We can post our Secret Slasha stories now. Whee. I wrote two.
Property Law
He's never in a million years going to be able to live this down. Gunn settles in at his desk. It's already morning, and Halloween party or no Halloween party the night before, he's got enough work on his plate that there's no sense in him going home, and anyhow, he's too embarrassed to sleep. Doesn't matter that it was all Lorne's suggestion making him do it: the why's not the problem; it's the what, or more specifically, the who. Marking his territory. Marking Wes as his territory. Shit. Maybe he should start looking into that procedure they've got, the one that would remove his sense of shame. Be damn useful in the courtroom, so he could make a business case for it.
Or he could just have someone pick up a pair of replacement shoes, then Gunn could deliver them Wesward and pretend everything's cool, like Wes just happened to get in the way of Gunn staking his claim on a corner. Less chance of Angel getting all high and mighty about Wolfram and Hart's various medical miracles if he does it that way.
He pulls Wes's shoe size from Files and Records, then calls Harmony into his office to get her opinion on Prada vs. Gucci before going with Cole Haan, two pairs, for immediate delivery. Less flashy, more Wes.
"Have them send over a couple of pairs of cashmere socks, too," he adds when Harmony's already on her way out to place the order. "Oh, and maybe some silk ones, too."
Half an hour after the package arrives, it's still sitting there on the edge of his desk, a big fat looming to-do, and no way he's getting any real work done until he deals with this. Gunn puts aside the briefs and files he's been trying to make his way through with no luck, picks up the box, and makes the short walk to Wes's office. Might as well get it over with.
Wes's sitting there at his desk, looking pale and more than a little worn in the morning sunlight. So far, so good. Maybe Wes's too tired to care about last night, or so magically hungover he doesn't remember what all happened. Then Wes looks up, and man, it's the lost puppy trying to be brave look, same one Wes had after Angel fired their asses. Must have been one hell of a bad night for him, too.
"Brought you some shoes. Figure you don't want to spend the day wearing the pair from last night." He sets the box down on Wes's desk, then goes and leans against the wall, waiting for Wes to put them on.
"The ones you peed on, you mean?" Wes laughs, but there's nothing funny about the sound. "Sadly, I fear that was the highlight of my night." Then, more peevish than usual: "Do I look as if I'm somebody's girlfriend?"
"I miss something? I thought Lorne suggested you get drunk, not you turn into a woman." Though Wes turning into a woman would solve a lot of problems. Maybe not for Wes, but for Gunn.
A shake of the head, slight huff of an exhale meaning Wes doesn't want to talk about it. "It's nothing. So, you've taken it upon yourself to replace my shoes?" He pulls the box over and opens it, pulling out both pairs and carefully examining them before he shoots Gunn a suspicious glance. "These look a touch more expensive than my Bexleys."
"Yeah, well, we've moved up in the world. Time to dress the part." He clears his throat, tries to change the subject a little. "You gonna try them on, or you gonna make me wait all day to see if they fit when you know I've got work to do?"
Wes picks up the black oxfords and a pair of socks--the silk ones--then scoots his chair out from behind the desk, out to where Gunn can't help but look at him. Wes is barefoot, slacks folded up past his ankles like a kid who's about to hit the wading pool. Long, slim feet, all high arches and delicate bones under thin, soft looking skin. Wes, he realizes, should be barefoot more often, or at least barefoot more often when Gunn's around.
"Damn, you've got pretty feet," he blurts out without thinking and Wes--freezes. There's no other word for it.
"I beg your pardon?" he says slowly, one hand still on the laces he'd been loosening a second before. Gunn figures he's got at least a couple seconds before the light bulb goes off over Wes's head, but that's no where near enough time to get the hell out of there. "I have pretty... feet?" Wes looks at his feet, looks at Gunn, looks at his feet again and the light bulb goes off. "Oh. I see. Gunn, is there something you've neglected to tell me?"
Shit. "Apparently not."
Wes leaves the shoes and socks on the floor next to him, sits up and leans back in his chair, hands folded behind his head, legs crossed at the ankle in a way that manages to expose as much foot as possible. "Since when," he asks, the lost puppy look long gone, replaced with the sort of smug one Gunn hates and gets way too often, "have I been your territory?"
"By my watch? About twelve hours, but it looks like you've cleared off the evidence."
"I threw away the shoes and washed my apparently pretty feet, if that's what you mean. But I suspect you must have considered me your property for some time before deciding to stake your claim in the charmingly primitive fashion of last night. So tell me, Gunn, how long?"
"You're not making me say this." This is torture, and he's starting to suspect Wes gets off on it.
Wes stands up, walking towards Gunn like the big cat does, eyes all glittery. His arms go up, one on either side of Gunn, trapping him against the wall. "Was it the result of whatever Wolfram and Hart did to your brain, a side effect to go along with the light opera?" Yeah, Wes is getting off on it. Wouldn't be pulling this crap about the upgrade if he wasn't, not knowing how much it pisses Gunn off.