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Let Nothing You Dismayby WesleysGirlRating: R Ethan/Giles Written for the Drunken Giles ficathon. For Mireille719. Many, many thanks to Helen Raven for the Brit-beta and her help. For the fortnight before Christmas, Ethan waits for Rupert to make celebratory plans. He waits for Rupert to ask what he'd like for Christmas dinner -- a goose? or the more traditional turkey? He waits for Rupert to suggest a day for them to get a tree, and for Rupert to share his thoughts about gifts. But his waiting is in vain, apparently, because Rupert never does any of these things. Several times, Ethan nearly brings up the rapidly approaching holiday. He, himself, couldn't care less about Christmas, but Rupert does, and the uncharacteristic lack of enthusiasm troubles Ethan. Still, it isn't until Rupert brings out the whisky bottle and pours himself a much more generous glass than he normally would, and then a second, that Ethan decides it's time to broach the subject. "Did you want to get a tree this year?" he asks while kneeling on the rug before the fireplace, building a careful pyramid of logs. "What?" Rupert says. He's holding a book on his lap, but Ethan doubts he's actually reading from it. "A tree," Ethan repeats. "Did you want one this year? It's a bit late, I suppose, but there's still time." It's only three days until Christmas. "Why on earth would you want a tree?" Rupert asks. Drinking from his glass again at a rate that Ethan knows will have him drunk within twenty minutes, he adds, "You've never wanted one before." Ethan blinks, then flicks the lighter that has long replaced the struggle with matches and holds the flame to the small pile of twigs under the logs. "I wasn't talking about what I wanted," he says. "I was asking what you wanted. If you don't want a tree, that's fine with me. Fewer needles to hoover up." Not that he would be the one to do that particular clean-up, or any other, for that matter. That's what they pay the cleaning girl for, to come in once a week and sort out their messes for them. It's a luxury Ethan appreciates just as much as he should. "I don't care," Rupert says, and finishes his drink. "Since when?" Now that he's thinking about it, Ethan realizes that Rupert's been out of sorts in more ways than his lack of holiday cheer. And the more he thinks about it, the more angry Ethan feels. "What do you mean, you don't care?" He turns around, still on his knees -- not inappropriate when facing Rupert -- and frowns. "Of course you care. You care about -- you care about mangy dogs being run down in the streets by errant taxis. You care about global warming. I'd say it's very nearly required by law that you at least have an opinion about getting a Christmas tree." "Well." Rupert looks at him for a long moment, and it's the blank look that finally frightens Ethan. "I suppose you should call the police, then. Have them come and arrest me for breaking the law." He pours himself another few inches of whisky, and no, this is unacceptable, this is throwing Ethan's world so widely askew that he's tilted sideways, and Ethan puts the fireplace screen in place, gets up, and takes the glass out of Rupert's hand. "Come on. Get your coat." He tugs Rupert to his feet. "Ethan --" "Oh, don't argue with me. You know there's no point to it -- I always win." That earns him a slight smile, at least. He winds a scarf around Rupert's neck and catches Rupert sneaking another large gulp straight from the bottle as he turns back from getting his own coat. "Hey!" "When did you turn into such a spoil-sport?" Rupert asks, glaring at him, but Ethan does his best to ignore that and propels the man out the front door and into the cold, which is apparently a new and more interesting subject about which to complain. "M'going to get frostbite," Rupert says. "It's a five minute walk," Ethan points out reasonably. Rupert sighs. "I can't feel my fingers. Let's go back." He actually turns to do so; fortunately, because he's drunk, it's easy enough for Ethan to get him turned round and headed in the proper direction again. "This way, old man," he says, keeping a hand on Rupert's shoulder. "Here we are." There are Christmas trees propped against a fence, with a rather seedy looking man in a bright red stocking cap standing hopefully nearby. "Here to get a nice tree for the missus?" he asks. "Hardly," Rupert mutters, with a glint in his eye that lets Ethan know this could get interesting. But as tempting as that is, what Ethan wants just then is to buy a bloody tree and get it home to see if that might be enough to snap Rupert out of whatever funk it is he's been in for the past few weeks. He's not in the mood to watch Rupert pick a fight. "How's this one?" he asks, tugging Rupert closer to a likely looking candidate. "Flat on this side," Rupert says. "They all look as if they were cut months ago." "They always look like that," Ethan tells him. "They probably *were* cut months ago. Let's just pick one and get on with it." "That one's too tall," Rupert says, pointing. "And this one is moth-eaten." "I hardly think that moths have been eating Norway Spruce," Ethan says, and the sales bloke makes a sound of protest. "These are Nordmann Fir!" Ethan sighs and nods placatingly. "Yes, right, of course." He wouldn't know Nordmann Fir from a holly bush, and couldn't begin to care. "What about this one?" The tree is a bit shorter than the others, but at least it doesn't seem to be missing any branches. Peering at it owlishly from behind his glasses, Rupert finally agrees. Ethan pays the man -- far too much -- and slips a small sprig of mistletoe into his pocket without paying for it to make up for being overcharged. Clandestine mistletoe, he thinks, and smirks until he remembers that they walked here and will have to drag the tree back to their flat along the pavement. They manage it between them, and arrive with sap-sticky hands and a tree somewhat the worse for wear. Rupert swears under his breath as they wrestle the tree through the doorway. "Bloody thing. Why did we have to get it, anyway?" Exasperated, palms stinging with scratches, Ethan rolls his eyes and snaps, "Because I thought it might snap you out of whatever funk you've been in, that's why. Apparently I was wrong. Never mind; leave it. I'll kick it down the stairs to the kerb tomorrow and we can pretend none of this ever happened, all right?" But Rupert looks surprised, then understanding. Ethan hadn't realized how much he missed that expression until that moment. "You did this for me?" "Yes." He hadn't, of course -- he'd done it for himself, because deep down he's much more selfish than even Rupert suspects, but on the surface it's a true enough answer. "You," Rupert says, abandoning the tree where it's leaning half against the wall and half against the desk, stepping over its roughly cut trunk and taking Ethan's cold face in his even colder hands. "You," he says again, voice like velvet. And he kisses Ethan, lips wind-chapped but no less perfect for it, mouth bright with whisky. "What's wrong?" Ethan asks him, hanging onto the front of his jacket with desperate fingers. "You've been -- I don't know, not yourself." "It's nothing," Rupert says. It's his firm voice, the one that warns Ethan to leave it alone. And at least Rupert is looking, and sounding, more like himself now. He slides a suggestive hand along Ethan's hip. "Let's leave the rest til the morning and go to bed, shall we?" Ethan smiles. "You must be drunk," he says. "Suggesting we leave a task in the middle of the job in favour of indulging in carnal desires?" "Oh, well, if you'd really prefer that I go in search of the tree stand now..." Rupert says, beginning to pull away, and Ethan laughs and doesn't let go of him. "Don't be ridiculous! Bed sounds wonderful." "In comparison to continuing to wrestle with this tree," Rupert agrees. "Although my hands are rather sticky. I might not be able to get them off you once we get started." And Ethan, who is an expert at setting aside things he doesn't want to think about and instead focusing on the hedonistic, decides this isn't the time for ferreting out whatever is troubling Rupert. "Oh, no, anything but that," he says, in a voice so expressionless that it's clear he's not actually protesting, and they go off to the bedroom, leaving the tree and the dying fire to keep each other company for the evening. End.
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