Title: Strange Compulsion (2:37am)
Author: Indalia (firstname.lastname@example.org)
Summary: Wesley, Gunn, alcohol
Author's Note: Lots of thanks, smooches and chocolate to Kath for being
beta-extraordinaire. So glad I met you. First drink is on me...
Yet Another Note: Because of late-night revisions and a sick kitty, any
mistakes (minor ones, I'm sure) are my own. Kath is the smart one.
Archive: Gunn/Wesley, UCSL, Subtle Thunder
Wesley was totally and completely snookered and he knew it. He and Gunn had
gone to Caritas for a night of relaxation and more "bonding", as Cordy put
it when they stepped out of the front door. For whatever reason, Lorne was
feeling ultra generous that evening, supplying an endless fount of thick,
frothy drinks that came in various fluorescent colors, and one size only -
large. After the second drink, Wesley forgot to ask what it was that gave
it that special *kick*. After the sixth, he had forgotten about the
previous five he'd consumed.
Lorne, being the ever-gracious and conscientious Host, phoned Angel to
ensure that they had a safe way home and Wesley vaguely remembered being
poured out at his front door by his friend with the super-human strength.
Anything beyond that and his memory of events was sketchy at best. He was
just relieved to be out of Angel's moving vehicle and he was forever
grateful that he was now in a chair that remained stationary. And Gunn --
Wesley looked across the room at the long, lithe form sprawled half-on,
half-off of his sofa. One of Gunn's arms was draped across his face,
partially obscuring Wesley’s perfect view of Gunn’s attractive features.
Perhaps he was attempting to stop the world from spinning. Well, Wesley
assumed that was what Gunn was doing as he, himself was on a mission to slow
the roundabout he was on. The firmer Wesley pressed his feet into the
floor, the more solid his connection with the unmoving carpet, the better he
Taking his time to drink in the sleeping man's form, Wesley admired the
grace that Gunn's body held, even in rest. Those strong legs, so powerful
and sturdy, one bent at the knee, foot resting on the floor, the other
stretched along the length of the davenport. Wesley's mind began to wander
to places that he allowed himself to visit, only when he was alone. But
since Gunn could not fairly qualify as ‘company’ in his current state of
unconsciousness, he was, for all intents and purposes, alone. Who could say
Eliminating any thoughts of wrongdoing, Wesley settled deeper into his
chair, focusing on Gunn. He was grateful that his eyes had long since
adjusted to the semi-darkness, as they grazed over the elongated body,
sweeping from head to toe.
They'd been through so much together, but only recently had Wesley begun to
notice Gunn. *Really* notice him. How could he not? His increasingly
frequent thoughts of Gunn were both amiable and painful all at once. He
both welcomed and loathed their presence at times as they haunted him,
tormenting him when he was alone, placing an ache deep within his heart. He
wished that he could see Gunn, striding confidently across the floor
bridging the distance between them. His smiling face and lips and eyes
lighting up just for him...
The sight of Gunn stirring lightly jarred him from thoughts growing steadily
woeful in nature. It was then that the realization hit him - Gunn was here,
in his apartment, sleeping just across from where he sat. That fact alone
should lighten his mood somewhat. Deciding to focus on things more
positive, Wesley closed his eyes, submerging himself in the warm glow of the
alcohol that had not yet deserted him. That wonderful feeling, where
everything is right with the world and it seems that nothing can harm you.
A feeling that he and Gunn had shared earlier as they drank and enjoyed one
another's company, eyes locking on each other as they filtered out the
conversations of everyone else in the bar. Gunn's gaze held his so
intently, making him feel as if no one else in the bar existed. No one else
mattered. Only Wesley.
He opened his eyes, Gunn once again spanning his entire line of vision. It
had seemed that there was something between them. As if their friendship
was slowly crossing over into another level. A level that... What?
This was where Wesley found himself getting stuck. It seemed to him that
something was changing between them. Over the clinking glasses, the intense
looks, and touches that lasted a breath longer than normal, something was
happening. Or quite possibly, nothing was going on and his overactive
imagination was taking him on a little adventure, yet again.
At the very least, Wesley could blame it on the drinks.
Acknowledging that his speculation was leading him nowhere, Wesley focused
his mental attention back to where his eyes had strayed away from...
All roads seem to lead back to Charles Gunn.
Gunn, dressed in a black denim outfit that complimented his smooth skin.
Not the normal dark, thick cotton akin to Levis, but a more pliable
material. One that formed and molded to Charles' body whenever he moved;
whenever he sauntered across the room. No one else would pay such close
attention to Gunn and his clothing. His body. No one but Wesley. Ever the
Watcher, it was his profession after all. Or had been, at least.
And Wesley wondered - What exactly would Mr. Charles Gunn do if he went over
to him and let his fingers climb upward along the dark denim that covered
those long legs? What would his reaction be if Wesley approached him with
warm, steady hands, placing them on his slightly spread thighs? If he let
his fingers move higher towards the zipper of said denim trousers and those
fingers slowly – so slowly - lowered the mechanism, allowing his very
determined right hand to slip inside...
Oh, it had to be so warm in there. The heat within his own thoughts sent a
flush through Wesley's body as he imagined... Moving his hand inside,
sliding it into the opening of the boxers, letting the heat meet his fingers
before anything else. For him to have the audacity to touch Gunn - like
that - his fingers acquainting themselves with silken-covered steel, feeling
the life-beat within his grasp...
A sigh, barely audible, but it was there and it was enough to draw Wesley
from his mental flight of fancy, bringing him back to the present. There he
sat, in his living room, watching Gunn - fantasizing about Gunn - who slept
so soundly, he would have checked his pulse were it not for the light snore
that crept occasionally from his full lips.
But Gunn still didn't know. He had no idea that Wesley's heart was
threatening to beat out of his chest because he entertained thoughts of
doing such wicked, wicked things to Gunn's body. No. His secret was still
safe and he could keep it and hold it deep within himself, taking it out
only when necessary. In times when the darkness seemed a bit too dark and
the loneliness cut too deep inside.
Charles Gunn remained, and always would remain, clueless about Wesley's
Another sound from the couch and he began to wonder if Gunn was dreaming.
Wesley could only wish to play a part in his friend's nighttime visions the
way Charles played a starring role in his...
The memory of such dreams only added to Wesley's flush, his hand
instinctively reaching for his shirt collar. It suddenly felt warm in
there. In more ways than one, he mused. Sloughing off his mind's sly
comments, he decided to get up and get a glass of cold water for his
suddenly parched throat. Hopefully that would cool him down a bit.
Rising from his chair, Wesley gave his best effort at creeping quietly past
the couch, past the sleeping Gunn. But he misjudged the distance, his depth
perception a bit off because of the many alcoholic beverages that Lorne had
decidedly plied them with. In his lack of grace, his foot snagged Gunn's
foot that had extended itself at the most inopportune moment, causing them
to wind up a pile of tangled limbs on the couch.
Gunn wrapped his arms around Wesley, pulling him close to his
still-sleeping, casually reclined body, acting as if nothing had happened.
As if it were the most natural action in the world.
Gunn's physical response was slight, just rolling over a bit to make more
room for Wesley on the couch. But it was the verbal response --
"Mmmm? Go back to sleep, Wes."
--that got to Wesley.
Shifting around, trying to get as comfortable as he could with this giant of
a man on his crowded couch, Wesley did, burrowing his head into Gunn's chest
so the only sound that he could hear was the thundering of his friend's
Flight of fancy, indeed.