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. 
        AUTHOR’S 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 http://bifictionalbedlam.slashcity.net/
        WEBSITE: http://bifictionalbedlam.slashcity.net/shrift

        Little Deeds by Shrift
        02-May-01

        He hurt. His abdomen ached, a hot, painful reminder that standing really 
        wasn’t 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 Wesley’s 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 wouldn’t have happened at all," 
        she said.

        "Ow?"

        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, "he’s 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 he’d pick it up later when he was done returning that 
        farm vehicle he drove into the house. Where’d 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 couldn’t see the stars. They were covered by salmon-tinged LA smog. A 
        plane crossed overhead, red lights blinking along the wings.

        "Good Lord, I’m 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 wasn’t very surprised. Life hadn’t 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 couldn’t recall her auditioning for many commercials 
        lately, at all.

        "You don’t 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. "They’ve already asked me if I’m a 
        battered spouse, Cordelia."

        She propped her chin on her head rest. "Well, you know, it’s not like 
        you’re 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. 
        You’re 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 hadn’t 
        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 don’t want to get into this now," Cordelia sighed, her hands 
        raised in commanding supplication. "Wesley can fill you in. I’m calling 
        a cab." She huffed out of Angel’s car. The door slam made another ripple 
        of ache work its way through Wesley’s 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."

        "Damn."

        Wesley was absurdly grateful that Gunn didn’t elaborate. When Angel had 
        come into their tiny office, he’d been steeped in denial. The Sharps 
        hadn’t 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 Gunn’s 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. "I’m glad you weren’t."

        "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."

        Gunn’s 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 Angel’s a vampire. When he’s 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. Wesley’s legs began 
        trembling again.

        She walked to Angel’s convertible, pulling her hair up into a stunted 
        ponytail, purse dangling in the crook of her elbow. She gave Wesley a 
        hard look. "You’re shaking."

        "I’m tired. I believe I’ve already mentioned that once this evening."

        "You," Cordelia said to Gunn. "You take him home."

        "Yes, ma’am," Gunn muttered, climbing out of the driver’s seat.

        "Cordy, I’m 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 Wesley’s 
        wheelchair out of the car. "I’m taking your pansy British ass home. 
        Truck’s right over there."

        "But --"

        "Listen to me, Wesley." Cordelia’s hands were on her hips. "This is the 
        *second* time I’ve been impregnated by demon spawn, okay, and I am not 
        in the mood. Gunn’s 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. "C’mon," he said, practically scooping Wesley 
        out of the back seat with one strong arm. Wesley slung his arm over 
        Gunn’s 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 
        couldn’t think of many better.

        Cordelia waved good-bye when her cab pulled up. Wesley was just settling 
        himself on the bench seat of Gunn’s truck.

        "Where to?"

        "Oh, yes," Wesley said, struggling with the seat belt. "You’ve 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 didn’t 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 didn’t 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? ‘Cause 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 
        Gunn’s 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 don’t snore."

        "I --" Wesley said. He struggled to sit up from his sprawl in Gunn’s 
        truck. "Oh. We’re here."

        Gunn had parked in the circle cast by one of the parking lot’s lamp 
        posts, close to Wesley’s entrance. The dome light was on, and his 
        wheelchair sat on the pavement, unfolded, on the passenger side of the 
        truck.

        "Wes?"

        Sluggishly, he tried to slide out of the truck, but found himself stuck 
        after moving forward a few inches. Gunn’s 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.

        "I’ll have you know," Wesley said, voice muffled due to his face being 
        smashed against Gunn’s firm chest, "I’m 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 chair’s 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 Gunn’s 
        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. Gunn’s 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 Gunn’s 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 ‘demon attack’, 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 Wesley’s shoulder, then hauled the plywood to 
        the shattered window. "Got a hammer? Nails?"

        "In the closet," Wesley said. He felt odd, light-headed. "I’ll, uh, I’ve 
        got demon blood on me. I’ll go change."

        Gunn just shrugged and turned back to the mess of sill and glass. 
        "That’s 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 didn’t 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 
        tink