Gunn/Wesley: Domination
Apr. 1st, 2005 10:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
doyleSo many fics due. Writing going so slowly. Eep.
Title: Domination
Author: Doyle
Pairing: Gunn/Wesley
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Silliness for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
moosesal in the Happy Wes ficathon.
Summary: There’s Risk, there’s cartoons. Boys will be boys.
Cordelia threw them out a little after three, just as Wesley was about to send troops into Paraguay. Protests that they were only five or six rolls from victory – both insisted their side was emerging as a clear winner – just got them a glare and an order to “take your little game of ‘domination’ and ‘conquering each other’ somewhere where people aren’t trying to actually get an hour’s sleep.”
“Hey, don’t you fingerquote at us,” Gunn said, although not until her door was safely closed.
Wesley scratched his forehead. “We could continue at my flat.”
“Yeah, except for how we don’t have a board.”
They both stared at the apartment door, no doubt now bolted, with less enthusiasm than they would have shown the entrance to a dragon’s lair. There were some similarities in the inhabitants, Wesley thought, and decided that they were going to have to start looking for office space right away, before Cordelia’s tetchiness reached nuclear levels. “We could… knock and ask for it?” he ventured.
“You should do that. Then, when she’s distracted trying to shove little plastic armies up your ass, me and Phantom Dennis can grab the board.”
“Yes, maybe not.” Gunn had already started to move away. Wesley had one last thought about rescuing the game, then decided not to chance it. “It would seem a bit of an ignoble end for the Thirty-Fifth Gunners.”
“Y’know, that’s why you always lose,” Gunn told him as they made their way to the truck. “All your armies got sissy names. And you choose stupid leaders.”
Wesley’s leaders were inevitably Wellington and Nelson, with occasional substituting by Henry V and Alexander of Macedon. He’d decided to stick to military figures after his one try with Alan Shearer, when Gunn had conquered the entire world in what had to be record time. “Admiral Lord Nelson is not a stupid leader,” he said with mock-severity, feeling as though he was back in the playground. “Better than Cordelia’s choices.” Bored enough or curious enough, she’d played once, wiped the floor with them, declared it a silly boys’ game and left them to it forever after.
“I’m with Cordy,” said Gunn, the traitor. “Fair fight, Top Cat would beat any of your guys. Got the street smarts, got a tight crew…”
“Yes, it’s a shame so many of them are probably suffering from mange.”
“Hey, I seen every episode ever of that show. They never lost to that Dibble guy.”
“And as we know,” Wesley said solemnly, “Officer Dibble is the cartoon personification of The Man.”
Gunn grinned. “We talked about this before?”
“Not nearly as much as we have socio-political commentary in The Flintstones, but you’ve mentioned it once or twice.” A sudden rumble from his midsection reminded him he hadn’t eaten since lunchtime, and dissuaded him from turning the subject to British vs American military histories. “I’m starving.”
“Yeah, me too.”
He took the next turn at an angle that made Wesley cringe and wish for better suspension, but he’d learned that any comment that could be construed as offensive to the truck was beyond the pale, so he kept quiet, just hoping they’d make it to the diner alive; a demon assault they could explain, but if they died in a car crash Cordelia would kill them.
**
The unofficial rules of Risk, as created by Wyndam-Pryce, W. and Gunn, C. and scribbled on post-its and backs of business cards, said that the bill for the after-game meal was to be paid by the loser. There were several complicated clauses on what to do in the event of a tie.
Wesley lost all three deciding games of Rock-Paper-Scissors and gave in with belated grace. Barring some lucky dice rolls or an intervention by a plastic Angel of Mons, his legions would have been wiped out in a couple of turns, anyway.
Not that he would have admitted this, of course. Gunn was gloating enough as it was.
“Man, your guys sucked.” Around another bite of his burger he said, “I held Canada with one guy. Three turns. See, that’s why I’m cool. My people, they fight to the end. Never say die.”
“Maybe so, but I was diverting your attention with attacks on a strategically useless territory while I put in place my brilliant tactics elsewhere. Unfortunately, Cordelia stopped the game before I could crush your forces like insects.” He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Anyway, I’m sure there’s something wrong with those dice.”
“Some kinda magic on them, making them turn up snake eyes when it’s your turn?” He shook his head. “Nah-ah, English, you don’t need magic help to lose. That’s all you.”
“I didn’t lose,” he pointed out. “It was a draw. And I think we need a new rule limiting how much glee the victor can display before the losing side kicks him.”
Gunn passed him some napkins. “You so lost. Got a pen? ‘Cause if we’re going with that thing you said, I get to put down my rule about being allowed robot soldiers.”
**
It struck him as peculiar that it was after they stopped working for a vampire that they started keeping his hours, not starting work till after sunset, getting home as dawn was starting to lighten the sky. Gunn came with him up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He’d grown quiet on the drive, though Wesley couldn’t tell if he was bothered by something or just trying to adhere to the new anti-gloating policy.
“Thank you for the lift,” he said as they reached his door. “I’ll see you tonight. We should probably call Mrs. Foreman – if that ghoul’s still in her basement we’ll need to pick up some sage, unless Cordelia has some.”
“Yeah, okay,” Gunn said, and stepped forward.
The kiss wasn’t completely out of the blue; Wesley was neither blind nor an idiot, thank you, and when somebody stood that close to you and moved their mouth towards yours, the outcome was more or less inevitable. What surprised him was his lack of surprise – if he’d thought about it before this, he might have expected some moment of shock. But it didn’t seem odd or unexpected, somehow, that Gunn would kiss him, or that he’d kiss back.
It was nice, he decided, to kiss someone his own height, or else it was nice because it was Gunn; probably the latter, though he’d need to do it again to be absolutely sure. He did, and then he pulled back a little.
“Charles,” he said, “I’m not going to say you won at Risk just because you kissed me.”
“Well, damn. Foiled my diabolical plan.” He grinned. “You wanna go inside and show me what would make you say I won?”
Wesley couldn’t find the key fast enough.
Title: Domination
Author: Doyle
Pairing: Gunn/Wesley
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Silliness for
moosesal in the Happy Wes ficathon.Summary: There’s Risk, there’s cartoons. Boys will be boys.
Cordelia threw them out a little after three, just as Wesley was about to send troops into Paraguay. Protests that they were only five or six rolls from victory – both insisted their side was emerging as a clear winner – just got them a glare and an order to “take your little game of ‘domination’ and ‘conquering each other’ somewhere where people aren’t trying to actually get an hour’s sleep.”
“Hey, don’t you fingerquote at us,” Gunn said, although not until her door was safely closed.
Wesley scratched his forehead. “We could continue at my flat.”
“Yeah, except for how we don’t have a board.”
They both stared at the apartment door, no doubt now bolted, with less enthusiasm than they would have shown the entrance to a dragon’s lair. There were some similarities in the inhabitants, Wesley thought, and decided that they were going to have to start looking for office space right away, before Cordelia’s tetchiness reached nuclear levels. “We could… knock and ask for it?” he ventured.
“You should do that. Then, when she’s distracted trying to shove little plastic armies up your ass, me and Phantom Dennis can grab the board.”
“Yes, maybe not.” Gunn had already started to move away. Wesley had one last thought about rescuing the game, then decided not to chance it. “It would seem a bit of an ignoble end for the Thirty-Fifth Gunners.”
“Y’know, that’s why you always lose,” Gunn told him as they made their way to the truck. “All your armies got sissy names. And you choose stupid leaders.”
Wesley’s leaders were inevitably Wellington and Nelson, with occasional substituting by Henry V and Alexander of Macedon. He’d decided to stick to military figures after his one try with Alan Shearer, when Gunn had conquered the entire world in what had to be record time. “Admiral Lord Nelson is not a stupid leader,” he said with mock-severity, feeling as though he was back in the playground. “Better than Cordelia’s choices.” Bored enough or curious enough, she’d played once, wiped the floor with them, declared it a silly boys’ game and left them to it forever after.
“I’m with Cordy,” said Gunn, the traitor. “Fair fight, Top Cat would beat any of your guys. Got the street smarts, got a tight crew…”
“Yes, it’s a shame so many of them are probably suffering from mange.”
“Hey, I seen every episode ever of that show. They never lost to that Dibble guy.”
“And as we know,” Wesley said solemnly, “Officer Dibble is the cartoon personification of The Man.”
Gunn grinned. “We talked about this before?”
“Not nearly as much as we have socio-political commentary in The Flintstones, but you’ve mentioned it once or twice.” A sudden rumble from his midsection reminded him he hadn’t eaten since lunchtime, and dissuaded him from turning the subject to British vs American military histories. “I’m starving.”
“Yeah, me too.”
He took the next turn at an angle that made Wesley cringe and wish for better suspension, but he’d learned that any comment that could be construed as offensive to the truck was beyond the pale, so he kept quiet, just hoping they’d make it to the diner alive; a demon assault they could explain, but if they died in a car crash Cordelia would kill them.
**
The unofficial rules of Risk, as created by Wyndam-Pryce, W. and Gunn, C. and scribbled on post-its and backs of business cards, said that the bill for the after-game meal was to be paid by the loser. There were several complicated clauses on what to do in the event of a tie.
Wesley lost all three deciding games of Rock-Paper-Scissors and gave in with belated grace. Barring some lucky dice rolls or an intervention by a plastic Angel of Mons, his legions would have been wiped out in a couple of turns, anyway.
Not that he would have admitted this, of course. Gunn was gloating enough as it was.
“Man, your guys sucked.” Around another bite of his burger he said, “I held Canada with one guy. Three turns. See, that’s why I’m cool. My people, they fight to the end. Never say die.”
“Maybe so, but I was diverting your attention with attacks on a strategically useless territory while I put in place my brilliant tactics elsewhere. Unfortunately, Cordelia stopped the game before I could crush your forces like insects.” He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Anyway, I’m sure there’s something wrong with those dice.”
“Some kinda magic on them, making them turn up snake eyes when it’s your turn?” He shook his head. “Nah-ah, English, you don’t need magic help to lose. That’s all you.”
“I didn’t lose,” he pointed out. “It was a draw. And I think we need a new rule limiting how much glee the victor can display before the losing side kicks him.”
Gunn passed him some napkins. “You so lost. Got a pen? ‘Cause if we’re going with that thing you said, I get to put down my rule about being allowed robot soldiers.”
**
It struck him as peculiar that it was after they stopped working for a vampire that they started keeping his hours, not starting work till after sunset, getting home as dawn was starting to lighten the sky. Gunn came with him up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He’d grown quiet on the drive, though Wesley couldn’t tell if he was bothered by something or just trying to adhere to the new anti-gloating policy.
“Thank you for the lift,” he said as they reached his door. “I’ll see you tonight. We should probably call Mrs. Foreman – if that ghoul’s still in her basement we’ll need to pick up some sage, unless Cordelia has some.”
“Yeah, okay,” Gunn said, and stepped forward.
The kiss wasn’t completely out of the blue; Wesley was neither blind nor an idiot, thank you, and when somebody stood that close to you and moved their mouth towards yours, the outcome was more or less inevitable. What surprised him was his lack of surprise – if he’d thought about it before this, he might have expected some moment of shock. But it didn’t seem odd or unexpected, somehow, that Gunn would kiss him, or that he’d kiss back.
It was nice, he decided, to kiss someone his own height, or else it was nice because it was Gunn; probably the latter, though he’d need to do it again to be absolutely sure. He did, and then he pulled back a little.
“Charles,” he said, “I’m not going to say you won at Risk just because you kissed me.”
“Well, damn. Foiled my diabolical plan.” He grinned. “You wanna go inside and show me what would make you say I won?”
Wesley couldn’t find the key fast enough.
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on 2005-04-01 10:12 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2005-04-01 10:16 pm (UTC)