Thank God For Morphine

Summary: Gunnís watching over Wesley
Notes: Damn it all to hell. Finally saw ĎThe Thin Dead Lineí, now Iíve got two more Muses. And, one of themís *Wesley*. Stupid mushy near death scenes...
* Thank you Charles

**********

Heís doped up.

Thatís good.

Thatís real good.

Hereís to hoping he donít remember a damn thing about me sitting here.

I mean, Iím glad he ainít feeling no pain, but, God willing, that little tube going into his handíll help to make sure he doesnít get how *I* feel either. And, itís not that... Wesley *knows* that Iím there for him. But, he doesnít have to know how much...

See, Iíve got this stupid-ass look on my face. I can tell. And, I can also tell that this particular stupid-ass look was one Wes needed never see, especially directed at him. ĎCause, as slow on the uptake as the boy is over some interpersonal matters, heíd probably catch onto to this one in a heartbeat. Thatís how the world seems to work Ďround here. Just when you think things canít get more fucked up, they get more fucked up.

And that canít happen now. Not with him. I wonít let it.

Oh, believe me, I could still happily kick the shit out of Angel for his little proclamation. ĎYouíre firedí. What the hell? Just Ďcause the guy had a few prophecies written about him, he thinks heís the great end all be all of everything? Angel may be the center of the universe in his psychotic-episode-having mind, but to try and break apart what we had, what I had, that was just beyond even his shade of pale.

I admit it, for a while there, I was scared. I mean, Angel was the glue, the thing that connected all of us. Yeah, I know that Cordy and Wes knew each other back in Sunnyglenn... ville... whatever, but L.A.ís a big town, and for all of us to be drawn together... I donít know, maybe there is something to be said for fate.

It worked out, though. Angel might have been the thing that got us together, but, turns out he wasnít the thing that was keeping us together. Nope, weíre still doing that just fine without him. But, if Wes ever finds out how I feel...

Best scenario... Well, best, *best*, never-gonna-happen-in-a-million years scenario would be... Uh... Heh. Yeah, thatíd be pretty damn nice. The best *plausible* scenario, however, would most likely involve him being Ďvery flatteredí, and Ďterribly sorryí that he didnít feel the same way towards me, and, of course, Iím sure a traditionalist like Wesley wouldnít dare leave out the ole ĎI want us to still be friendsí spiel. And, yeah, he probably would want that, but itíd never happen. Some lines, when you cross them, you canít just go back, no matter how much you may want to.

Thatís why Wesley canít remember any of this. He canít remember me watching over him, holding his hand, being so damn glad he finally opened his eyes...

Fuck. Maybe Iím worrying too much about this. How the hell is he supposed to figure out how I feel when *Iím* not really even sure? I know itís wrong, though. I mean, itís Wesley. *Wesley*. He spells his name with a hyphen, for Godís sake. I didnít know real live people actually did that.

And heís British. Forget the fact that heís the most Waspish person I ever met, heís not even from this country! He grew up in a place with castles, and princesses, and security guards that wear great big furry hats. If I possessed any kind of logic, Iíd be taking a big step backwards and saying ĎWhat the fuck am I thinking?í

But I must be an idiot, Ďcause Iím still sitting here. Still holding his hand. Still watching him watch me through thankfully glazed eyes.

And now heís giggling again. I still canít believe heís actually giggling. Morphine must be pretty decent stuff.

Thatís good.

Thatís real good.

**********

the end



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