"You'll wake him." Wesley murmured, trying to stop the slow sweep of Rupert's palm over his chest that did feel so very nice.

Rupert cast a glance at the cradle where Connor slept, and shook his head, murmuring against Wesley's ear in a way that made the skin of his scar tickle. "Don't be silly, Wesley. He's just gone to sleep; he'll not be waking again until he's ready."

"But what if-"

Rupert silenced him with a kiss, tilting Wesley's head back over the top of the chair, exploring lips and teeth that tasted of tea and the last strawberry biscuit. Beneath his hand, he could feel the press of Wesley's ribs through his skin, still too thin by far after his stay in the hospital, so Rupert wouldn't begrudge him the last strawberry biscuit.

Wesley's eyes opened slowly, dreamily behind his glasses, and then he frowned, licking his lips once Giles drew away. "You've eaten the last of the marmalade again, haven't you?"

"Yes." Because lying was pointless after a marmalade-flavored kiss. Distraction, however, was quite permissible. Rupert let his hand slip inside the open band of Wesley's shirt to brush a nipple, only a teasing sweep of fingertips that didn't stop when Wesley grabbed his wrist.

"Rupert, please. He really will hear, and then-"

"And then what?" Rupert watched Wesley's eyes turn hazy with desire, tracing lazy circles around the tightened flesh. "And then he will roll over and go back to sleep or cry and we'll tend to him. Really, it's not very difficult, as potential problems go."

"A-angel wouldn't want his son to see- see- " Wesley shook his head, giving up on words and stretching his neck back to capture Rupert's mouth, closing his teeth over his lower lip to determinedly pull Rupert closer until he could get a hand around the back of his neck, short hair bristling against his fingers.

"Angel won't know," Rupert said against his lips. "And Connor won't remember." He knelt on the floor, easing Wesley out of the chair and onto his knees, then his back, hovering over him as he unbuttoned Wesley's shirt one button at a time and spread it open over his chest before laying his palm beneath Wesley's ribs, over the puckered scar of his gunshot wound, the muscles fluttering beneath his touch. "Let go, Wesley. No more bloody excuses. Let them go. It's time."