nothing between them and his skin.

Rupert must have read his mind, because he suddenly squeezed the hard flesh under his hand. "Want to take off some clothes?"

Wesley nodded, too breathless to speak. Giles dropped his braces and pushed them off his arms, pulled his shirt out of his trousers and unbuttoned it, pulled it off. He was still wearing an undershirt, but his arms were bare and tufts of hair showed over his collar and under his arms. Biting his lip, Wesley opened his trousers and slid out of them, letting them drop to the floor. His erection thrust up ridiculously against the tails of his shirt, and he thought he would never have the courage to get completely naked.

Giles was pulling off his belt, which he dropped on the floor. He suddenly gave Wesley an absolutely rakish grin that sent blood rushing to the surface everywhere. Wesley felt dizzy for a moment. "My God, that's sexy, man."

"What?" Wesley managed.

"You with your stiff prick sticking out from under your shirt like that."

Hearing a ribald word from Rupert Giles, once-respectable fellow Watcher, made Wes feel even dizzier. Not as dizzy, however, as Giles's hand slipping into the gap of his pants and curling tight around him. He didn't squeak, at least. Instead he voiced a surprisingly deep and throaty groan as he came all over Giles's hand.

He felt at once utterly mortified and strangely sleepy as Giles, chuckling, peeled down his sodden pants and began to wipe him clean with a handkerchief. "It happens to the best of us, Wesley--especially when we're not getting enough. But you're a young man, and I've been told I give head rather well. I daresay you can go again tonight."

Wesley forced himself to meet Rupert's eyes. He was grinning again, and his eyes were twinkling. Yes, one's eyes really could twinkle. Wesley had sometimes wondered about that. Rupert's eyes were green, with a striking brown patch in the left that could only be seen from quite close. Perhaps, as Mum used to say, there was a difference between teasing and mocking, and he ought to learn to tell them apart.

They were close enough again that he could see that brown patch, and the fine lines flanking the eyes, and the slight flush of Rupert's lips, and there was more kissing, and Rupert began opening the buttons of Wesley's shirt and kissing his way down the bared skin, and around it and up and then down again, and oh my God was he really going to? yes. Yes, he was. Oh, he was.

Wesley felt that all his bones had suddenly melted, just like poor Harry Potter's, and him with no Skele-Gro, and there was simply no way he could sit up, he had to slide down toward that warm mouth that was kissing one thigh and then the other and then the curly hair at the base of his belly, just above where his penis was lifting again. He'd never felt like this before, couldn't believe he could be roused again so soon, had never *wanted* another person, another body, not really. He was getting hard again, his sex pointing at Giles's mouth, demanding, and the older man was kneeling in front of him, those broad shoulders, big hands on Wesley's thighs, lips parted, watching, waiting....

Wes whimpered again, helpless, as Giles's lips closed around the head of his prick. Lipping gently, gently easing back his foreskin, exposing more of his prick to Giles's mouth. Giles's head sank lower; he sucked in, used his tongue below the head. Wesley whimpered, feeling sweat break out at his hairline. Hesitantly, he lifted his hand to stroke Rupert's hair. Fine, soft, yet with a little spring to it. Instead of swatting his hand away, Rupert tilted his head into the touch, then took more of Wesley into his mouth. Dear Lord. Wesley couldn't help rising to that touch, pushing himself deeper into that blissful mouth, and Rupert made little approving noises against his flesh that made him thrust still more.

He'd never imagined Miss Chase doing this. Indeed, he'd never imagined anyone doing this: kneeling in front of him, vulnerable as a suppliant, taking in his prick like the gift of a god. Relishing and savoring it like some rare delicacy from the kitchen of a world-class chef. Murmuring in his throat as he licked and sucked, as if he approved of Wesley's thrusting shamelessly into his mouth, of Wesley's deepening whimpers, of Wesley's fingers clutching at his hair. Moment by moment Wesley thought it couldn't get any better, and moment by moment it did.

Wes moaned piteously when Rupert pulled his mouth away and stood, dropping his trousers. "Not going to suck you off, not just yet," Rupert said. He knelt on the sofa beside Wes and cupped his face for a deep kiss. He smelt of Wesley now, of Wesley's sweat and musk and need. "Want you to come on me, going to jerk you off-" He curled his fingers around Wesley's cock and kissed him again. "Touch me, Wesley--want you to touch my cock--"

Wesley reached out and touched: Ran his fingers under Rupert's undershirt, up his belly and his chest, found hair and muscle and scars and nipple and heartbeat. Combed his fingers down through soft curling hair, lighted on his goal, and shied away. Went back, with Rupert stroking him slowly and kissing him roughly, hard and wet, and took hold of it, that flesh, that meat, that cock, heavy in his hand and thick, the head slick, the prepuce slid back. He squeezed, and Rupert grunted softly in response. Stroked, and Rupert's hand matched his stroke. Brushed over Rupert's balls, big, touched his inner thigh, surprisingly soft, stroked his prick again and pulled away from the kiss.

"Don't you want to--" He couldn't quite say the words. He wanted to, but he couldn't. "Don't you want to come inside me?"

Giles grinned and gave him a squeeze. "Like to, but it's not necessary. That's upper form work, anyway. Maybe if we do this again--if we survive the bloody Ascension--" He shrugged one shoulder and dove for Wes's throat, finding that sensitive spot.

It was all a wonderful mess after that--Rupert suckling on his throat, kissing and biting, and working his cock, while he tried to match Rupert's grip and speed, and pressed closer, pressing into the other man, and Rupert muttering in his ear, saying lovely filthy dirty things about Wes's throat, and Wes's thighs, and Wes's cock, and Wes's mouth. At some point Rupert's fingers dug into Wesley's arse, gripping the muscle, spreading him a little, and Wesley shuddered, wanting or at least imagining something more, and then he came, again, spurting hard over Rupert's hand and legs and belly, over everything, moaning, and there was even more mess when Rupert, groaning like a man in pain, came too.

They separated a little and lolled side by side on the couch. Giles's panting turned into helpless giggles. "Haven't we made a mess."

Wesley fingered his soiled shirt. "Rather." He started to shove his glasses up his nose--had he really kept them on all this time?--then realized he would get semen all over them. Come. Spunk. Giles seemed to have re-written his sexual vocabulary.

"You can stay the night if you like." Giles's tone was casual; he was wiping his hands on his discarded shirt. "At least take a shower and have a cup of tea before you try to drive."

Not a romance, then. Wesley found he was quite all right with that. "I believe I shall take you up on that offer. Shower, and some tea." He made himself smile, and Giles leaned in and kissed him again, softly.

"If we survive the Ascension," Giles said.

Wesley lifted his chin. "And we will."

"We will." Giles got up, trailing his shirt after him. "Do you care for Assam?"

Wesley thought he might.