Watch The Rain
The light from the streetlamp glints off the wet sidewalk. Looks like an oil slick. Gunn's read stuff and seen films where the rain comes and makes everything clean. Never seen it himself. Not in LA, not where he could see it. Rain just makes shit wet. From where he's sitting on the kerb, he pokes at a small puddle with his foot.
A hand on his shoulder makes him look up. Wes is crouched behind him, said hand gripping Gunn's shoulder. Gunn bets Wes has seen the kind of rain that makes everything clean. Shit, he comes from a country where it rains all the fucking time as it is, though all the films he's seen of English towns just make them look grey and depressed. No-one shoots shit about being happy in England. It's all gotta be depressing, especially if you inhabit soap-land. Seems you're not allowed to live anywhere that's not depressing if you're in a soap in England. Wes' voice interrupts his train of thought again. "Are you coming inside or have you decided to live out your life on the pavement?"
Gunn nods. "It's got potential."
"Living on the pavement or coming inside? Because inside, we have surfaces to sit on that aren't wet." Wes replies, straightening, and somehow that's making Gunn straighten and get up with him. The invisible pull gets him to follow Wes inside, too, and the little voice in the back of his skull points out that he's got no other business possible in this part of town except to go see Wes.
Once inside, they follow the pre-marked route, made easy with practice, of pulling off shirts and pressing bodies together, hands grasping hot and heavy on skin, kisses rough and wet, grading to climaxes pulled out of them both either silently or accompanied by cries, depending on the mood and how it goes. Afterwards, they normally collapse side by side, sleeping it off.
This time, Gunn wakes up - probably a siren in the distance that didn't jibe with whatever he was dreaming about - and can't just shake it off and close his eyes again. He pushes himself up to sitting, swinging his legs out of the bed, and goes to stare out the window. The rain's beating down outside, a steady fall of water from the sky. He forces himself not to glance back at the bed, where he knows Wes'll be looking damn fuckable. He looks fuckable most of the day and night, but at the moment, Gunn can guarantee that his face'll be soft, having lost most of the hardness it's gained over the past few years. Cordy and Angel can tell him endless stories of a naive Wesley Wyndham-Price who wouldn't say boo to a goose, that fainted when presented with anything remotely scary and would give it up at the slightest mention of pain. He wouldn't recognise that Wesley, because the Wes he first met was the one who'd already been carved up with a knife and broken glass by a psychotic bitch. Sure, there was still a stutter and shit, but the current version is so far removed from the Wes he first met, you could mistake them for different people. Gunn wants to watch the rain for the moment, and let it wipe all thoughts of emotion from his head. Gunn can handle straight sex, given at any time he wants it, with some tentative no-questions-asked camaraderie thrown in. Tells himself it's what he needs at the moment. Tells himself he doesn't want to deal with shit like snuggling. He sure isn't going to think of the warm feeling he gets sometimes during the post-sex lethargy.
Because this is better than what he once had. The last thing he wants to think of is the way his heart crashed and burned when Fred told him it just wasn't going to work out. He'd loved her, let himself really love someone for the first time, shut the reality of the world around them out enough to forget his damn job when he was absorbed in her. Doing that had almost got them killed a couple of times. He'd been so wrapped up in it that he'd defended those mistakes to other people. But now she's gone. Once it was clear that she wasn't going to come back to him, that she'd found a nice college professor who wasn't going to interfere with the job, and who knew what she was talking about when she started going on about mechanical whosit and formulae. Who had more qualifications than just knowing how to kill demons. She hasn't left AI, but she's not having anything more to do with him beyond work-colleague shit.
Two months ago
Fred had made it clear that she didn't think the relationship was going anywhere. Which is why he ended up in that bar, trying to drown his sorrows. He was far enough gone that he wasn't that surprised when from behind him Wes asked in tones of sarcastic greeting.
"Little out of your way, isn't it? I never thought you'd end up in one of these."
"Life shits on us all, Wes. Now fuck off."
Dry chuckle as he draws up the other chair to the table without asking. "That tone indicates it's either women trouble or getting fired. Since I haven't heard of Darla resurrecting anytime recently, I'd say the most likely one is women trouble. Am I right?"
"Yeah, you're right. Fred dumped me."
"My condolences." The waitress comes up. "Bring the bottle over."
"Sir, he's a little..." She protests.
"It's for both of us. And we're quite capable of taking the full consequences of alcohol poisoning upon our own heads, I assure you."
So he and Wes drink. And when it's time to throw them out, Wes stretches. "I have more alcohol back at my flat. Coming?"
Gunn nods, gets up, his brain not yet blurred enough for his liking and follows Wes out. They walk down the streets. He'd forgotten how close this place was to Wes' apartment.
Inside, Wes heads for the fridge. "Beer?"
"Yeah. 'S good." Gunn collapses on the couch, craning his head back to look round this apartment he hasn't been to in months. Used to be round here every other night, before all that shit went down. Hasn't changed much. Over in the corner there's an office vibe. Signs of Wes being organised and making it on his own.
Wes comes back with the beer and sits down next to him. They drink for a little, wordlessly, until that can's finished. Wes looks over, about to ask if Gunn wants another, when Gunn pulls him into a kiss. Wes stills for a second, responds - damn, the man's a good kisser - and pulls back, seamlessly. "Are you entirely sure this is what you want?"
"Shut the fuck up, Wes." Gunn replies, gripping the front of Wes' sweater and pulling him back in. He's trying not to come off as desperate as he shoves his tongue into Wes' mouth, trying to use the flavour of Wes' mouth to distract himself. Whisky and a complete absence of tacos. Other food, but no tacos. That's what's important. The stubble and thinner lips are even better than the lack of tacos at reminding himself that this isn't Fred, will never be Fred. Never mind the superficial resemblances he's had pointed out to him before. Mostly by his ex-gang and Cordy. Gunn can accept that, though. So he's got some turn-ons. Skinny white brunettes with glasses, big brains and an accent. There's worse things. He's heard that the Slayer in Sunnydale's major weakness is vamps, and that's just fucked-up beyond belief.
Eventually Wes pulls them to their feet and backs Gunn towards his bedroom. They miss slightly, ending up against the wall next to the door. Wes' hands slide into the back of his trousers, cupping his ass and grinding up against Gunn. The feel of the hard, hot length of cock against his own makes Gunn gasp at the shock of it, causing Wes to bite his lower lip gently. But it feels so damn good, so he grinds back. He wants this. Never done it before with a guy, but it's not that different, right?
Gunn slides his hand under Wes' sweater, feeling soft skin and the raised lines of scars. Lots of scars. Wes' hands on his skin are rough, slender fingers and palms covered in calluses - the kind you get from regular gun, axe and sword use. Pen calluses on the side of his third finger and thumb on his right hand. Just different enough so he can't confuse him with anyone else.
Wes bites his way down Gunn's neck, worrying his collarbone. Tugs at Gunn's shirt. "This is coming off." Gunn nods, grabs the bottom and peels it off to drop on the floor. When it's off, he's suddenly kissed into the wall so his head and body make an audible thunk against it, only to be jerked forward again. He reaches out his hands in an attempt to steady himself and encounters bare flesh. His brain registers the fact that Wes must've taken his sweater off, while Gunn was engaged in taking his shirt off. However, he's left no time to think as he's being jerked forward again, his feet stumbling to catch up and bumping into Wes' feet as they try to get some balance.
Onto the bed and Wes is frantically fumbling with their belts and zippers, shoving their jeans and boxers down for access. Gunn catches his hips and pulls him onto the bed, where they roll a couple of times until Gunn's on top, and they're grinding against each other in an easy motion until Wes suddenly grabs his hips and stops him. Flips them over, scoots himself up so he's crouched over Gunn. One more suck on Gunn's lower lip, then Wes is rummaging in the side draw. There's the sound of foil tearing, and oh, fuck - but Gunn asked for this, he started it, and no matter what, Wes hasn't ever hurt him. Guess he can trust him in this. He kicks his jeans the rest of the way off from where they were still tangled round his legs.
There's pressure at his ass, Wes' other hand's rubbing at his stomach, palm pressed down so it's half soothing, half arousing. He feels one finger slick with something slide in, followed by another, and Gunn's forcing himself to relax as Wes scissors his fingers to stretch him. Wes removes his fingers after what seems like ages, and presses himself right up against him, arranging Gunn's legs around his waist so they don't get in the way, then Gunn gets the burn as Wes pushes in. It's difficult not to wince - the fingers were okay, but this is bigger. With the wince, Wes leans forward to kiss him again, this time using the kiss as a soothing gesture, stubble rasping against Gunn's cheek. Wes' hand that was on his chest moves up to stroke Gunn's jaw, waiting for him to relax. When the pain starts to recede, he nods, to tell Wes to start moving.
It's fucking odd, but after a bit it feels great, something he wants more of, faster and now. He squeezes Wes' waist with his thighs, moving his hands down to grip Wes' ass. Wes gets the picture and starts moving faster. There's echoes in that of the way they used to be able to communicate wordlessly, before other people came on the scene. A little movement in the right way and you just know what's wanted or needed without a word being said. The thrusting and friction combine to carry him away, and he vaguely registers Wes coming a few moments after him before he blacks out.
Gunn woke up after the first time to find Wes arranged against him and the sheets drawn up to waist level. When Wes woke up, there wasn't any discomfort, or many words spoken at all, just acceptance, and Gunn was pretty sure that he was welcome any time after that. The next couple of times confirmed it, when he showed up with a movie - one of the spaghetti westerns, he thinks - and during one of the quiet bits, they started making out on the couch, pretty quickly moving to a place where two guys easily over six foot could do it comfortably. Sometimes when he's come over, there's been no sex, but that's normally because they're exhausted from whatever they've been doing earlier in the day or night.
A sound from the bed makes Gunn look back. Wes has woken up - you can tell that by the way he's shaking himself out a bit. Yeah, he's got the soft look going on, but it's starting to recede as he becomes fully conscious, the defences go up, and the memories and experience flood back in. He ignores the slight twinge in his stomach, and stares out at the rain again.
A moment later, Wes asks from the bed, "Do you see anything out there?"
"Nope, just rain." Gunn replies, getting up and moving back to the bed, sliding back under the sheets so he's touching Wes again.
"Mmm-hmm." Wes answers distractedly, reaching out a hand to trace designs on the base of Gunn's spine. Pretty soon after, he's dozing again, leaving Gunn to watch the rain.