Asymptotes

by The Spike

October, 2001

Disclaimers: Gunn and Wes belong to joss, dave and tim.
Spoilers: Yes ma'am.  Angel, Season 3, ep: That Old Gang Of Mine
Summary:  Wes and Gunn and the things between them.  Post-ep fic.
Rating: PG
Feedback: Always: spike21@home.com
Notes: I have a lot of angst about TOGOM, so this is a post-ep missing scene thingy.  Later that night.

*
Will you meet me in the middle?  Will you meet me in the air?
*

Four a.m. and whatever sleep Wesley's managed has been indistinguishable from lying fully dressed in the dark and staring at nothing.  Still, the sound of Gunn's key in the door has woken him.  Adrenaline backwash at the sound of nearing footsteps and he is frozen, still turned away.  Silence fills the space at his back, pressing hard against him.  He's being watched.

"English?"  Gunn's whisper is a ghost sound, colourless.  Wesley can't answer.  Right thing done and all and there is nothing left to do but pay for it.  Cold silence fills him, inside, outside.  The scuff of shoes as Gunn turns away is only to be expected but the weight on the bed that follows is surprising enough to hurt.  Wesley can't help but roll toward it -- even if he daren't open his eyes.  Gunn's coat is cold.

"You've been walking."

"You're awake."

Gunn lies down.  Shoulder now to shoulder and there is nothing like the easiness that was.  Gunn smells of outside, of cordite, of blood, of... hot dogs?  Pink's is all the way down on La Brea.  Long way to walk for guaranteed heartburn.  Longer still to walk back.  Does that mean hope?

"There are antacid tablets in the medicine cabinet."

"Jesus.  Sherlock Holmes."  Gunn's breathy snort is not quite a laugh.

More silence -- warmer now but Gunn hasn't taken off his jacket and Wesley's so cold he doesn't think he can move.  He forces himself to do it anyway, awkward against the stiff cold leather of Gunn's sleeve.  His touch is tentative.  Hello?  Good-bye?  He really isn't sure.  But he can't do anything but this.  He's worked too hard, knows the alternative too well.  Won't build on sand, even if it means his lot lies bare forever.  He's learning.

"I can't...  I won't take back what I said."

"I know," Gunn says, and his voice has a resignation to it that answers nothing.  That Gunn will unsay nothing goes without saying.  If Wesley is sand, Gunn is stone.

And really, there's not more he can make of it.  Not even an inch of space between them now and nothing is settled, nothing is really right.  Perhaps never will be again and nothing to be done but continue down the roads that they have chosen.

And yet when Charles shifts it only brings their bodies closer, and the hand that slips into Wesley's hand is furnace hot and its grip is very, very strong.

*