wesleynotponcy | Forty-Fifth Street (And Later, A Hospital) | Mid-City, Los Angeles, CA

In order to find Gunn, first Wesley and Cordelia had to stop at Anne's youth shelter in order to find where he'd gone. Anne explained (in a tone of one who'd become accustomed, over a long period of time, to dealing with stubborn adolescents; Wesley thought of Sunnydale and found himself soundly sympathetic) that he'd taken a pair of friends and a video camera out in the direction of Mid-City, looking for cops.

"Mid-City," Cordelia repeated. "Isn't that a little… gangy?"

…Oh, wonderful.

"I'll start there," Wesley said, turning to go. "I'm on my cell phone if you hear from him."

"Check in with me," Cordelia called after him.

"Right!"

Which was how Wesley found himself on Forty-Fifth Street just off of the 110 Freeway, striding briskly down the street in the hopes of spotting something… when he caught sight of Gunn and two others in the process of being confronted by a policeman.

"Officer, wait!" he called, jogging forward. The officer slowly turned to face him. Taking that as encouragement, Wesley held up his hands and continued in a rush, "This man is a friend of mine – a very good friend. I'm sure he hasn't done anything—"

And then in a flash of the policeman's hand, there was the bang! of a gunshot and Wesley was suddenly staggering backward, all the wind knocked out of him by the bullet to his stomach.

He stumbled one step backward, then another, and then he was on the ground. Everything he knew about wounds told him he should apply pressure, but suddenly he was having a hard time putting together his thoughts, too busy struggling to get enough air and process what was going on above him – there were… noises, the sounds of Gunn and his friends fighting off the officer somewhere out of his line of vision. In any other circumstance, he could listen for footsteps and grunting, map out what was happening from sounds alone, but now he was having a hard time just focusing on listening to his own breathing to make sure that it wasn't too erratic. Listening for other noises was certainly not an option right now.

…at least, until the sounds of the scuffle stopped, and a cry of "Help me get Wesley!" jerked him out the intermittent, unsteady rhythm of counting breaths.

Gunn came to crouch down beside him and Wesley managed a dazed, "Is anyone else cold?"

"It's okay, man, we're gonna take you someplace warm," Gunn promised, then turned and shouted to his friends, "Help me pick him up! Come on!"

And then he was being hoisted to his feet by Gunn and… someone else, one of Charles' friends, with each of his arms slung over one of the other men's shoulders. They started at a slow pace, heading back down the part of the street where he'd come from, but then –

"He's moving!" yelled Gunn's other friend. "He's moving, let's go!"

Running with a gunshot wound was more difficult than Wesley felt he'd ever really imagined it would be – but then, he'd never really imagined what it must be like to have a gunshot wound at all. It wasn't what Faith had done, the searing pain all over his body – this was a single, concentrated burning that threatened to expand every time he moved, and, well, he was moving rather a lot. Two blocks down felt like he'd just run a mile; after six, it reached the point that his throat contracted, and for a moment he couldn't fathom why since the bullet was in his gut. Then he pieced it together, what his body was trying to do, and squeezed his eyes tight to keep from actually crying.

"Wes – Wes, you okay?" Gunn checked as they rounded a corner. "Just a few blocks, man, we can make it –"

"Nine-one-one," Wesley rasped. "You've got to call – nine-one-one."

"Screw the cops!" yelled one of Gunn's friends. "They're the ones that did this to you!"

"An ambulance," Gunn corrected him. He shut his eyes for a moment, weighing the risks – and then dug his phone out of his pocket. "Call," he told the man who'd spoken, handing over the phone. "Tell 'em no sirens." Then he turned his attention back to Wesley, and pulled off his coat to drape over him.

"I don't think I'm doing very well," Wesley managed.

"Hey!" Gunn interrupted him, harshly. Detachedly, Wesley wondered why the harshness was necessary, but it certainly jolted him into paying attention. "You're gonna be fine, all right, man? Getting shot like this? Yeah, I've seen a lot of guys got shot worse than this. Never even slowed 'em down."

That couldn't be true, it couldn't – Wesley knew a gut wound was supposed to be one of the worst, the most dangerous places to get shot, but he couldn't quite manage to find the words to explain that.

And then he didn't have to, because Gunn's friend was running back. "It's here!" he yelled. "Come on, hurry, move!"

--

After the fact, Wesley wouldn't remember much of what happened in the ambulance, or back at the shelter afterwards, though he'd later be told that there had been further confrontation; what he would remember was waking up in a hospital, Gunn seated by his side.

Wesley	It took a moment of blinking before he was able to actually keep his eyes open, and he struggled to sit up for a moment before deciding, nope, couldn't really do that. What he could do, though, was tug slightly on the hand in his. Really, it was quite an accomplishment.
Gunn	As soon as Wes squeezed his hand, confirming that he was actually alive and awake, Gunn broke out into a smile. "Hey," he said, softly.
Wesley	Wesley thought of a lot of things he could say in response -- thank you for saving my life, or maybe I can't believe you're still here -- but he settled on, "Hey."
Gunn	"How're you feeling?" Gunn asked, scooting his chair just slightly closer to the bed.
Wesley	It took Wesley a moment to come up with an answer to that. He'd have to wonder about that later -- he didn't normally lag so in his responses in ordinary conversation. "I feel as though I should be in a great deal of pain," he admitted honestly.
Gunn	Gunn gave a chuckle of agreement. "Getting gut-shot will do that to you," he confirmed.
Wesley	"And yet..." He wasn't, really. It took a moment to piece it together, why he wasn't hurting more, and then he turned and caught sight of the IV sticking out of his left hand. "Is this morphine?"
Gunn	Gunn nodded. "Strongest they got," he assured him.
Wesley	"Well, it's bloody lovely," Wesley declared. Only a little bit loopily, thank you. And then he giggled, so, you know, maybe a little more.
Gunn	Gunn grinned. "Hey," he said, releasing Wes' hand. "Way to have my back out there, man," he said. He made a fist, and tapped it gently against Wes' knuckles.
Wesley	"No trouble at all," Wesley assured him, weakly but still smiling. "Thank you for -- oh. Saving my life?"
Gunn	"No trouble at all," Gunn echoed with a grin. Then his smile faltered some. "Listen," he said. "They got you in a wheelchair for the next few weeks, a'ight? Just 'till you can walk more without hurting. Doc said a month, two, tops."
Wesley	"Oh," said Wesley, startled.
Gunn	"You gonna be okay?" Gunn checked, gently.
Wesley	"There's a--" Wesley reached for the side table to retrieve a cup of tea that had been sitting there. Oh, thank goodness for Cordelia. "--elevator in the dormitories," he finished. "I'll manage."
Gunn	Gunn grinned in relief. "English, you're really tough, you know that?"
Wesley	"Always nice to hear it again," Wesley said, grinning back. Then, with real sincerity: "Thank you."
Gunn	"Don't mention it," Gunn said, clapping his shoulder. When Wesley grimaced, Gunn winced and patted his shoulder instead. "Sorry."

[[nfi/nfb/ooc cool if you like. warning for gun violence under the first cut omg, and mostly from angel 2x14, "the thin dead line." knowledge of los angeles geography supplied by the majestic