TITLE: Little Deeds
RATING: PG-13, W/G slash
SUMMARY: Wesley angsts, Gunn hammers, and fuzziness
SPOILERS: Angel up through "Epiphany".
DISCLAIMER: The boys are owned by people/entities
like Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Kuzui blah blah Wesley
and Gunn are meant to be together.
ARCHIVES: Yes to list archives, others please ask.
AUTHORíS NOTES: Te and Sheila wanted
Wesley-seduces-Gunn. I heart Te and Sheila. Wes and
I really, really tried... Beta thanks to the DRV
girls, special thanks to the Great Enabler.
FEEDBACK: Send virtual beer via firstname.lastname@example.org
Little Deeds by Shrift
He hurt. His abdomen ached, a hot, painful reminder
that standing really wasnít a good idea since he'd
burst his stitches not long ago. Gunn kept giving him
quick, concerned glances over his shoulder as he drove
them back to their office in Angel's car. Probably
because Wesleyís legs trembled, heels tapping audibly
against the floor mats. He pushed down on his thighs
with his hands, but they were trembling, too.
The adrenaline rush from escaping revenge by
impregnation with Skilosh demon spawn had worn off
five blocks ago, and only the remaining scraps of his
manly bravado kept him from whimpering at the pain in
Cordelia fussed in the front seat, twisting around in
futile attempts to see the bald spot on the back of
her head. "Big, stupid, broody Angel," she muttered.
"In all fairness," Wesley said, even though he didn't
particularly want to, "he did save our lives tonight."
"Oh, yeah?" Cordelia turned around in her seat and
poked at Wesley's chest.
"If he hadn't fired us, this probably wouldnít have
happened at all," she said.
Cordelia pulled her hand back and grimaced. She
pointed at the sky with an index finger. "Sorry.
Forgot about the Lee Press-on nails."
"Hands off my boy," Gunn said.
"Oh," Cordelia laughed, "heís your boy now?"
"Damn straight, he is." Gunn flashed Cordelia a wide
grin. "Now where do I park the Angelmobile?"
Cordelia was peering at her hair in the side view
mirror again. "Wherever. He said heíd pick it up
later when he was done returning that farm vehicle he
drove into the house. Whereíd he get that thing,
Gunn grunted and began circling the block for an open
space. Wesley relaxed until he was staring up at the
sky, his neck on the head rest. He couldnít see the
stars. They were covered by salmon-tinged LA smog. A
plane crossed overhead, red lights blinking along the
"Good Lord, Iím tired," he sighed.
The car stopped. He looked away from the sky when he
felt a warm hand on his knee. Wesley lifted his
heading, hoping to see a broad hand devoid of fake
nails offering comfort.
He was disappointed. He wasnít very surprised. Life
hadnít been kind lately.
Life had been rather like a bitch, in fact.
Cordelia had a worried smile on her face, the one that
showed far too much of her teeth. The one that made
Wesley often wonder why she never auditioned for
toothpaste or mouthwash commercials.
Of course, he couldnít recall her auditioning for many
commercials lately, at all.
"You donít need to go back to the emergency room, do
you?" she asked. "Because if you do, I think they
might start asking those questions."
"Those questions?" Gunn said, turning off the car and
pulling the keys out of the ignition. He flipped them
into the air and caught them again before handing the
keys off to Cordelia.
"You know, *those* questions."
Wesley was too weary to blush. "Theyíve already asked
me if Iím a battered spouse, Cordelia."
She propped her chin on her head rest. "Well, you
know, itís not like youíre butch, Wesley."
"I own leather," he protested. "And a motorcycle. I
have a bloody shotgun in my closet."
"So does most of LA," Cordelia said, raising her
eyebrows. "Face it. Youíre out of luck, buster."
"Hold up," Gunn said. "Emergency room? You had to go
Cordelia nodded. "Popped his stitches like the seam
on a cheap prom dress."
"When was this?"
"You were gone," Wesley said quietly. And at that
point, there hadnít been much for him to lose other
than his dignity.
Cordelia rolled her eyes. "And Wesley here chose the
wrong moment to compare the size of his...testosterone
levels with Angel."
"The hell? When was Angel at the office?"
"I so donít want to get into this now," Cordelia
sighed, her hands raised in commanding supplication.
"Wesley can fill you in. Iím calling a cab." She
huffed out of Angelís car. The door slam made another
ripple of ache work its way through Wesleyís body.
When she disappeared into the office, Gunn said,
"Leather, hm?" He smirked a little.
"Leather trousers, in fact."
He made a soft, surprised sound that prised a smile
out of Wesley. "So. Angel."
Wesley closed his eyes, rubbing under the nose pieces
of his glasses. The pads felt heavy, like they were
forming a permanent groove on his skin and cartilage.
"He came in looking for a book. Cordelia tried to
stop him. I thought he was going to hit her."
Wesley was absurdly grateful that Gunn didnít
elaborate. When Angel had come into their tiny
office, heíd been steeped in denial. The Sharps
hadnít paid their bill. The hole in his body made it
impossible for him to lift anything heavier than a few
pounds. Virginia never came to see him at the
Gunn had taken off, with no indication of when he
If Wesley was honest with himself, that last one had
stunned him the most.
The slow and subtle creep of realization that Gunn had
become the one mitigating factor in his day. A
constant. He would go to the office, and Gunn would
be there. He would tilt his head back to meet Gunnís
eyes, and Gunn would smile and touch him.
Wesley had never had a person like Gunn choose to be
"I should have been there," Gunn said.
Wesley blinked. Gunn looked almost angry. "Iím glad
"What?" His voice was as sharp as his makeshift ax.
"I doubt Angel really would have hit Cordelia," Wesley
"But he would have hit you, if you got in his way."
Gunnís eyebrows swept together and he pulled back. "I
can take him."
Wesley felt himself smiling again. Grinning,
actually. "I may be the resident pansy ass, Gunn, but
Angelís a vampire. When heís being evil, he can kick
your ass six ways from Sunday."
Gunn snorted, brushing his mouth with his hand to hide
a smile. "Yeah. Whatever."
The warmth he had been holding onto began fading when
Gunn looked toward the office door. Cordelia stood
outside, locking it. Wesleyís legs began trembling
She walked to Angelís convertible, pulling her hair up
into a stunted ponytail, purse dangling in the crook
of her elbow. She gave Wesley a hard look. "Youíre
"Iím tired. I believe Iíve already mentioned that
once this evening."
"You," Cordelia said to Gunn. "You take him home."
"Yes, maíam," Gunn muttered, climbing out of the
"Cordy, Iím fine --" Wesley started to protest, out of
habit. Because he hated being a bloody nuisance.
"Shut up, English." Gunn leaned over the side and
lifted Wesleyís wheelchair out of the car. "Iím
taking your pansy British ass home. Truckís right
"Listen to me, Wesley." Cordeliaís hands were on her
hips. "This is the *second* time Iíve been
impregnated by demon spawn, okay, and I am not in the
mood. Gunnís taking you home."
"All right," Wesley said. Assenting was easy, simple.
He wanted Gunn to take him home. Or perhaps, if he
was still being honest with himself, he wanted to go
home with Gunn.
Gunn opened the car door. "Címon," he said,
practically scooping Wesley out of the back seat with
one strong arm. Wesley slung his arm over Gunnís
shoulders, squeezing his hand on bone when the pain
hit as he struggled to stand.
He could think of worse places to be than draped on
Gunn. But he couldnít think of many better.
Cordelia waved good-bye when her cab pulled up.
Wesley was just settling himself on the bench seat of
"Oh, yes," Wesley said, struggling with the seat belt.
"Youíve never been to my flat. Neither had Angel."
It struck Wesley as odd that, in all the time he had
been living in LA, the only person who had ever been
to his home was Virginia until today. Aside from food
delivery people and the occasional overnight stays of
strangers. Was he perhaps too stand-offish? Or was
it simply that no one wanted to visit?
Cordelia herself had said earlier tonight that she
didnít consider him a friend. Co-worker, then?
Person with whom she only spent time if it involved a
"I know where you live, Wes," Gunn said, voice rich
with amusement. "I do a drive-by sometimes, make sure
your building didnít blow up."
Warm. He felt warm. "Then why..."
"Yo, remember, Skilosh attack?" Gunn said, leaning his
forearms on the steering wheel. "Your place full of
demon guts, or what? ĎCause if it is, you can crash
To say Wesley was touched by the offer would be akin
to saying that Angel merely disliked doing the
boogie-oogie in public.
"No, Angel...Angel disposed of the bodies before we
left. But I do need to put something over the windows
until they can be replaced."
Gunn sniffed and started his truck. "Got some sheets
of plywood in the bed."
They were halfway down the street before Wesley could
work around the lump in his throat to say thank you.
Wesley leaned into the warm hand cupping his cheek,
nearly nuzzling the broad palm. His eyes shot open
when he heard a low chuckle, only to see Gunnís
smiling face a few inches away.
"Hey, English. You awake yet?"
He mustered a brilliant, "What?"
"Good news," Gunn said. He took his hand away. "You
"I --" Wesley said. He struggled to sit up from his
sprawl in Gunnís truck. "Oh. Weíre here."
Gunn had parked in the circle cast by one of the
parking lotís lamp posts, close to Wesleyís entrance.
The dome light was on, and his wheelchair sat on the
pavement, unfolded, on the passenger side of the
Sluggishly, he tried to slide out of the truck, but
found himself stuck after moving forward a few inches.
Gunnís chuckle sounded again, and Wesley inhaled
sharply when Gunn leaned over his lap to release the
seat belt that held him immobile. And then Gunn
reached in and lifted him out of the seat.
"Iíll have you know," Wesley said, voice muffled due
to his face being smashed against Gunnís firm chest,
"Iím feeling rather silly right now."
"Could be worse," Gunn said, shifting them both around
so he could lower Wesley into the chair.
"How, pray tell?"
Gunn cocked his head, his hands on the chairís
armrests. "Could be Angel doing this for you."
This close, Gunn smelled faintly of sweat and fabric
Wesley wondered who did his laundry. Fabric softener
usually meant a woman.
Before he realized what he was doing, he reached out
and touched Gunnís neck. Wesley felt a flutter under
his ribcage when Gunn simply wrinkled his forehead
instead of pulling back.
"What are you doing?"
"Checking for a pulse," Wesley said, "because that was
a *very* evil thought."
Gunn playfully batted his hand away, straightening to
flick the lock and slam the door on the truck. Wesley
watched him lean over to pull a sheet of plywood from
the bed. He admired the view until Gunn hauled the
sheet around and said, "Ground floor, right?"
"Yes. Right. Ground floor."
He unlocked the brakes on the chair and followed Gunn
up the short ramp to the building door of his flat.
Gunnís footsteps echoed loudly in the quiet building.
Wesley reminded himself, as he dug around in his
clothing for his keys, that it was the middle of the
The middle of the night, and Gunnís presence made the
hair on the back of his neck prickle in awareness.
A low whistle sounded when Wesley flipped on the
lights in his minuscule foyer. "Man. You said Ďdemon
attackí, not death match," Gunn said.
Wesley looked at his home. Broken glass glinted on
the carpet. A coffee table listed to one side,
hopelessly splintered. His ceiling was splattered and
gouged from the shotgun. And greenish-yellow demon
blood dried in flaking, scattered clumps on the walls,
floor, picture frames.
"Bloody hell," he said.
Gunn chuckled and squeezed Wesleyís shoulder, then
hauled the plywood to the shattered window. "Got a
"In the closet," Wesley said. He felt odd,
light-headed. "Iíll, uh, Iíve got demon blood on me.
Iíll go change."
Gunn just shrugged and turned back to the mess of sill
and glass. "Thatís cool. Whatever."
He wheeled himself into his bedroom and wondered when
he had become so soft in the head that the simple act
of a friend made him want to weep.
Only Wesley didnít weep. He simply blinked too much
and clenched his jaw like all good British men.
He started at the sound of a series of bangs in the
living room, a noise that settled into the rhythmic
pounding of a hammer and the occasional tinkle of
broken glass. He supposed after the shotgun incident,
Mrs. Starns could hardly object to a bit of noise
while attempting repairs. Wesley moved his chair over
to the closet and picked through his meager supply of
clean clothes. Between hospital stays, demon attacks
and the requisite moping after being shown the door in
a relationship, he hadnít found much time for laundry
And laundry brought him back to Gunn, to his scent, to
the way he felt. To the way Gunn actually seemed to
like spending time with him, and to the way he never
felt lonely when Gunn was around.
Wesley hadnít been quite this besotted in years.
Good Lord, he thought. Not since Cordeliaís Senior
Only he was a little older now, somewhat more wise,
and much less staid. One thing remained the same: he
always fell hardest for the people who were the most
unlikely to return his affections.
Virginia had been fun. Comfortable. Sexy. They had
even loved each other a little. But their
relationship was not of a lasting kind, and they had
both known it.
Wesley struggled out of his stained clothes, stripping
down to his boxers. He stood on trembling legs in
order to wrap himself in a tatty robe, and collapsed
back into his chair in relief.
Gunn half-turned and winked, holding a pair of nails
in his mouth, when Wesley wheeled past him to retrieve
a glass of water from the kitchen. He soaked the
sleeve of his robe under the faucet, hands shaking
only partially from exhaustion. Wesley tucked the
glass between his legs and wheeled back into his
bedroom, keeping his head down.
He gratefully swallowed some of the pain pills from
the bottle on his night stand, removed his glasses,
and had just firmly planted his hands on the arms of
his chair in order to climb into bed when Gunn loomed
in the doorway.
"Hey, let me help you with that," Gunn said. "Lean on
Wesley was pressed against Gunnís warm side and helped
into bed before he could think to word a polite
protest. Gunn stood almost between Wesleyís knees.
He tilted his head back to look Gunn in the face and
immediately regretted the action. Without the
protective barrier of his glasses, he felt far too
open, to easily read.
"Are you done with the window, then?" he asked,
focusing his eyes on the dull copper shine of a button
on Gunnís jacket.
"All boarded up."
"Ah. Good. Thank you, Charles."
Gunn shifted, brushing a leg against Wesleyís knee,
and then moved to the door. "No problem, English."
He turned to watch Gunn go. Intended to simply watch
Gunn leave. But it was his voice that blurted out a,
"Wait." A word that choked and strangled his good
Gunn paused in the doorway. "Something wrong?"
Wesley realized there was no room left within him for
prevarication when he said, "Donít go." He rushed to
tack on, "Yet. Donít go yet."
There was silence, and then the soft susurration of
shoes on carpet. The bed dipped and Wesley turned
instinctively to see that Gunn was close. Close, and
looking at him with those coffee-colored eyes, smooth
dark skin, the slightly darker line of his eyebrows.
"Wes?" Gunnís eyes flicked down to the white strips
that covered Wesleyís abdomen.
"Itís not that," he said. "I just...I donít want to
"Why donít you call your girl?"
Wesley grunted and dropped his eyes. "Virginia broke
up with me."
Gunn squeezed his shoulder. "Sorry, man. Thatís
At his continued silence, Gunn said, "Look, itís
"Stay." Wesley snapped his head up to look him in the
eye. "Stay. Please."
Gunn wore an expression of terrible, excruciating
kindness. "Wes --"
"Itís not about Virginia," he interrupted.
Gunn worked his mouth, fingers tapping a staccato on
the bed cover. "Then what *is* this about?"
It was about need, need and fear, fearing to ask for
something he could never have, fear of ruining what
already he already had.
Overwhelming need pushed Wesley forward, angled his
head, purchased him a blissful moment with the soft,
warm cling of Gunnís lips. Fear drew him back,
prepared him for the inevitable.
"Oh," Gunn said. He blinked in surprise. "Itís not
"Iím sorry," Wesley was babbling. "I never should
"Shut up, English."
Wesleyís frantic apology cut off when Gunnís mouth
pressed against his, lips brushing gently. He opened
his mouth eagerly at the slightest pressure, and
Gunnís warm tongue slicked inside, lazily tasting.
Wesley could only remain passive for so long. He
reached out to touch Gunnís jaw with his palm, opened
his lips wider, ran his tongue across the smooth, wet
interior of Gunnís mouth.
It was over too quickly, their gasping breaths
mingling in the air. Gunnís palm rested lightly on
his abdomen, over the hole the bullet had torn through
his body. He pressed his forehead to Gunnís and said,
He received a low, velvet, "Yeah," in reply.
Gunn pulled back and slid off the bed, shedding his
coat. He toed off his boots and socks, and pulled the
red jersey off. Wesley watched his broad hands
hesitate over the waist band of his loose jeans before
they joined the growing pile of laundry on the floor.
He stared at Gunn in open appreciation, all long and
lean and broad-shouldered.
"Lose the robe," Gunn said. He narrowed his eyes and
tucked his thumbs in the elastic band of his boxers.
"Lose all of it."
Wesley struggled out of his robe. He looked down to
slide his own boxers down his thighs and calves, and
raised his eyes to see Gunn was nude. A hot wave of
need brought a flush to Wesleyís skin. He wanted to
put his mouth on Gunnís smooth, brown skin, taste him
everywhere. He wanted to suck a mark onto Gunnís
neck, feel Gunnís cock riding over his sensitive skin
and in, wanted him inside, wanted to see Gunnís face
as he came.
Wesley wasnít shaking anymore.
His muscles buzzed and hummed with narcotics,
deadening the pain. The mattress dipped again and
Wesley rolled into Gunnís warm body. He squirmed
slightly to take the pressure off his abdomen, and
Gunn curled around him, tall and warm and firm.
Gunn nudged a thigh between Wesleyís legs and murmured
a good night to the top of his head. Wesley pressed
his face into the side of Gunnís neck, and held on