The man doesn’t even look the same. None of that yielding need that made Gunn want to keep him safe. Nah, this man looks like the sort mommas warn you about.
Wesley confesses about four girly drinks into the night, and Gunn’s glad they left Cordelia behind this time, because one mopey woman giving off the just-been-dumped vibe’s enough for him.
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.
He doesn’t remember painting the walls of his flat red, but red they are. It must be blood, then. Not all his, or he wouldn’t be alive to wonder at it. There’s simply too much of it to belong to any one, living person.
In retrospect, it’s obvious he became something of a Bedlamite after Lilah’s death. Everything—his fling with Faith, falling into an ill-starred and ill-advised relationship with Fred, pummeling Lorne into unconsciousness when the demon had the misfortune (not to mention poor taste) of telling a lawyer joke while he was in the room (it took Connor, Gunn, and Angel five minutes to pull him off of Lorne, and he quit the agency shortly thereafter)—seemed to re-enforce the idea.
Wesley and Gunn and where it all went wrong.
Wesley and Gunn and what went wrong.
Sometimes, everyone else is the first to see what’s right in front of your face.