FIC: The Longest Night of the Year (Giles/Wesley, FRT)
Title: The Longest Night of the Year
Author: Mireille (mireille719)
Fandom: Buffyverse
Pairing: Giles/Wesley
Rating: FRT
Summary: "You're drunk." "And you're dead, but you'll note that I refrain from pointing that out at every opportunity."
Word Count: 950
Spoilers: post-Chosen, post-NFA, nothing for the comics.
Disclaimer: Still not Joss.
Feedback/Concrit: Both welcome, either here or at mireille719 {at} gmail {dot} com
Notes: Written for twilightofmagic in the 2007 Drunken!Giles-a-thon. Thanks to lostgirlslair for beta-reading.


The Longest Night of the Year


"You're drunk."

As Wesley stepped out of the shadows, Rupert looked thoughtfully at the tumbler in his hand, then raised it to his lips and swallowed every drop. "And you're dead," he said, as calmly as he could, "but you'll note that I refrain from pointing that out at every opportunity."

"I'm not dead," Wesley said, his voice weary. "That was my counterpart in this dimension. Really, Rupert, if you'd attempt to stay sober, we wouldn't have to have this discussion every year."

That was utterly unfair. It wasn't as though he did this often. Just once a year, when the nights grew long, and he knew what, who, would be waiting for him after dark. "If I stayed sober," Rupert said, "I'd have the sense to banish you back to the dimension you came from. At least now I can tell myself I imagined the entire thing." He reached for the decanter on the table, topping up his own glass and then filling a second. He held the second glass out to Wesley, who took it and settled on the couch.

"This is new," he said, looking at the couch and frowning. "I can't say I care for it."

"Is it just that the undead are naturally impolite, or do I bring it out in them, I wonder?"

"I'm not--"

"Undead, I know." Wesley had explained it the first time he'd shown up; he was using a spell that let him travel from one closely-related dimension to another. "I still don't know why you're doing it now," he said. "The traditional time of year for walking between the worlds--"

"It's a spell that ends at dawn and can only be done once every thirteen lunar cycles," Wesley said. "Why wouldn't I choose the longest night of the year?"

"It's Christmastime," Rupert said. "I could have other plans." He did, but he always made them for after the solstice; he had for the past five years, since Wesley had first appeared in the corner of his kitchen.

"Then I'd sit on your couch and drink your scotch and read your books until sunrise," Wesley said, infuriatingly calm. He knew Rupert would be there, had known it since the first time he'd stepped out of the darkness, and Rupert had gone chalk-white and gasped his name.

Wesley hadn't paled, but Wesley had known what he'd been looking for--who he'd been looking for: Rupert Giles, in a dimension where the Bringers hadn't killed him, one where Wesley himself was gone.

No wonder Rupert required alcohol to get through the solstice.

"I brought your Christmas present," Wesley said, and that was beyond enough.

"Stop," Rupert snapped. "This can't continue; it's unhealthy and probably dangerous. You're an overconfident fool to keep doing this year after year. Dimensional travel is risky at best, and to do it for something like this--"

"Something like what?" Wesley said, and Rupert frowned at his deliberate obtuseness; it had to be deliberate, because Wesley knew what he meant.

"Slipping between dimensions to spend the night with an analogue of your dead lover," he said flatly, "is hardly a sign of psychological health."

"I'm well aware you're not him," Wesley pointed out. "I worked that out the first year, if you'll recall. You look like him, but after having spoken with you, coming here is far more like seeing his twin than having him back. I wouldn't have returned after that first year if a substitute were all I'd wanted. Now, are you going to let me give you your Christmas present, or are you going to be a stubborn bastard this year?"

And that, this time, was all it took to break the tension--to shatter it, rather than just channeling it in another direction, as they had in the five Decembers before now. Rupert laughed, turning slightly so he could look at Wesley. "I think you'll find I'm a stubborn bastard every year," he said, and Wesley laughed, too.

This wasn't the Wesley he'd known. That Wesley, his Wesley, had never laughed like that--open and happy and unconcerned about what anyone would think. But suddenly, that didn't matter--or perhaps it did; perhaps that was the realization he'd needed to be able to fully appreciate his annual visitor for himself, rather than for his resemblance to another man.

They normally spent all evening like this: arguing and drinking and occasionally talking. Rupert had always known that Wesley would have been open to more than that, but he'd always ignored it.

This time, he set his glass down again, nearly untouched, and reached over to take Wesley's from him. His fingers brushed deliberately over Wesley's hand, and Wesley looked up, raising an eyebrow.

Once Wesley's glass was safely on the table, Rupert reached out again, this time to slide his palm along Wesley's jaw, cupping his cheek.

"Are you sober enough to know what you're doing?" Wesley asked quietly, his breath hitching as Rupert's thumb stroked across his skin.

"Letting you give me my Christmas present?" Rupert said, smiling.

"I brought you a book," Wesley said. "Charmed so that it won't return home with me in the morning."

"Very thoughtful," Rupert said, "but I'd rather have this."

"You could have both," Wesley suggested, and that sounded like an excellent idea to him.

Better still, though, was the idea he had of kissing Wesley. The sun wouldn't rise until nearly eight o'clock; they had plenty of time.

By nine, he expected to be in his office, assigning someone the task of researching the spell Wesley used. Surely it could be done more than once a year.