"I-I-I'd really rather not."
Green eyes bat coquettishly up at him. "Oh, c'mon, Wes." The pout the reduces him to an incoherent puddle on a regular basis threatens to emerge. "You never do anything, but work, work, work. Haven't you heard of that little thing called fun?"
"Fun? I thought that was just a myth, spread by the Council." He almost allows himself to smile, then forces his face to remain neutral. "I'm sorry, Sall, but I can't. I really need to be home to help mother."
A devilish twinkle sparkles in her eye. "Don't need to worry about that, Wes." She reaches up to whisper in his ear. "I gave her a ring earlier and she gave you the night off. She said you needed to have some fun."
"You didn't!"
The brunette winked at him. "I did." Reaching into the rucksack on her back, she withdraws the eighteen-year-old Watcher-in-training's swimming trunks, smirks. "She was really rather adamant that I got you out of her hair for the afternoon."
"Looks like I don't have a choice, doesn't it?" Wesley snatches his trunks back, pushes them hastily into his bag. He has reason, so many reasons why he doesn't want to go with her. And yet, there are always more reasons why he does want to be with her.
Her arm loops through his, the first time a girl – aside from mother and Sophie – has touched him. Has wanted to touch him. He never believed it would happen. Father certainly didn't think it would. 'You're too much of a girl, my boy. Women like a man who takes charge.'
Glancing down, he received a jaunty grin. Sally. Seventeen year old sister of one of his old school friends. Gorgeous. Unruly, nearly black hair to her waist. Vivid green eyes that always seem to be laughing at the world.
From one of the happiest families he knows.
She has told him of her childhood, full of smiles and laughter. No cupboards under the stairs, no belts, no fists, no kicks, no punches. A father who smiles almost as much as she does, a father who truly values her.
No, Wesley thinks to himself. I'm not jealous. Really.
And, no matter how much he tries to convince himself, he knows he's deluding himself. He swallows a sigh, slides an arm around Sally's waist, feels her pull closer to him, wonders if she knows what a loser he really is.
"Hey, Mister Broody?" A hand waves in front of his eyes. He blinks, looks down at the girl who is his not-girlfriend. "What do you spend so much time thinking about, huh, Wesley?"
He forces a smile. "I was just thinking that this was a rather bad idea." He lies fluently. He has far too much practise. Yes, sir. I tripped and fell down the stairs again. That's why I'm limping. No sir, no one beat me up. I was in a drunken brawl, it wasn't my father that almost killed me and left me in hospital for six months.
"Why?"
"One," He gestures to the sky. "It going to pour with rain. Two," He points to the building they're approaching, the queue circling the block. "It would be so full, we couldn't move. Three. It's bloody November. Why do we want to be going to an outdoor swiming pool?"
She smirks and he feels instantly suspicious. "So you discovered my wiley plot." She halts, pulls him to face her, her hands on his chest. He is astonished to realise he can hear every beat of his heart in his ears. She's touching him in a way that is more than just friendly. Rising on her toes, she whispers. "I wanted to get you alone for a little while."
Drawing his face down, she touches a light kiss to his lips. Wesley physically jumps, the sensation new, but not entirely unpleasant. "Sall..."
"I know." She smiles, more of a smile than he can recall seeing although its barely more than her mouth rising a millimeter. "Come back to the house with me. Mummy and father are away on a trip. Cyril too."
He knows he looks like a dolt, staring at her blankly. Being propositioned by a gorgeous young woman was something he could never imagine happening. It was his dream fantasy. Or, it would be, if he could get passed those nightmares of his father returning. Actually, even being spoken to or touched by someone without violent intent was always a bonus.
"What..." Nice work Wes, loose the squeaky voice. You are a man, not a mouse. Bear that in mind. Clearing his throat, he tries again. "What would we do?"
The look that creeps onto Sally's face makes his stomach plummet to his feet. Again, not an entirely unpleasant sensation. Her hands slide over his shoulders, pull him down to her. "I was thinking," She murmurs, breath light on his face. "We could get to know each other better."
OhGod! Ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod!
He's about to melt at her feet, her lips working some kind of strange magic on his, magic the council never warned him about. He feels her tongue brush against his, gasps and pulls back, staring at her.
Then, he kisses her.
Innocent, clumsy, nervous.
A chaste kiss, until her mouth opens to his and she deepens it. He feels things he has never felt before, things about himself, about other people, about girls, about the one particular girl in his arms.
"Do you want to come with me?" She asks, hands resting on his chest, cheeks flushed.
What answer can he give but yes?
Taking one of her slim hands in his, he tries to stop himself from smiling, tries and fails exceptionally miserably. *He* is *smiling*. Such surreal things should never be able to happen in the real world.
He smiles again. It feels nice. Good.
So, this is what he was missing for so many years.
That and human touch without pain – with the exception of his mother and sister – but it looks like that little problem is about to be rememdied.
*
Shutting the door behind her, Sally leans back against the wood, smiles in a way that is far from innocent at the young man who is nervously sitting on the edge of her bed. His hands twist togther, tongue wetting his lips.
"Why so nervous, Wes?" She asks, gliding towards him.
He looks around the room. A definitely feminine room. "I...I haven't been in a girl's room before." He admits, ducking his head in embarassment. He sees two small hands take his, lifts his head to be met by a gentle smile from Sally.
"Don't worry about it." She raises one hand to stroke his cheek. It takes all his effort not to flinch away from the touch. "It's just a room." Moving to sit beside him, she rests her head against his shoulder. "Just a room, Wesley."
He nods, lets her kiss him again, gets lost in the sensation. Her hands move to his chest, his shirt coming unbuttoned beneath her light fingertips. He runs his fingers though her hair, wonders if all contact can be so gentle.
"You're so tense." She murmurs. "I'm not going to bite." She pushes his shirt from his shoulders, lets it slide into a puddle on the bed.
Blue eyes rise to meet green. He smiles faintly. "I'm a bit out of practise." He says. Flinches as she moves behind him, her hand on his shoulder. Not behind. Don't. I can't see you. Don't hurt me. Please. Please.
Soft hands squeeze his shoulder gently. "Relax." She whispers. Her lips brush his ear. "I'm not going to hur..." He freezes at her silence, feels her hands moving down his back, feels them start to shake. "Wesley?"
Say nothing. Say nothing!
Fingers hesitantly touch the ridges across his back. He stiffens, knows that she has realised why he never went swimming now, knows that she is recalling that she has never ever seen his back bared before this day. No one had, outwith his family.
"Wh...what happened to you?" Her hand on his shoulder, she swings back in front of him, eyes filled with some kind of strange emotion he has only seen in his mother's eyes. "Who did that to you?"
"No one." Father's words ring back to him. You tell anyone about this and I swear on my life that you'll regret it. His hand fumbles for his shirt, hastily pulling it over the stripes of scar tissue criss-crossing his back.
"Wes..."
"I said no one." He repeats stubbornly, rises. She rises too, raises her hands to halt him, in supplication, expression one of hurt, bewilderment.
"Wesley, you don't have to go...I just wondered...it looks like you were beaten..." Her brow wrinkles. "Was it your father?" His jaw tightens, blue eyes looking away, fists balling by his sides. "It was! Oh God! Wesley, you have to tell someone...you have to..."
"I said it was no one." He grabs her by the arms, stares at her. "Stop telling me what to do. It happened a long time ago...its over."
Green eyes fill with pain and confusion. "But Wesley, he hurt you...your back...what if he tries to hurt you again? What if he tries to do someth..."
"Shut up!" Pushing her away from him with as much force as he can muster, he half sobs, half-screams. "Shut up! Shut up! Stop talking about him...stop it!" His hands clamp to his temples, his voice shrill "Stop it! Stop it!"
Colliding with the bookcase, her brow connecting with the shelf, Sally sinks to her knees, blood streaming from a cut on her temple. She blinks dizzily, sees Wesley's face draining of colour as he sink down beside the bed.
"No..." He whispers, blue eyes filled with despair, face ashen. Knees pulled to his chest, he shakes his head, tears breaking from the corner of his eyes. "Nonononononono..."
Touching her head with a trembling hand, she looks to him. Those usually-pensive eyes are full of torment, his body rigid, shaking. "Wes..." The shaking continues, his face taut. "Wesley, look at me." She crawls to his side, touches his cheek. He flinches. "Wesley, its okay..."
"I hurt you." His voice falters, a broken whisper. "I hurt you like he used to hurt us...I'm turning into him...I'm sorry...I'm sorry..." Her fingertips stifle his words, her head shaking in denial.
"It was an accident." She says, her tears matching his own, blood gluing her long hair to her cheek. "It was an accident..." He tries to speak, she shakes her head. "No, Wesley, you didn't do this on purpose...I made you upset..."
One shaking hand rises, touches her temple. "You're bleeding." His can barely speak, his throat constricted with tears and guilt. "I...I made you bleed..."
"No." She corrects, leaning forward and sliding her arms around him, her head resting against his stiff shoulder. "The bookshelf made me bleed." She feels him move to protest, shakes her head again. "Just hold me." She whispers.
He rests his cheek against the top of her head, tears still silently falling. She doesn't think he's weak because of what he went through. She doesn't mock his tears. She doesn't blame him for being afraid. He holds her closer, presses a kiss to her blood-streaked forehead.
Someone who thinks he is good enough. One person out of millions.
At least its a start.