Book Value.

"This is the last one," Giles says with satisfaction, carrying the box inside and kicking the doors of his apartment shut behind him.

Wesley looks up from unpacking a carton full of books. "More books, I suppose," he offers, and Giles nods, looking at the rapidly filling shelves. He had Xander build him two new shelves last week, before the boy was set to leave for his trip, in the hope that this would suffice, but, in accordance with the rules of book shelving and the universe, there's never enough shelf space. Especially not for two ex-Watchers and their volumes, not counting all the books they moved from the Sunnydale High Library before it blew up.

"Lucky it's the last one, then, we're running out of space."

This time Wesley doesn't look up, but his movements as he picks one book after another become more careful, as if finding the right placement for the book he's holding is the most important thing in the world right now. "We didn't have to move all my things here."

Giles almost sighs. "You know that's not what I meant, Wesley."

The other man doesn't look entirely convinced, much as Giles expected. They've been through that before, in different permutations, but apparently, it's going to take time before it sticks. Well, he has nothing but time, now.

He picks up the knife and cuts through the duct tape securing the last books, opening it to reveal its contents. As predicted, more books, thick leather-bound volumes, wrapped protectively in tissue paper. His eyebrows shoot up at the sight of the first volume he picks up, then his mouth curls up in a smile as he holds it up for Wesley to see. "There's definitely room for this one, though," he offers, barely containing a wide grin that threatens to appear.

Wesley does a fairly good job of not reacting, but by now Giles knows him well enough to see the signs of a blush creeping up.

"It's the first edition," he offers with all the prickly pride he can muster, the one that used to annoy Giles no end, before he learned what it really concealed.

"Oh, I'm sure of that," Giles says, mock-seriously, and gets an attempt at a glare from Wesley. He flips a page, and runs his fingers against the paper and dark ink of the illustration. "I've never seen the original," he mused. "Just reprints of the translation... I must admit, a lot is... lost." The reprints always omitted the illustrations, for one, concentrating on the description of the rites rather than their depiction. Considering most of the translations were done by men of the cloth, not that surprising, though disappointing.

"Really?" Wesley says, taking two steps towards Giles, looking over his shoulder at the page. "I wouldn't know," he adds with studied nonchalance, as Giles flips over the next page.

"So, you only have it because it's a collector's item?" Giles asks and Wesley nods. "Liar," Giles says, turning his head so his words fall warm against Wesley's skin. He traces the picture with his fingertips, slowly and with intense concentration, the same reverent way he sometimes touches Wesley's skin, and this time Wesley does blush, light flush spreading through his cheeks and down his neck, under the open collar of his shirt.

"You'd buy a first edition of Dickens for that, maybe," Giles muses, turning to face the other man, their bodies separated only by the thick volume. "But this? No, this is different," he places the opened book on the table behind Wesley, then gently shifts him around.

"Look at it. Would you like that?" he asks as Wesley's gaze tries to focus on the picture through the haze of lust fogging his eyesight, his pulse racing as Giles' hands close around his wrists, pulling them back. "Just like the picture, hmm? Thick rope, bound for my enjoyment. Would you like that?"

"Yes," Wesley breathes out, his back arching.

"Good," Giles releases his wrists, shifting even closer to Wesley. "Turn the page," he commands, and smiles when Wesley does so hastily. "Hands flat on the desk. Don't move them," he whispers roughly into Wesley's ear and is rewarded by an answering shiver. "Read it aloud," he adds, his fingers already working on Wesley's buckle.

Wesley hesitates, even though his hips already twitch closer to the touch. "The door," he gasps as Giles' palm brushes against his cock. "Somebody may come in."

"It's possible," Giles agrees pleasantly, his hands not stopping their ministrations. It's unlikely, with Xander off for the trip, and Buffy and Willow busy with pre-college shopping, but he doesn't add that. "And what they'd see would be you, bent over my desk," he continues, lowering Wesley's pants until they fall to his ankles. "And me fucking you," he adds, moving forward so that his body covers Wesley's, his own cock hard against him. "Now, read it aloud."

And Wesley starts, his voice rough and slipping on the consonants' clusters, as Giles starts to prepare his entrance, his other hand closed around Wesley's cock, moving to the rhythm of the words that Wesley breathes out. He gets to the end of the page in the exact moment of Giles' first thrust inside him, the last word a low moan deep inside his throat. "Turn the page," Giles whispers into his ear, the words slurred together, almost inaudible, as he thrusts again and again, and Wesley's voice is shaking through the next sentence, just like his body is. He's close to coming.

Three lines and millions of mistakes in pronunciation later, his vision is blurry and unfocused, and he's biting his lip to keep himself from screaming as Giles begins to pump his cock faster and faster. "Come," Giles says and Wesley obeys with a loud moan, Giles following close behind.

An exhausted moment of silence later, Giles chuckles quietly. "We've made a mess."

Wesley slinks into the chair, smiling widely. "So we did," he offers, not even making an effort to pull up his pants for the moment. "Shower?"