TITLE: Little Deeds
AUTHOR: Shrift
RATING: PG-13, W/G slash
SUMMARY: Wesley angsts, Gunn hammers, and fuzziness ensues.
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 darth_shrift@yahoo.com
WEBSITE: http://bifictionalbedlam.slashcity.net/shrift

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 his gut.

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.

It hurt.

"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, anyway?"

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 wings.

"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 *back*?"

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 hospital.

Gunn had taken off, with no indication of when he would return.

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 his friend.

"I should have been there," Gunn said.

Wesley blinked. Gunn looked almost angry. "Iím glad you werenít."

"What?" His voice was as sharp as his makeshift ax.

"I doubt Angel really would have hit Cordelia," Wesley said slowly. "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 again.

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 shaking."

"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 driverís seat.

"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 over there."

"But --"

"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 Gunnís truck.

"Where to?"

"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 life-threatening situation?

"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 with me."

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 donít snore."

"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 truck.


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 softener.

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 night.

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 hammer? Nails?"

"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 duty.

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 prom.

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 me."

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 sense.

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 be alone."

"Why donít you call your girl?"

Wesley grunted and dropped his eyes. "Virginia broke up with me."

Gunn squeezed his shoulder. "Sorry, man. Thatís rough."

At his continued silence, Gunn said, "Look, itís late."

"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 about Virginia."



"Iím sorry," Wesley was babbling. "I never should have --"

"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, "Stay."

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 tight.

the end


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