NOTE: This is nothing more than an excuse to write some steamy, raunchy porn with no redeeming value. Enjoy.
Thanks to Alyson for the beta read. God sent she was.
*****
Strength and Honour
Don Bentley
You should have seen the place!
I felt like I was in an old movie, one of the black and white ones from the '40s. Peter Lorre should've been sitting on the couch over there waiting for Humphrey Bogart to show up and slap him around a bit before meeting Lauren Bacall for drinks.
Will had said that the place was an old hotel, but, wow! And you should have seen the detail work on the staircase. God, they knew style and craftsmanship back then, didn't they? Nothing like it today, that's for sure. Take the Brackett renovations I've been working on for-
I was thinking about my job again. I hate it when I do that.
To recap for those just arriving. I'm Xander Harris, by day a carpenter, by night, still a carpenter. I'm just not at work at night. Actually, right then, I was a courier.
Will had sent me down to the bright lights of the City of Angels to meet with Wesley and pick up a book she needs for a spell that she and Giles think could work against Glory. I was fuzzy on the details, but that was okay, I was just here to pick it up, not give them a book report.
Truth be told, I was thankful for the job. Not like I'd been contributing anything worthwhile lately. We were up against a god, and that was really out of my league. Then again, it's not like I had anything else in my life under control either.
Anya left me. She moved back into her apartment after a fight I don't even remember having. Which was probably the problem in the first place. I'd been on autopilot ever since Giles called with the news that Joyce was... that Joyce was dead. You see, and I'll never tell another living soul this, but that day I lost a mother too. Just like Buffy and Dawn. A real mom, 'cause as far as I'm concerned Joyce might as well have been my mom. The one I'd've picked if we could do that, if we could pick our moms. Joyce remembered my birthday, and always made sure I was invited to family dinners, even the spur of the moment ones like Arbour Day Eve when the two of us staged the Arbour Pride march with all the plants in the house.
Joyce bandaged me up after battles, listened to me when I needed to talk, like how I messed things up for Willow when I kissed her, made me hot chocolate, and.... And one night last year she sat on the back porch and held me while I cried like a baby after having to leave the house when....
You know it's bad when you can actually think of your biological mother as 'the drunken slut'.
So I was pretty much something of a wreck when Will told me she needed me to come down here for the Book of 'I don't know what'. What the Hell, I thought, I should be able to do that at least.
The drive down from Sunnydale didn't do anything to substantiate my confidence any. Anya's perfume still lingered in the car, and the radio was tuned to her favourite station: 24 hour business news. I actually had to pull over during the Dow Jones update. God, I have to be a jackass if the closing stock prices can bring me to tears. What can I say, the stock reports are a highlight of Anya's day. The clincher was finding the Passover card in the backseat. It was still in the little paper bag with the receipt, she hadn't given it to me yet. Anya did stuff like that. Every religious occasion, every national holiday, even something like National Mental Health week would mean a card and a kiss. Everything that we did together was cause for celebration for Anya.
I am a jackass.
Then I got lost. Misread Will's instructions and spent most of an hour searching the wrong part of town until a kindly hooker gave me some help and a proposition.
God help me, I actually thought about it.
So, here I am. It's late, the place is deserted, I'm tired and frankly wondering what the Hell's wrong with me. Will had said that Wes was expecting me and that I could turn right around and head back, or maybe stick around with the Cordettes for a day or two. Still hadn't decided. Stay too long and there might not be enough reason for me to go...
"Can I help you?" asked a deep voice from behind me. I turned, startled, and found myself facing a black man, maybe a couple of years older than me. From what Will had told me, that Cordy had told her, this must be Gunn.
A Roman general.
That's the first thing that went through my head. Russell Crowe my ass, this man was the image of what a Roman general would have looked like. Strong, powerful, dignified, loyal, and honourable. He was the kind of man you could hand your entire country over to in an emergency and KNOW that he'd lead your combined armies into victory, then hand you your country back content to return to his fields. Put him in front on an army and they would follow him into Hell, knowing in their hearts that they will win.
I must have been staring for longer than he was comfortable with 'cause he fidgeted and took a pace or two and asked, "You lookin' for someone in particular?"
"Sorry. Uh, yeah. Wesley. He's expecting me, I'm-"
"Xander Harris!" his face brightened into a wide smile as he walked up to me. I noticed the limp and the torn clothing at this point, but before I could say anything he grabbed me by both shoulders and gave me a firm squeeze with large, strong hands. All I could think of is the scene in Ben-Hur where Stephen Boyd meets up with Charlton Heston after years of separation. It was like that, like I was meeting a brother after ages apart.
It was easy to like Gunn.
"Cordy and Wes have told me so much about you, man," he let go of my shoulders and reached out with his right hand. I put mine out but before I could take his hand he grabbed my right forearm. It was just like in Ben-Hur. I grabbed his and we stood like that for a moment before he let go and took a seat on the arm of a couch. He was favouring one leg, his trousers torn down along the inseam. I could see some blood, and a lot of thigh.
"Lies, all lies," I said, tearing my eyes off his leg. He shifted slightly, exposing even more thigh.
"English don't lie, man. Neither does Cordelia. Not to me, and not about important stuff. It's why we're still alive."
The Roman general again. Loyal and trusting, once you've earned it that is.
"Uh, where are they? I was supposed to get a-"
"The Book of Lethate?"
"Yeah, that's it. Will needs it."
"I heard. Having trouble with a god? That's heavy."
"Yeah. Uhh, do you know where it is? I'll just grab it and leave."
"House rule. I don't touch Wes's books. Well, less of a rule as a guideline. I just haven't figured out his filing system yet. If it's here, I couldn't find it in the time it'll take him to get back."
"Where is he? Them? Cordy and Angel?"
"Van Nuys. She had a vision, we took a drive, and I took a hit from a demon," he pointed to his leg, giving me another chance to look. "A fight ensued, good triumphed over evil, and I got to skip the post battle cleanup and demon carcass removal on account of being on the injured list. Came back for a shower and bed. Long couple a' days we've had down here."
"That's what Will said."
"Will? That's Willow, right? She's the Wiccan? The powerful one."
'The Wiccan.' I could hear the capital 'W', and he didn't say 'witch'. I hate it when people call my Will 'the witch'.
It was official, I liked Gunn.
The respect was there in his voice again, and for someone he's never met. I heard it plain as day when he said Cordy and Wes's names. I was glad I hadn't had a chance to say anything stupid about Wes. Let's face it, he didn't exactly shine when I knew him back in Sunnydale, and until I heard Gunn say his name I hadn't really believed what Will had told me about him. I should have known, she got her info from Cordy, and it's real hard to impress Cordy. Even harder to win her respect. Real easy to lose it though. Real easy.
"Yeah. Look, I'll be back in the morning and catch Wes then-"
"Where you going? Hotel?"
"I was thinking of it...." he interrupted me with a wry grin and a nod of his head towards the rest of the lobby.
Yeah, I've been told. I'm not all that bright.
"Come on. We've set up a couple of the rooms for guests," he stood,
but on his first step his leg seemed to collapse out from
under him and if I hadn't of grabbed his arm he'd of fallen.
Gunn worked out a lot. It was like I was grabbing velvet covered steel as I held his arm. His muscles flexed under my fingertips and the sensation was electric.
"Thanks, man. Mind?"
I slid in against his side as he slipped an arm across my shoulders and as I snaked an arm across his back for support as we headed for the stairs. This close I could smell him. My head swam from the salty musk of his sweat. He leaned close against me as we walked, his body heat like the sun's rays against mine.
My wounded general.
His room was spartan. Think of a campaign tent, with a cot, though here a large king sized bed, a solitary chair and writing table, a lamp or two, and a single personal memento propped up on the table. A small framed photograph of him and Wes flanking Cordelia on a stage of some sort, microphones in hand, singing. Karaoke?
I eased him down onto the bed and stood back at a loss. He'd pointed out a room I could use as we passed by it, but I didn't want to leave his side just yet. I wanted to help, if he wanted the help.
He started to peel of his clothes, pulling his sweater up and over his head. It had been torn in a couple of places and the cuts beneath ran like crimson fire across his body. Oh, yeah. He worked out. His chest was smooth and wide, his shoulders broad, and his arms... his arms I'd already felt, but....
Christ, Gunn was really getting to me. As in sexy thoughts getting to me. I mean sure, I could see how some guys can be, you know sexy, but that's been really, really hypothetical. Up until now anyways.
Okay, he's fine now, I thought, leave him, and go to bed.
"I'll start the shower going for you," I said. I got the water nice and hot, running full blast and turned back for Gunn.
His jeans were undone, but he was having trouble sliding them down over his stiff leg.
Kneeling before him I took hold of his waist band and peeled the jeans down off him. So, this is what a sculptured body looked like. If anything his legs were even nicer that his arms, his thighs tight with tension.
Gunn was a boxers man. Without thinking I slipped my fingers under their waist band and, after he raised his hips a bit, slid them down and off, dropping them to the floor beside my knee.
I looked. I was on my knees in front of him and I had just taken off his pants and underwear. Where else was I going to look? Any ways, I was like a nurse, tending to his wounds, right? And nurses can look without it meaning anything. Right?
He was beautiful.
I looked up at him and found him looking at me. His face was unreadable, stoic, as he looked me in the eye for a long moment.
I broke that moment by standing and holding out a hand.
He took it, and I helped him to his feet and together we went into the bathroom. It was already misty from the shower, the mirrors coated and opaque. The heat settled over us.
Gunn eased himself over the top of the tub and into the spray. He had a stout towel rail to hold on to, but it was quickly obvious that there was no way he was going to be able to stand and wash properly at the same time. Not on that leg.
I dropped my shirt at my feet and, kicking off my shoes and socks, I climbed in to the shower with him. My jeans were soaked through in seconds.
As he held onto the towel rail I reached behind him for the soap and washcloth, and started to wash him. Gunn stood there, his back to me, leaning forward into the spray as I washed his neck and shoulders. He lifted his hands above his head and held the shower nozzle as I washed his armpits and back. He didn't move, and I was unwilling to disturb him, he looked so peaceful, that I had to move in even closer to reach around to wash his chest and stomach. I stopped just as his stomach dipped down into his crotch, though I slid a finger tip down and through a mass of tight curls before washing the small of his back and moving lower.
Not a word had been spoken since we had entered the bathroom. I lathered his skin, scrubbing hard with the cloth, and was rewarded as he leaned back and forth into my hands increasing the pressure. I lingered over his wounds with care. None of them were deep or serious in any way, but all needed to be washed and later I'd clean them properly with disinfectant and cover the worst ones.
The spray rinsed the soap away and revealed Gunn's skin of the deepest, warmest brown as it shone under the running water. You hear people say things like 'chocolate brown' and it doesn't always sound respectful, but if I had to, I'd say 'mahogany' for some reason. Dark, rich, and smooth once it had been handled by someone who knows what they're doing with it, and who treats it with respect.
Like a carpenter.
His ass was hard as a rock, yet soft and pliable at the same time. His thighs were like tightly woven ropes. This went on for an eternity until, as I was kneeling behind him, rinsing clean the cuts on his leg he bent around and I felt those two strong hands on my shoulders again.
Gunn pulled me to my feet, pushed me firmly back against the wall, sheltering me under his shoulders as he kissed me hard.
Good. His leg was feeling better now.
(end of part 1)