Work Text:
Arms full of groceries, Giles thumped the door with his foot and waited for Wesley to let him in. As soon as the door opened and he saw Wesley’s pasted-on, too-bright smile, he knew something was wrong.
”Giles! That was quick.”
Giles didn't bother to reply, just set his burdens on the bar and turned to where Wesley was hovering attentively. “What's going on?”
“Going on? Nothing,” Wesley said, sounding entirely too certain.
Giles sighed inwardly. He'd thought Wesley trusted him; that the younger man would lie to him so blatantly stung more than he cared to admit. He closed his eyes long enough to be sure he had his emotions under control, then gave Wesley a look meant to shrivel him on the spot. “Don't make me ask you again.”
Wesley blanched and looked suitably intimidated. It wasn't a gratifying victory for Giles.
”I'm sorry,” Wesley stammered. “It's not what it seems.”
“What's not what it seems?” Confusion wasn't helping Giles control his temper.
Wesley shook his head and cringed away as though bracing himself for a blow--which was absurd, since Giles had never and would never strike him in anger--but Giles saw his eyes flicker to the loft for an instant. Since questioning Wesley didn’t seem to be productive, he turned and headed up the steps.
Wesley trailed after him, keeping his distance. Still, he nearly stumbled into Giles when Giles stopped abruptly at the top of the stairs. Wesley's suitcases were out, one already packed, one open on the bed and half full of clothes, folded with the younger man's usual military precision.
“It's not--” Wesley began, but stopped when Giles held up a hand in warning.
Giles closed his eyes again and breathed deeply until he trusted himself to speak without either yelling or stammering. He would let Wesley say his piece, but the evidence before his eyes told him Wesley was leaving, and he couldn’t help feeling betrayed. It wasn’t just that he’d thought Wesley trusted him; the younger man had rejected his offers of something different, even chances to leave, so often that he’d begun to trust… He didn't turn around, not sure that his control would hold if he looked at Wesley.
“I hope it's not what it looks like, because it looks like you were trying to slip out while I was gone.”
There was a brief silence, during which Giles noted that Wesley wasn’t denying the accusation, and then Wesley said softly, “I didn't want to hurt you.”
Giles’ voice rose in spite of his effort to stay calm. “Coming home to find that you’d left without a word was meant to make me happy?”
“No, of course not. I only--I thought it would be easier.”
Giles took a few more deep breaths and finally turned to face the younger man, speaking slowly to keep his voice steady. “If you wanted to leave, why didn’t you say something? Did you not believe me when I said I'd give you the resources to go elsewhere, if that’s what you want?”
“No!” Wesley exclaimed. “I mean, I believe you. I don’t want to leave.”
That was a relief to hear, though it only added to Giles’ confusion. “Then what is going on?” he asked helplessly.
Wesley sighed. “I-- My father called, just after you left. He wants me to go back to England.”
Giles stared for a moment, then decided that, yes, he had heard correctly. “And you were just going to go?”
Wesley looked up, meeting Giles' eyes for the first time since he'd come home. “No. I told him I wouldn't. He... He said if I wouldn’t come willingly, he’d arrange to have me deported. Both of us.”
“You father doesn’t have that kind of power,” Giles protested.
“But the Council does. Father--my father said he’d already discussed it with Quentin Travers, and they feel that the Slayer would be more cooperative without our ‘unhealthy influence.’”
“Your father and Travers feel, or the Council feels?”
“I believe his exact phrasing was ‘we agreed,’” Wesley offered, after a moment of reflection.
Giles considered the threat and decided that the situation was not as dire as Wesley seemed to think. Roger Wyndam-Pryce and Quentin Travers might think they controlled the Council, but Giles wasn’t without his own connections. “I’ll deal with it.”
“Giles, you don’t have to--”
“Wesley,” Giles interrupted sharply, finally confident that things hadn’t changed between them. Once he had Wesley’s full attention, he asked, “Do you want to be here?”
It was verbal shorthand for a conversation they'd had several times, which invariably ended with Giles insisting that Wesley make his decisions based only on what Wesley wanted and let Giles worry about everything else. It took Wesley a few seconds to process the full implication, and then he smiled and relaxed. “Yes.”
Giles smiled back without warmth. “Then let me handle it.”
Wesley nodded his acquiescence.
“Good. Come here.”
Wesley obeyed. He tensed at Giles’ businesslike touch, but didn’t resist when Giles pushed him down on the bed, on his back. Giles knew he was still too hurt and angry to deal with Wesley appropriately, but that didn’t mean he was going to let the younger man off scot-free, even temporarily. He slipped his belt off and used it to bind Wesley’s wrists to the headboard, then turned to go downstairs.
“Giles?” Wesley called uncertainly after him.
Giles stopped. Wesley wanted reassurance, he knew, but he wasn’t prepared to give it yet. “I have a phone call to make,” he said over his shoulder, and continued down the steps.
* * *
Wesley stared at the ceiling while Giles went to place the call, silently cataloguing all the names he deserved to be called in all the languages he knew. It was a long list. Bad enough that he’d let his father browbeat him into cooperation, when he thought he’d outgrown that tendency, but he knew Giles well enough to recognize how badly he’d hurt the older man. He hated himself most for that.
He sighed and tugged at the belt around his wrists, just to feel its presence, a reassuring reminder that he wasn’t in control of his own fate anymore. When he tried to take initiative, things tended to go badly. Today was just another example. He’d broken the first rule Giles had given him: leave everything in Giles’ hands except whether he wanted to stay there.
He caught himself gnawing his lip and stopped. Let Giles take care of it. Let Giles take care of him. He wasn’t entirely convinced that Giles could fix this problem, but if Giles believed he could, Wesley would try to believe it too. He closed his eyes and focused on the sound of the older man’s voice below him. He couldn’t make out many of the words, but Giles didn’t sound concerned, only irritated.
When the conversation ended, Giles’ voice was replaced by the faint sounds of his putting away the groceries. Wesley squirmed anxiously as Giles continued to fuss about downstairs, wondering just how angry the older man was. It was one thing for Giles to leave him tied up while aroused, knowing Wesley enjoyed the frustration. This, being bound fully clothed, for reasons that had nothing to with sex, was horrible. He wanted to call out, but knew that doing so would only aggravate Giles. Finally, after what the alarm clock claimed was no more than fifteen minutes, he heard Giles’ footsteps on the stairs again.
“Giles, I'm sorry--” he blurted, as soon as Giles crested the stairs.
“Shh,” Giles said. “I know.” He pushed the still-open suitcase aside and sat on the bed, looking down at Wesley sternly.
“I didn't think there was--”
“Be quiet,” Giles snapped, but once Wesley subsided he brushed a hand against Wesley’s face, easing a little of Wesley’s tension. “I understand what you were thinking, but your father is not omnipotent. Nor is he the only person with influence at the Council. The name Rupert Giles may not carry much weight at the moment, but Edmund Giles does. I also don’t think my father is the only one who disapproves of the Council’s power being used to settle personal disputes.”
It took Wesley a few seconds to process exactly what Giles was saying. He finally allowed himself to hope that Giles was right, and his father could be stopped. In any case, there was nothing more to be done except wait and see what happened. He nodded. “Thank you.”
“Did you think I’d give you up without a fight?” Giles asked.
“I didn’t want to cause you problems. You’re needed here.”
Giles smiled a private smile that was gone before Wesley could figure out what it meant. “Noble of you. But not your decision to make.”
Wesley only nodded.
Giles’ gaze went distant for a moment, and then he leaned over and freed Wesley’s wrists. Instead of sitting back up, he shifted enough to capture Wesley’s mouth for a deep kiss. Wesley smiled into it and wrapped his arms around Giles, immensely relieved by the evidence that he hadn’t ruined things between them irrevocably. When Giles pulled away Wesley’s smile faded, because the older man’s expression was still severe.
“I want you to go and wait at my desk,” he said, moving to allow Wesley to get up.
Wesley gulped, but said, “Yes, sir,” and obeyed.
The desk meant Giles intended to discipline him, which Wesley couldn’t deny he deserved. He knew he’d feel better once it was over, but that didn’t make the anticipation any more pleasant. He settled himself uneasily in the chair to wait, back straight and hands folded neatly in his lap, just as though he were in his father’s study.
Though they’d only done this three times before, the unpleasant associations caused Wesley to steer clear of the desk, using the sofa or the bar even when the desk would have been more convenient. The first time it had happened was the day after he’d arrived on Giles’ doorstep, nearly out of his mind with shame at his failures, his dismissal from the Council. It had taken Giles’ punishing hand to restore him to something resembling sanity. The older man had seemed to understand even then that it was something he needed at times, craved even though he didn’t want it, to keep his guilt from consuming him.
He was glad when Giles came down the stairs after only a few moments, grateful that he wasn’t going to be made to wait indefinitely again. He stood as Giles approached, anticipating the command to get in position.
It came and he obeyed, bending over and bracing his forearms on the worn wood. Giles reached around him and opened his trousers, then tugged them down to his knees and nudged his feet as far apart as they would go. Wesley could feel a flush creeping up his neck.
Giles pushed Wesley’s shirttail up and rested a hand in the small of his back. “Do you understand why I’m punishing you?”
Wesley nodded.
“Tell me.”
“I was going to leave even though it wasn’t what I wanted. Then I tried to lie to you.” He winced inwardly at the memory of his panicked attempt to cover up his actions.
“Yes,” Giles agreed. His hand made a single approving circle on Wesley’s back and was gone.
The first blow fell before Wesley expected it, and he grunted in surprise. It didn't hurt very much--Giles hit hard, but the blunt smack of his hand was nothing compared to the deep bite of the switch that Wesley’s father favored. In fact, Wesley could never manage to convince his body that he wasn't meant to enjoy the tingling pain in his arse. The first time his cock had swelled in response to the stinging slaps, he'd been embarrassed, sure that Giles would disapprove, but Giles hadn't said anything. He didn’t say anything now, either, so Wesley didn’t try to fight it.
Giles set a steady rhythm, the blows migrating to cover both sides of Wesley’s arse uniformly--predictable, but relentless. Wesley had learned quickly that being disciplined by Giles was not like being disciplined by his father. With his father, he knew he had only to endure a finite number of blows before he would be allowed to escape and nurse his wounds--provided of course that he maintained the stoicism befitting a Watcher and a Wyndam-Pryce. Giles, on the other hand… Giles wasn’t interested in stoicism. He wouldn’t stop until he was satisfied with Wesley’s response, which history had shown to be only when Wesley broke down and cried. Wesley found he preferred Giles’ methods. It was a welcome relief to be allowed to voice his pain, and Giles was always kind to him afterwards, his sins forgiven.
Before any of that happened, though, there was the unasked-for pleasure. The ache in his groin built in tandem with the throbbing of his arse, until he was choking back moans, not of pain but of need. The bobbing of his erection in time with Giles’ slaps created just enough sensation to drive him mad, and he was sure that if Giles touched his cock even once he would come. Under any other circumstances he would have been begging for release, but this was meant to be punishment, and even if he’d thought Giles would grant his request, he was too ashamed of his own enjoyment of it to ask.
He came eventually, even without a touch on his cock. It wasn’t particularly intense or protracted, but he couldn’t sense it until it was already upon him, a flash flood of ecstasy that locked his knees for a long instant and left him slightly stunned. Giles' only response was to pause long enough for Wesley to pull himself back together.
In that pause Wesley caught the barely audible splat of his semen dripping on the floor. As the spanking resumed, his cheeks burned with the humiliation of it. He buried his face in the crook of his arm until he was distracted by the pain in arse.
This was the part he dreaded. With his need sated, there were no hormones flooding his system to dull the pain. He knew that was why Giles didn’t try to prevent his orgasm--because once the buffer of his arousal was gone, especially with his arse already sore from the time it had taken him to come, the spanking truly became a punishment.
Giles’ arm had to be tiring, but he was still hitting as hard as ever. Wesley concentrated on not tensing up, not holding back his cries, knowing Giles didn’t want him to. It seemed appropriate, offering up proof of his pain as penance for his thoughtlessness.
It wasn't the pain that broke him, in the end, though by then he couldn’t have stopped himself from crying out if he’d wanted to. It was knowing he’d earned the pain that was his undoing. He wanted to ask Giles to stop, wanted to move to defend his battered arse, but his guilty conscience cut off the words as effectively as any gag, pinned his arms to the desk as securely as any restraints.
The blows stopped the moment the first reluctant sob forced its way from his throat. Then Giles’ arms were around him, Giles’ voice murmuring in his ear: “That’s good. Let it out. Let it go.”
He tried. Tried to let the pain overwhelm him, let the tears fall as they would, but he'd been too well conditioned to do the opposite. Without the strength of Giles’ hand to drive them out of him, his sobs trailed off in a matter of moments.
His tears still left him feeling weak and hollow, utterly drained. He whimpered when Giles eased his trousers back up, not bothering to close them. He was only distantly aware of moving at Giles’ urging, stumbling a few steps to the wall so Giles could sit and he could lie face down with his head and shoulders across Giles’ lap. A few straggling tears soaked into the coarse fabric of Giles’ trousers.
He lost all sense of his surroundings for a while after that, all sense of anything except the sharp throb of his arse and the hard concrete beneath him, not exactly comfortable but pleasantly cool. As the throb of his arse faded to a pulsing heat, he became aware of an odd hardness against his shoulder. He realized with a shock that it was Giles’ erection. His perceptions blossomed outward from there and he registered Giles’ hand running gently up and down his back, along with the low, soothing hum coming from the older man’s throat.
He raised his head and tried to look at Giles over his shoulder, but the angle was wrong.
“Easy,” Giles murmured, his hand pausing in its path. “Do you want to get up?”
Wesley took a moment to process the question, then said groggily, “Oh. No, not yet.”
“All right. Take your time.”
Wesley nodded and let his head drop back down to rest against Giles’ leg. Giles resumed stroking his back. After a few more moments, Wesley realized that only Giles’ right hand was touching him; the left was cradled protectively against his chest, near Wesley’s head. He reached over his shoulder and grasped Giles’ wrist. Giles resisted briefly, then let Wesley pull his hand down to look at it. Wesley didn’t have to touch the palm directly to feel how hot it was; it was radiating heat like a lamp. It was as red as Wesley imagined his arse must be, and probably just as bruised. Wesley wondered which one would heal faster, then decided he was better off not knowing. Impulsively, he planted a kiss in the center of Giles’ palm. Giles curled his fingers against Wesley’s cheek in acknowledgement, then drew his hand back to his chest.
“Promise me you won’t try anything this rash again,” Giles said, a sharp edge to his voice, his hand tightening possessively at the base of Wesley’s neck.
“I won’t,” Wesley assured him.
“Promise me.”
“I promise,” Wesley said. The truth of how close he’d been to returning to his father’s sphere of influence hit him suddenly, and he repeated himself more fervently: “I promise.”
“Good,” Giles said hoarsely, then cleared his throat.
There was a long silence. Giles’ right hand probed at Wesley’s neck with exquisite accuracy, finding knots of tension and assaulting them with just enough pressure to make Wesley roll his eyes and sigh with pleasure.
He’d almost drifted to sleep when Giles said unexpectedly, “You’re mine now. I won’t let anyone take you away from me.”
Wesley just smiled and shifted to relieve a spot of pressure on his ribs, thinking hazily that coming to stay with Giles was the best decision he’d ever made.