|
The Power of PersuasionPart 1by Jane Davitt and WesleysGirl Rating: NC-17 Ethan/Giles Many thanks to Magpie and Wolfling for the betas. The power came back on in the middle of the night.
That was good in theory, but actually a mixed blessing as Giles, going wearily to bed after hours of trying to read by candlelight, had left the bedroom light switch on. Bloody power cuts.
They'd started in the North of England, inexplicable and random. Soon enough they'd moved south, tracked on the news by a map that showed a pattern of dots that if linked in date and order zigzagged wildly at first, but then become arrow straight, heading for London.
London ... and nowhere else. The National Grid was 'unable to confirm conclusively as to why these rolling blackouts are currently restricted to the capital' just as they were unable to rule out sabotage, terrorists, or mice. Giles didn't share the general indignation on that score -- he knew too much about the way the world worked to expect answers as a God-given right -- but he had felt a stab of annoyance that they wouldn't even cross rodents off the list, just in case it was, and they ended up looking like fools.
After stumbling over to switch off the light, he pulled the covers over his head, allowing himself to hope that that was the last one.
A breakfast of lukewarm tea and toast that was still white due to a power cut two minutes into his breakfast preparations put his ill-timed optimism to rest. He went into work anyway, deciding to walk for once as it wasn't raining. Most of the contracted-out translation work he did for the Watchers Council didn't require a working computer -- just a sharp pencil and a stack of paper.
And a sizable occult reference library, but that he had.
Staring across the street, waiting for the traffic lights to change -- they seemed to operate even when the power was out, which he assumed was because of some sort of backup generators -- he drifted into thoughts of his current task, a particularly tricky assignment as he was having to brush up on a demon language he'd never been fluent in.
A shove against his arm alerted him to the fact that the lights had changed, and a blinking man was signalling that it was safe to cross. His moment of inattention meant that he was the last to cross, hurrying after a mother pushing a pram loaded down with bags and a squalling toddler. The pavement ahead was crowded as the people crossing arrived and split off in both directions, hampered by an indecisive couple, a young man and a woman, heads close together as they studied a map, blocking the way.
As Giles watched, a man hurried past them, his head down, and two things happened at the same time: the map was knocked from the couple's hands, caught by a sudden gust of air and fluttering away, and the lights changed, all of them turning green, leaving Giles in the middle of a busy city intersection with -- Good Lord, cars bearing down on him from every direction --
He ran forward, slamming into the back of the mother with the pram, shoving her and her child towards the pavement where the thick crowds miraculously parted to allow her refuge. Stumbling, he leapt forward himself, reaching out to grip the low railing separating pavement from road around the crossing, using it to halt himself at the cost of a wrenched shoulder.
The space where he'd stood a moment before was suddenly filled with two cars, both clinging to the belief that they had right of way and unwilling to concede it.
The crash and grind of metal as the vehicles collided echoed in Giles' head as he took a deep, shaky breath.
No one, amazingly, was hurt, although the sobbing mother, once she'd been made to see that no, Giles hadn't wantonly attacked her, was embarrassingly effusive in her gratitude. Smiling awkwardly and nursing his aching arm, Giles retreated as quickly as he could without being rude and continued on towards his office as he did most days.
He'd returned to London over Buffy's protests, determined to get on with his life, and the Council, slightly to his surprise given the friction that still existed between him and Travers, had been good enough to send a fair amount of work his way. The organisation did, obviously, have a good deal of experience in dealing with Watchers who'd lost their Slayers, although considerably less with ones that had lost and then found them again.
Happily, his office was far enough away from his flat that the power was working properly there -- either that, or in the time it had taken him to walk there things had straightened themselves out. As Giles opened the front door to the building that housed his office and started up the stairs to the first floor, he passed two women whom he believed worked on the ground floor, one of whom was complaining to the other that she'd lost half the contents of her refrigerator the night before. He sympathised with her. It'd happened to him, although on a smaller scale, the week before.
He unlocked his door and went inside his small office, noting that the bag he often used to transport books back and forth from office to home was sitting on the floor. He reminded himself that he ought to buy some more candles, of the utilitarian variety, so that he could stop using ones intended for more mystical purposes. Not that he'd had the opportunity to put those to proper use any time recently.
It wasn't that he missed the constant pressure of living on the Hellmouth, he told himself. Not really. Besides, one quickly grew accustomed to a town that, at night, was as safe to walk through as a cage of hungry tigers -- because, with the Slayer there, the tigers were chained and muzzled. And he could take care of himself.
No, he didn't miss the danger, didn't miss the way he was reminded each day, in some fashion, that life was short and easily snuffed out -- like a candle, if it came to that.
But he missed the people, missed his friends. And God, this was dull!
Useful, reasonably lucrative, well within his capabilities, but so very dull.
He turned on his electric kettle and stood waiting for it to boil, staring out of the window and rubbing his shoulder absently. Odd that the lights would malfunction like that.
On the other hand, he probably didn't know enough about the way the National Grid functioned. There was little doubt that a great deal of the control of power was done by computers these days. Perhaps the sort of malfunction that he'd just witnessed was commonplace. The kettle clicked off, alerting Giles to the fact that his mind had been wandering and bringing his attention back to the office. He quickly made tea and sat down at the desk that had come with the lease, no doubt because the previous tenant had found it too difficult to move; it was a monstrosity of a thing, far too big for the space it was in. It didn't take him long to lose himself in the small translation job he'd taken on for a private client, going back to the same two books now and again to double check his work.
At lunchtime, he nipped out long enough to grab a quick sandwich and a pint at the pub that was three doors down from his building. The locals seemed to have got used to him and his quiet ways, no longer attempting to draw him into conversations they were having about local politics or national sport but not exactly giving him the cold shoulder either.
Today, though, he found himself pulled into a conversation as he stood at the bar, waiting for his change.
"You been getting these power cuts up your way, mate?"
London was still a collection of villages, Giles reflected, taking a sip at his bitter. "Yes," he said, giving the elderly man on the bar stool beside him a pleasant smile. "Bit of a nuisance, aren't they?"
"You know who I blame?" the man said earnestly, leaning forward and giving Giles an emphatic nod. "I blame the government." He tapped a nicotine-stained finger against a beer mat, soggy from a puddle of lager and lime Giles' elbow had already landed in. "Stands to reason, don't it?"
"In what way exactly?" Giles asked unwisely. A man joined him at the bar, asking for a beer in an accent that held a faint Welsh lilt to it. Giles glanced at him, not recognising him as a regular, and sighed inwardly as he was forced to move a little closer to the old man, whose clothes reeked of pipe smoke.
The rheumy eyes lit up. "In what way? In what way? Young man --" Giles swallowed a retort, deciding that to this man he probably did look relatively youthful. "Did you ever stop to think --"
It took Giles ten minutes to escape, and even then he was saved less by his own ingenuity than the fact that the man had consumed his pint faster than normal due to all his talking and was forced to retreat to the Gents.
Giles finished his own drink, wrapped up his untouched sandwich in the paper napkin provided and signalled to the barman. "Here: get him in a pint on me and tell him I had to go."
The barman chuckled. "Thought your eyes were glazing over a bit, but old Charlie was having fun. Not often he gets anyone to listen to him. Made his day."
Giles smiled uncomfortably. "Does he really think the government's been taken over by robot doubles?" he asked. "Or was he trying to wind me up?"
"That I can't say, but he's on his way back, so you can ask him yourself."
"Oh, good Lord --" Giles shoved some coins over the bar hastily and made for the door. His hand was on the door handle when the lights flickered and died. The barman called out to him over the groans from the people scattered around the room. "The pumps won't work now, mate, but I'll change Charlie's pint to a whisky. At least the bottles still work when you tip them up!"
Giles raised a hand in acknowledgement of the sally and walked out into the pale spring sunshine. At least they still had that to see by.
Back in his office, he tried to concentrate, but the silence of the building felt wrong, somehow, even with the sunshine filtering in through the two small windows. He was tempted to go to the effort of struggling to open them just to let some fresh air in, but he continued to tell himself that he'd do it in another few minutes, until the minutes had ticked away and it was suddenly after five.
He'd accomplished little despite the long hours he'd put in, and was suspicious enough that this would continue to be the case that he decided to call it a day and head back to the flat. Perhaps he'd be able to watch some mindless television this evening, if the power came back on, and start fresh tomorrow.
On the way home, Giles couldn't help but feel that he was being watched. It was absurd, really, the levels of paranoia which one could reach after years of training. Telling himself that it was nothing, he firmly put the thought out of his head and kept walking. It wasn't until he'd crossed the street -- mindful of the earlier mishap, but the lights were working, at that intersection at least -- that he glanced back, and when he did, he saw no one that looked even the slightest bit interested in him. Just dozens of other weary workers headed home after a long day. No one paying him the slightest bit of attention. So when he very nearly bumped into someone walking in the opposite direction, Giles was flustered. "Sorry," he said, and looked into the face of Ethan Rayne. Ethan was wearing dark sunglasses, but there was no question that it was him. Giles would have known him anywhere. There was a brief instant in which they stared at each other, neither of them moving or speaking. Then Ethan stepped past him and disappeared into the crowd.
Shock held Giles still for a long moment -- too long because when he spun around, searching the crowd, Ethan wasn't in sight. It didn't stop him going after him, though, anger, suspicion, and yes, he admitted it, curiosity, adding urgency to the chase.
The passers by seemed to be in league with Ethan, swerving in front of Giles, blocking his way. In frustration he abandoned his manners and began to barge through the crowd, searching for a tall, dark-haired man -- but hadn't there been grey at his temples?
He caught sight of him when Ethan rounded a corner, and managed to get close enough to risk calling his name.
"Ethan! Wait!"
Ethan paused -- Giles was ready to swear to that when he replayed it in his head afterward -- but didn't turn around. Moving quickly, he darted into the traffic and as Giles watched, he leapt onto a bus waiting at the traffic lights, vanishing inside as the lights turned green and the bus lurched off.
Giles cursed. He could try and follow it; the traffic was busy enough that he could probably catch it up at this time of night, but the odds of finding Ethan inside, sitting quietly and waiting to be found, were too low to make it worth his time.
He gave up, disappointment making his jaw clench as he strode along, retracing his steps.
He might have admitted to curiosity, but the flash of pleasure at seeing a familiar face was a different story altogether. That, he was determined to forget.
Moving slowly now, Giles made his way home, shutting the door to his flat behind him with a sigh of relief when he realised that the power was still on. The digital clock on the desk read what he was sure was the correct time. He was unable to work up the motivation to cook a proper meal despite the fact that he knew he ought to take advantage of being able to use the stove. Instead, he had two cups of tea and a handful of biscuits while he read the newspaper, took a long, hot shower and then settled himself down on the couch to watch television. There was nothing remotely interesting on, but Giles was determined not to waste any more time thinking about Ethan. How long had the man been in London? Had it been chance that they'd run into each other the way they had? Giles would have called the mere thought absurd, knowing Ethan the way he did, but the expression of shock on Ethan's face when he'd seen him, not to mention the way the other man had turned and run off... No, he was most assuredly not thinking about this. Resolutely, Giles went to bed early with a book and ironically enough fell asleep with the lights still on.
In the morning, Giles turned on his computer before breakfast. He hadn't checked his email for days, what with one thing and another, and he really ought to do so. Not that Willow or Buffy herself wouldn't have phoned in case of a true emergency, but he didn't like to leave them waiting for a response if they contacted him. He very nearly sent what appeared at first glance to be a junk email directly into the trash, but a second glance revealed its true nature.
To: rgiles@cow.co.uk
It was as if he could hear Ethan saying the words in that drawled voice of his, always hinting at mockery; of self, or listener -- or both. The physical reaction Giles had was strong enough to make him push away from the computer, much as he would've done if it had burst into flames.
The implications of yesterday's encounter finally hit home and he realised that he'd been deliberately ignoring them, walling them away. This email was the equivalent of a wrecking ball. Ethan was free -- well, yes, not really a surprise, that. Ethan was close -- how close? Was he still here?
And Ethan knew how to reach him, in so many different ways.
Taking control of himself, willing his ragged breathing to regulate, Giles pulled his chair into position again and wrapped his hand around the mouse. He dragged the pointer over, intending to move the message into the trash, attempt to set up some means to block any future messages.
He couldn't do it. But he couldn't reply, either. Not yet.
Memories of Ethan, both good and bad, plagued Giles throughout the day as he went about his normal routine to the best of his ability. In some ways, the good memories were more difficult to deal with than the bad. He wasn't sure he wanted to remember the good times; not when it made his current situation -- his current life -- seem so stark and empty in comparison.
He especially didn't care to recall the most recent pleasant memory that involved Ethan. A hot mouth sliding over bare skin, hands that knew him much too well touching his body... No. Still, despite Giles' best intentions, at the end of the day he found himself sitting down in front of the computer again and re-reading Ethan's email. He was, in fact, a bit surprised that a second one hadn't followed. The old Ethan would have been driven mad by his lack of response and written repeatedly until he'd managed to annoy a reaction, even an angry reaction, out of him.
Somehow the thought that Ethan might, for once, have meant exactly what he said -- had not deliberately sought him out, not even known where he was -- stung him. And then he wondered if that was exactly the reaction Ethan had been trying to get and this was another game.
Oh, bloody hell, this was going to drive him mad trying to work it out!
Bitterly acknowledging that he was incapable of ignoring Ethan, and not even trying to pretend that he was acting out of caution, he hit 'reply'.
To: ethanrayne@hotmail.com
He hit 'send' and sat back, releasing a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. Goading Ethan might not have been the wisest move, but if it forced him to show his hand...
Giles opened a bottle of red wine and poured himself a glass, taking it with him to the window and staring out into the gathering dusk. If Ethan was watching him he couldn't see him, but he thought perhaps he'd be able to tell if he were near.
Draining his glass in a long, reckless swallow, he murmured, "'By the pricking of my thumbs...'"
Pouring himself another glass, he sat back to wait.
To: rgiles@cow.co.uk
To: ethanrayne@hotmail.com
To: rgiles@cow.co.uk
To: ethanrayne@hotmail.com
To: rgiles@cow.co.uk
To: ethanrayne@hotmail.com
And that, little though Giles liked it, ended the brief flurry of messages because Ethan didn't reply, leaving him to wonder if he'd been right and this was some sort of hoax -- but he didn't really think it was. The speed at which he'd become annoyed, irate and finally threatening proved it was Ethan. No one else had ever moved him to such extremes.
And if, when he went to bed that night, it wasn't the extremes of violence he recalled, but the times when Ethan had been all he wanted, all he desired, with a hunger that in retrospect seemed almost frightening in its intensity -- well, he was falling asleep when he thought it and he couldn't help what he dreamed.
Giles was distracted the next day. It felt as if his brain was working at half-speed, but he soldiered on with the translation job. He expected it to take another two or three days at most, and he'd promised it by the end of the week. So far, it didn't seem to be anything more than a protection spell, but there was no explaining the types of things people wanted translated, or why, and he rarely tried.
In the late afternoon, he thought he heard a sound in the hallway outside. He was up in a flash, throwing open the door before he'd even realised that he hoped to catch Ethan spying on him, but there was no one there. He felt foolish and he had to admit, angry with himself for being drawn into another one of Ethan's games.
He was still angry when he got home, and avoided turning on the computer for as long as possible. When he finally did turn it on, he was holding a glass of whisky that he'd already taken several swallows from.
To: rgiles@cow.co.uk
To: ethanrayne@hotmail.com
To: rgiles@cow.co.uk
To: ethanrayne@hotmail.com
Giles switched off the computer and stood up, wondering what the hell he was doing. It was already gone six and the pub Ethan had mentioned -- was it wise to let him choose their meeting place? Probably not -- was far enough away that he didn't have much time.
He'd eaten earlier, forcing down a frozen, microwaved dinner while his attention wandered towards the silently waiting computer. Now he showered and changed as quickly as possible, dressing in jeans and a shirt softened and faded by washing to a blue three shades lighter than its original colour.
Shrugging on a leather jacket, with inner pockets deep enough to conceal a stake -- compared to Sunnydale, London was remarkably free of vampires, but they were still around -- he left his flat.
He wanted to get there before Ethan. Wanted to watch him arrive. If he remembered correctly, there was an alley across from the pub's main entrance that would be ideal.
Of course, Ethan would know that too --
Giles bit his lip. God, it was like fighting himself, trying to out-guess, out-wit Ethan. Pointless, and doomed to failure.
Doomed to failure in more ways than one, he realised when he reached the Tube only to discover that the rolling blackouts had brought the trains to a grinding halt a short while before. It was past the evening commute, so there were fewer people standing about complaining than there might have been, although that might also have something to do with the fact that the power had been going out long enough that people had got used it. He did hear some muttered expressions of irritation, but at that point he was more concerned with how he was going to get halfway across London.
The first bus he found was full to what he expected was beyond capacity, the second one was either hopelessly late or just didn't exist at all, and he couldn't get a taxi despite his best efforts. By the time he finally got to the pub, he was more than an hour late, and considerably flustered.
The pub was crowded with people watching the mid-week football game, and it took Giles a good five minutes to ascertain that Ethan wasn't there. He didn't think there was much point, but he pushed his way to the bar and got the busy bartender's attention. "What can I get ya?" the man asked.
"I'm actually looking for someone," Giles said, raising his voice to be heard over the crowd. "Dark haired man, tall, thin, my age. He's an old friend. I was supposed to meet him here."
To his surprise, the bartender nodded and turned away, coming back a moment later with a folded up bit of paper that he pressed into Giles' hand. "He said if you came I was to give you this." There was a curious blankness to the man's eyes that vanished as soon as Giles took the note. The bartender shook himself and gave Giles a puzzled smile. "Sorry, mate, didn't catch that?"
A compulsion spell, Giles thought. Designed to make sure the note wasn't forgotten, thrown away, or read by anyone other than him. How like Ethan to use magic for something so trivial.
"It's fine. Changed my mind," he said, turning away from the bar.
"Suit yourself."
The note as Giles discovered when he read it in the back of a taxi -- suddenly they seemed to be there for the having -- said nothing but, 'Another time?'. Crumpling it up, he shoved it into his pocket and stared out at the busy streets, searching futilely for Ethan's face.
When he got back, he paid the driver and glanced up at the dark windows of his home. Perhaps a drink wasn't a bad idea, even if he would be drinking alone. He took three steps, heading for his local, and then froze. "I know you're there."
There was silence for a moment then he heard Ethan's familiar voice say, "Very perceptive." Giles turned, and Ethan stepped out of the shadows on the other side of his building. "You didn't turn up when you said you would," Ethan said, hands in the pockets of his jacket. "That's not like you."
"Thanks for the trusting faith in my reliability," Giles said a little sourly. "As you can see, I tried. These bloody power cuts -- " He studied Ethan. "You know where I live and you still picked the Fox and Hounds to meet? You couldn't have found somewhere just a little closer?"
"It's one place I haven't been to recently," Ethan said as if that explained everything. He was standing quite still, watching Giles just as carefully as Giles was watching him.
"Well, it's getting late," Giles said. "But as you're here --" He frowned. "Why the sunglasses, Ethan? If they're supposed to make you look inconspicuous, I have to say that's less effective at night."
Ethan ignored the question and turned his head to look at Giles' building. "You aren't going in?"
Giles sighed, abandoning his plans to find a quiet corner in a quiet pub. "As keeping you out if you're determined is virtually impossible and I've plenty of whisky, you might as well come up, I suppose." Suspicion roughened his voice. "Or have you already been in?" He took a step towards Ethan. "If you've dared --"
Ethan took a quick, awkward step back, anxiety flaring from him as obviously as if Giles had been able to smell it, both hands held up in front of him. "I didn't. I swear it."
Giles took a slow breath. Ethan didn't actually lie all that well -- not to him anyway, not directly. Half-truths and evasions -- those he was better with. "I believe you," he said, feeling a little ashamed of himself. "Sorry," he added, a little grudgingly.
Ethan looked at him for a long moment. It was a bit disturbing not to be able to see Ethan's eyes, to read him that way, but then Ethan nodded and shrugged. "Is the offer still open then? Or should we call it a night before there are actual blows?" His tone was light but cautious.
"It's still open," Giles said, moving towards the entrance. He wasn't sure this was the best idea he'd ever had but his curiosity was rising, overcoming his caution. "And I think I can deal with you without it coming to that." He paused and gave a rueful laugh. "Although our track record isn't good, is it?"
"Not really, no." Ethan followed slowly and so carefully that Giles realised just then, for the first time, that he was keeping a distance between them.
He opened his mouth to comment, and then reconsidered. Time enough for that later, when they'd had a drink, achieved some semblance of cordiality.
By the time they'd reached his door, walking upstairs in a silence that was about as far from relaxed as it was possible to get, Giles had adjusted his ideas to contain an Ethan who wasn't talking in a smooth flow of insinuating chatter, an Ethan who was tense and wary.
"You're frightened of something, aren't you?" he said when the door had closed behind them, the revelation striking him with too much force for him to be tactful. "Is that what you meant by paying a price?"
"Did I say that?" Ethan asked wearily, making no motion to take off his jacket.
"Yes," Giles said bluntly. "Oh, sit down, Ethan. I'll get us a drink..." He walked over to the small collection of bottles he kept on top of a glass-fronted case and picked up the whisky, stooping to get two tumblers from the shelves underneath. "Yes, you did. I thought at the time you were being dramatic as usual but it's not hard to see you've --" He stood facing Ethan who was still standing. "Changed," he finished, holding out a glass.
"Set it down on the table," Ethan said, gesturing, and at Giles' look, "No, I'm not being dramatic." He waited until Giles had done as he'd asked then picked up the glass and took a swallow of the whisky as if he were grateful for it. "I'm... well, I suppose changed is a good way to put it." Slowly, he removed his sunglasses, tucking them into his jacket pocket and raising eyes that were filled with broken blood vessels to meet Giles'. There were dark circles underneath Ethan's eyes as if he hadn't been sleeping properly, and without the glasses the weight he'd clearly lost since Giles had seen him in Sunnydale was emphasised.
Giles did his best to keep the shock -- worse yet pity -- he felt from showing on his face. Taking a gulp of whisky, he stepped back, sitting down in a chair, far enough away that Ethan was out of reach, and gesturing to the couch. "I wish you'd sit down," he said quietly. "You're ill then? Have you been to a doctor?"
The thought that after all they'd been through Ethan might be brought low by something mundane seemed disturbing, even insulting, though that was foolish. They were human. They could hurt. They could bleed. For all Ethan's magic, and Giles' own knowledge, they could die.
It just didn't seem fitting, somehow. Lord knows, Giles didn't expect to die in bed of old age.
Ethan laughed, the sound awkward and artificial in the quiet flat. "Doctors can't help me," he said, moving over to the couch and sinking down onto it, sighing. "It's not that sort of illness."
Giles pursed his lips. "Well that narrows it down." Keeping his voice even, he gave Ethan a pointed stare, not looking away from the damaged eyes. "But not much. So what sort is it?"
"You were there," Ethan said, giving Giles a moment of confusion before he clarified, "The other day. At the intersection?"
It took Giles a moment to realise what Ethan meant. "When the lights malfunctioned? What about it?"
"I was there," Ethan said. "If I hadn't been, it wouldn't have happened. It was my fault, you see."
Giles felt his pity vanish. "You did that?" He leant forward, feeling a twinge in the shoulder he'd wrenched scrambling clear of the oncoming cars. "I thought you said you weren't trying to kill me! There were other people there, Ethan. A woman -- her baby -- God, I can't believe --" He shook his head. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
It wasn't entirely a rhetorical question.
Ethan set his glass down on the table with a click, standing up and turning toward the door. "In your eyes, everything, clearly... I'll go, shall I? Before you get down to the details of my shortcomings." Every line of his body screamed tension, making him look so unlike the Ethan that Giles knew that it was as if there were a complete stranger in the room.
"I don't think so," Giles said, getting up. He moved quickly around the back of the couch, putting himself between Ethan and the door. "Not before you tell me why you did that." He frowned. "I thought you didn't know I was back? Why were you so quick to attack me?"
"I didn't even know it was you, not for sure. Not until after, when you... I was so surprised, you see." Ethan spoke quietly, hands at his sides. He looked defeated. "It wasn't an attack. It was an accident."
"An accident?" Giles repeated. "You turn every light green by accident often, do you? Ethan, that doesn't make sense. You're reckless, but not uncontrolled, not with your magic. And --" He hesitated, unable to sustain his anger in the face of Ethan's subdued demeanour. "Ethan, are you sure it was even you? It could have been a coincidence; these bloody power cuts -- it doesn't have to have been anyone's fault, although you can't blame me for leaping to conclusions."
"I might as well blame you," Ethan said, edging backward away from Giles. "It was because of you, after all. Because I was so startled. Not that it always happens that way; sometimes there's no explanation for it. But it's me. It's all me."
"What is?" Giles asked rubbing his hand across his forehead. He was starting to get a headache, and the quiet despair in Ethan's eyes was disturbing to say the least. "Would you please just tell me, so that I can help you?" he finished, his voice rising with his frustration.
"You can't help me, Ripper. No one can." Ethan wavered on his feet and acting without thought, Giles stretched out his hand to steady him. "No!" Ethan cried, jumping back away from Giles' hand and losing his balance, catching himself against the wall. The ceiling light overhead surged brightly, sending out a shower of sparks that floated down then dissipated. "Don't touch me."
Giles looked up at the light and then at Ethan, realisation dawning. "You... did you do that?"
Ethan gave him a look that made him feel stupid and then nodded. "Of course I did. But that's nothing, Rupert. Don't you watch the news? Your old friend's quite the celebrity these days." He straightened up, dusting himself down with unsteady hands. "I even made the lead story the day the power cut meant the Arsenal match got cancelled. Luckily no one knows it's me doing it, or I imagine I'd have been lynched by a crowd of football fans, and that's really not how I plan to leave this life."
"You?" Giles gaped at him. "You've been causing -- no, that's ridiculous! They've been all over the place; Newcastle, Manchester, Oxford -- "
"I've had to keep moving," Ethan said. Giles moved towards him and Ethan held up his hand, the momentary flash of his old self-assurance fading. "Promise you won't touch me. I can't take the chance; I don't know what would happen."
Giles set aside the question of how Ethan was causing nationwide chaos -- although he'd certainly be returning to it -- and concentrated on the more immediate problem.
"You don't know? Then why are you assuming anything would?" He pushed his hands into the pockets of his jeans in an attempt to reassure Ethan and gave him a rueful smile. "I'm not used to you being this concerned about my well-being." Or not wanting me to touch you.
"You saw what happened at that intersection," Ethan said. He seemed to have relaxed a bit, but he also looked utterly exhausted as if he were barely able to continue standing. "That wasn't the first time. I've... hurt people, Rupert." The implication that some of them had been more than just hurt hung heavy in the air.
"But it's not deliberate?" Giles asked, stressing the word and the distinction he was making. "You don't know why it's happening, apart from the obvious fact that it's related to your emotional state?" Before Ethan could answer, he nodded towards the couch. "Look, sit down again. I promise I won't do anything to make you feel -- threatened."
He stepped to the side, moving slowly, casually, and walked back to his seat, leaving Ethan with a clear path to the door or the couch.
Ethan hesitated, swaying slightly then managed to make his way to the couch and collapse down onto it. "It's not always related to my emotional state as you call it." He leant back, letting the cushions support his weight. "Sometimes it just happens. Ever since I got out of that bloody place, it's been totally out of my control."
"That place? Where -- oh. Oh, God." Giles reached out blindly for his drink on the table beside him, not looking away from Ethan, locating it more by luck than judgment. He raised it to his lips. The sting and burn as he swallowed the contents steadied him enough to continue. "The Initiative, you mean."
"Where else?" Ethan blinked slowly as if too weary to do anything at more than half speed. "They spent so much time mucking about with me... seeing how much power I could channel... how much they could pull out of me before I passed out. I suppose I should consider myself fortunate that they bothered to revive me the two times they killed me outright. I was still interesting then..." His voice trailed off.
Giles closed his eyes against the images Ethan's words evoked only to find them waiting for him in the darkness. Splintered pictures of what he'd seen when he'd gone inside the Sunnydale Initiative, and of what Buffy had told him of Oz's rescue, came together to form a whole, leaving him shaken and sickened. White walls and screams echoing off them...
"They weren't supposed to do that," Giles whispered. "Rehabilitate you -- but it was just a word. I never expected them to do more than kick you out of the country."
Ethan shrugged. He looked small sitting there on the couch, small and broken. "I suppose they thought they'd have a bit of fun with me first." Glancing up, he met Giles' gaze. "Don't worry, Rupert. I don't blame you. I'd have done the same thing, in your place." He paused. "Well, no, I wouldn't have. But I still don't blame you."
Guilt made Giles snap back an angry retort. "You'd just tried to kill me! Can we try and remember that as practical jokes go, turning me into a demon on the Hellmouth with a Slayer and those soldiers after me is just a little more serious than a bloody whoopee cushion?" He bit his lip. "Sorry. I'm not doing a very good job of staying calm, am I?"
"You don't need to," Ethan pointed out, his words slurring the slightest bit. "Everything within a few hundred yards isn't likely to go up in sparks just because you get a bit emotional. Or for no particular reason at all. Is it." It struck Giles that this was one of the worst punishments possible for Ethan.
"So how I feel doesn't affect you?" Giles asked wryly. "You're not going to respond adversely to what I say or do if I lose my temper? Somehow I doubt that." He linked his hands together in his lap. "What do you think would happen if you touched me, or I you?"
Ethan perked up a bit at that, his eyes darting to Giles' as if to make sure that it was just a question. He swallowed and looked down. "Ever stuck a fork in an electrical outlet as a boy?"
"Being blessed with a self-preservation instinct stronger than my curiosity, no, but I get the picture." Giles gave Ethan a puzzled look. "That's quite a weapon. Was that their intent? I can well believe it of them." He added softly, "Even if the cost was leaving you so... isolated."
"No," Ethan said. "Actually, I don't think that was their intent at all. They just wanted to see what I could do. After they resuscitated me the second time, I think they decided they'd learned what they could from me. I doubt they expected me to last much longer. When coincidence worked in my favor and I shorted out half the complex in the middle of a shift change, I just... walked right out." His expression was strained. "For the first few weeks I kept expecting them to come after me, but I suppose they had more important fish to fry."
Giles smiled, feeling genuine amusement. "You're a stubborn bastard when you want to be." His smile faded. "Stubborn, and lucky. Ethan -- I can see how your power might flare up if you were scared or startled, but surely if you were expecting -- if it were me --?"
There was something deeply wrong about Ethan not being able to touch another person. Ethan, whose restless hands had stilled and slowed as they passed over Giles' body with a strange solemnity at times, a bemused wonder. Something so wrong that Giles refused to accept that it was so. He realised that he was edging forward in his seat and frowned, forcing himself to sit back.
Ethan was shaking his head. "We can't take the chance, can we? You're the only friend I have left -- I'd hate to kill you by mistake." He looked up at Giles. "Or should I say 'former friend'?" There was something hopeful in his voice, but his expression was, Giles thought, carefully schooled to seem resigned.
"I'm not that fragile," Giles said. "And this isn't something physical; it's magical. It's coming from you, and despite the uses to which you put it, I've never known your magic to be something you couldn't control." He stared directly at Ethan, willing him to believe. "I'm -- not your enemy, Ethan. I should be, but I'm not. And I meant it when I said I wanted to help you, but I can't do anything if you're locked up inside yourself like this."
"I don't feel locked up," Ethan said. "In fact, I feel as if I'm telling you rather more than I'd planned on sharing." He smiled wryly. "If I start to confess all my sins, do feel free to take extreme measures to shut me up, won't you? I can't imagine what's making me be so frank."
"You were planning on lying to me?" Giles asked him. He shook his head in resignation. "Why am I not surprised?"
"I'm not lying now," Ethan told him. "I'm warning you not to come closer. Not to risk yourself. Or, for that matter, me."
Every time Ethan told him to keep his distance, Giles felt like moving closer, which made absolutely no sense at all if he thought about it and all the sense in the world when he didn't.
It was one thing to feel guilty and outraged at the way Ethan had been treated; another to put himself at risk just for the sake of satisfying his curiosity. Giles bit down on the inside of his lip, letting the small throb of pain distract him from the increasingly urgent need to cross the room and go to Ethan.
It didn't help.
In the space between a breath drawn in and exhaled, Giles gave up struggling.
He met Ethan's gaze and said softly, "I'm going to come over to you and I'm going to touch you. Tip of my finger against the back of your hand. No more than that. And if anything happens, you've got full permission to blame me."
Giles stood up and began to move slowly towards Ethan.
Ethan's tension was palpable, but he remained where he was. Giles could see him trembling as he sat down beside him. "I can't control this," Ethan whispered. "If I could have, I would. Are you sure this is a good idea? Why are you doing this?"
"No," Giles said honestly. "I'm not sure. But I'm still going to do it." This close he could almost taste the tension, like static in the air on a frosty day. It occurred to him that it might not be entirely his imagination and he hesitated. "I can't explain it very well, but it feels... wrong not being able to touch you. I want to." At this proximity it was verging on a compulsion as if he were hungry and there was food in front of him, as if he were cold and only Ethan could warm him. He wasn't sure he could walk back to his chair without reaching out to touch Ethan just once.
"Is there any way of getting you to relax?" Giles asked. "Short of pouring the rest of that bottle down you, which I'd rather we didn't as I can't imagine your control would improve if you were blind drunk."
Swallowing, Ethan shook his head. "No, and it's just going to get worse the longer you put it off, so just do it if you're going to, and get it over with." He shut his eyes, taking a few slow, deep breaths. "Do it."
Giles found himself smiling again, filled with an odd exhilaration. It wasn't that he didn't think that this was dangerous -- Ethan could, and had, hurt him in the past -- it was just that he didn't care.
Without giving either of them time to reconsider, he gave the back of Ethan's hand the promised light touch and then, when he felt nothing more than cool skin against his own, he reached out impulsively and cupped Ethan's face, feeling the familiar contours of jaw and bone.
Ethan drew a startled, shuddering breath, his terribly bloodshot eyes opening and searching out Giles' for reassurance. "I don't want to hurt you," he whispered. "Don't let me."
Giles kept his hand where it was, absently rubbing his thumb across Ethan's hollow cheek in a gesture -- a caress -- culled from memory. The odd urgency had left him and he felt nothing but contentment. "Don't worry about it."
Still trembling, Ethan reached out and laid his hand against Giles' chest, so lightly that he was really only touching the fabric of his shirt.
Giving an encouraging, wordless murmur, Giles brought his free hand up and covered Ethan's, doing no more than that, allowing Ethan to take his time.
The tension between them was changing, the sense of danger slipping away to be replaced by something equally fraught. Giles was acutely aware of every breath Ethan drew, captivated by the slow drag of Ethan's tongue against his lip as he moistened it, the pulse beating in his throat.
Ethan had never seemed fragile before, but he did now. That stubborn quality was still there underneath, wrapped around and around like the tendrils of some particularly tenacious plant, but on the surface there was little sign of it. Ethan looked like what he was -- an exhausted, desperate man who'd been alone too long and was clinging to the only hint of familiarity he could find. "Ripper..." It was hardly more than a whisper.
"Right here. Still not dead," Giles murmured. "Ethan --" He broke off, not sure that talking was such a good idea right now, and curled his fingers around Ethan's, letting his other hand slip around Ethan's shoulders, pulling him into a hug.
It had been so long since he'd done this and he wondered, with a faint chill, if, without realising it, he'd become as starved for contact as Ethan. He couldn't recall the last time he'd even shaken someone's hand. That made him tighten his hold around Ethan as though he, not the man he held, needed reassurance, needed help.
Leaning into the embrace, Ethan trembled in his arms. He smelled of leather and something faintly like ozone, and after a moment he shifted, clutching onto Giles tightly in relief. "I don't want to die."
"You will eventually," Giles said, feeling sleepy as if he'd done something more strenuous than he had. "So will I," he added, feeling the customary burst of surprise at the idea. "But I don't think it's imminent."
Settling them back against the cushions, with his hand still linked with Ethan's, he sighed and closed his eyes.
"Rupert?" Ethan sounded hesitant but worried, although he didn't move, continuing to let Giles hold him. "Are you all right?"
Giles gave that some consideration under the circumstances instead of answering with an automatic 'I'm fine'. "I feel a little tired," he admitted, aware of a deep weariness. "But it's been a stressful day. Running around London looking for you..." He made sure to keep his voice light, not wanting to disturb this truce or balance of sorts that they'd achieved. He was trying not to even think about it because if he did he was sure logic would point out a dozen reasons why he should still be in his chair, or shouting at Ethan, or at the very least, still questioning him.
But logic was weak in the face of the need to be this close to Ethan. And all he wanted to do was stay like this, with the light -- too light -- weight of Ethan resting against him as he allowed his eyes to close again.
"I'd suggest that I go, but that would be uncharacteristically unselfish of me, don't you think?" Ethan murmured after a moment. "And I really don't want to." His hand was still holding Giles' rather tightly.
Giles let himself relax completely. "Stay," he said through the weariness that was dragging him away from his surroundings and down into sleep. He turned his head, just a little, without opening his eyes, and felt the soft brush of Ethan's hair against his lips. "Stay."
There was a great deal of time in which Giles dozed, slipping in and out of sleep with Ethan warm against him. At some point, he fell into a deeper sleep, and when he woke, he was alone on the couch in pitch-dark. The flat seemed unnaturally silent, and after a moment, he realised that the power was out. Again.
"Ethan?" he called, a bit more loudly than he probably needed to. The sleep, no matter how fragmented it had been, seemed to have restored his energy levels and with that had come a clarity of mind that told him in all likelihood Ethan had left. A moment's quiet and then he heard Ethan's voice reply from the kitchen. "In here."
The relief he felt was disproportionately strong.
Struggling to his feet and yawning until he felt his jaw crack, Giles headed towards Ethan's voice, his eyes adjusted well enough to the darkness that he didn't trip over anything for a change.
"Looks like the power's out again," he said, in a lower voice, more suitable for what felt like three or four o'clock in the morning. "The street lights are still on though; is it just us?"
"I think it's the whole building," Ethan said ruefully, remaining where he was and letting Giles come to him. "I hope you weren't particularly fond of your electric kettle."
"Devoted," Giles said. "But it had seen better days; don't worry about it." He yawned again. "A cup of tea would've been nice, but given that's off the menu, I can offer you milk, about half a glass of orange juice, if you're lucky, or an unlimited amount of tap water." His own mouth was parched and sticky, and he headed for the sink, finding a glass, rinsed but never put away, on the draining board.
He didn't fail to notice that Ethan was stepping back out of his way, carefully avoiding coming in contact with him again. "Best not," Ethan said. "When I'm out of balance like this, I'm likely to end up with a scorched tongue for my trouble."
"What do you mean?" Giles asked turning on the cold tap and letting water splutter noisily into the glass. "And what sparked -- no, sorry, that pun wasn't intentional -- what happened, anyway?"
"I touched your poor, innocent kettle and sent it to small appliance heaven," Ethan said with a shrug. "If what you're asking is what prompted that to occur this time and not, for example, when I made myself tea yesterday morning, I don't have an answer for that. Although it's been getting worse as times goes by, rather than better."
Giles drank most of the glass of water and then set it aside. "Tell me more about it," he said. "When it started, anything you can remember that might act as a trigger, anything you've tried to stop it happening -- give me as much information as you can." He shook his head, although he didn't know if Ethan could see him, and walked over to him. "But not now. After we've got some proper sleep, and it's daylight."
"Careful," Ethan warned, stepping back. "Go on to bed; I'll take the sofa, if you trust me enough to let me spend the rest of the night under your roof." There was something challenging in his tone, but under it all he still sounded bone-tired.
Giles didn't feel inclined to argue with him -- which had to be a first. The tiredness was seeping back into him and he wanted nothing but sleep, dreamless and deep, if possible.
"I'll get you a quilt and some pillows," he said, moving past Ethan. "And I'd appreciate it if you were still here when I wake up? I really don't want to spend tomorrow -- today -- chasing after you."
"I'll still be here," Ethan said quietly, following Giles and watching as he retrieved some spare bed things and put them on the couch. "Good night, Rupert."
It sounded more like 'thank you' than anything Giles would have expected from Ethan. On that thought, he went off to bed.
To Ethan's surprise, he actually did sleep. He hadn't thought he would -- he certainly hadn't while Rupert had dozed on the sofa, thinking that it would be just his luck to drop off and torch the entire building in his sleep just when things were starting to look up. Not that he expected Rupert to save him, of course. He'd given up on that idea long ago, and stubbornly tramped down on any tiny flares of hope that tried to make themselves known. He'd been getting far too little sleep for far too long, so somehow he managed to sleep right through RupertÊgetting up and taking a shower. It wasn't until the sound of water running and saucepans on the stovetop in the kitchen filtered through to his brain that Ethan woke, slowly and reluctantly.
"It won't taste quite right, but here's some tea made with almost-boiling water," Rupert said, appearing in the kitchen doorway. "By the time I've poured it from the saucepan into a jug, and from the jug into the teapot, it's lost that crucial few degrees. Ah well. Better than nothing."
Ethan didn't want to sit up; he was too comfortable in his nest of quilt and pillows. But he did want the tea, so he forced himself upright, reaching a hand out for the mug Rupert offered him without thinking. Almost too late, he snatched his hand back, but not before knocking it against the mug and sending a splash of hot tea over Rupert's hand and the carpet.
"Ethan!" Rupert said crossly, shaking his hand to dry it and glaring at him. "Was that really necessary?" He slammed the mug down on the coffee table.
"Considering what became of your kettle, I'd think you'd be grateful that I'm concerned for your safety," Ethan snapped. "Never mind. I don't want the bloody tea, and I don't need your help." He struggled to his feet, throwing the quilt down onto the sofa with shaking hands and looking around for his shoes.
He heard Rupert take a deep breath and waited for him to come up with the perfect scathing comment to speed him on his way. It never came.
"I'd forgotten what a foul mood you wake up in," Rupert said, with a thread of amusement replacing the irritation. "Never were a morning person, were you? Let's try again." With studied politeness he said, "Good morning, Ethan. Did you sleep well?"
Ethan's own breath was as shaky as his hands, but he stopped what he was doing and forced himself to meet Rupert's eyes. "Let's just say that I slept and leave it at that," he said. "I appreciate the use of your sofa. And your kettle, short though its life turned out to be." He hated that when it came right down to it, he did need Rupert's help, but there was nothing to be done about that. He couldn't bear to be alone any longer, not if Rupert was offering.
"It's not the Holy Grail, Ethan," Rupert said, rolling his eyes. "Just a kettle. And there was about an inch of scale in the bottom; I could probably do with a new one anyway."
"So I did you a favor then?" Ethan grinned hopefully, pushing aside his worries and concentrating on the moment. "That's good. I'd hate to be too deeply in your debt." He sat back down and picked up his mug, which was damp on the outside, trying to gauge whether or not the contact with the liquid would earn him a shock.
"You're not in my debt at all," Rupert answered, going back into the kitchen and coming out with his own mug. "Helping you sort this out is very much in my best interests, unless you're planning to relocate to the Outer Hebrides." He took a sip of his tea and shuddered. "And you knew I'd help you." He gave Ethan a level look. "Didn't you?"
Ethan sipped at his tea tentatively then relaxed when nothing untoward happened. "No," he said honestly. "If I'd thought you would, I might have gone looking for you. But I'd no idea you were in London or even England. I wasn't lying about that."
"Then what were your plans?" Rupert asked, moving to the window and staring down into the busy street. "From what I can tell, you've been moving on every time something major happened, but running hasn't helped, has it? If anything, it's probably left you feeling even more hunted. Even though no one's actually after you yet." His mouth twisted in an ironic smile. "'The guilty flee when no man pursueth'. But you're not, Ethan. For once. Don't you think it's time to stop running?"
Looking down at his hands, Ethan wondered if he should chance admitting the truth and decided that he might as well. There was so little left to lose at this point, and his pride was long gone. "I thought I had," he said. "Stopped running. That's why I came back to London." Perhaps his pride wasn't completely gone, after all because he wasn't quite ready to admit that he'd come back to see some of their old haunts one last time.
It was bad enough without Ripper knowing that even now he was the only tangible thing Ethan had ever wanted.
Rupert had turned to look at him, so Ethan tried to explain further. "It was clear I couldn't continue on like this, not for much longer. You've seen what happens when I try to do something as simple as make a cup of tea."
"And you came back here because it's the closest you've got to home?" Rupert asked. He shook his head. "I understand that, but wouldn't somewhere remote be better? London -- any city, any town -- they must make your situation worse. Have you tried going to somewhere less, well, saturated with electricity, for want of a better description?"
"I suppose it's been a bit worse here," Ethan said. He was taking advantage of his current non-reactive state to drink his tea quickly. "Less saturated with electricity? You mean the middle of bloody nowhere. Do I really strike you as the sort of person who longs to get away from it all, to get back to nature?" He laughed at the thought.
"So you haven't even tried that?" Rupert asked incredulously. "You know you can plunge an area the size of Sunnydale into darkness, you think you can't touch anyone without disastrous consequences, and you head for London? Have you quite lost it?"
Frustrated, Ethan got to his feet, trying not to let his emotions run away with him. "I came here to die," he said, keeping his voice low. "Excuse me if I wasn't quite up to thinking about everyone else's convenience." It was selfish of him, and he knew it, but under the circumstances it had seemed pointless to worry about reforming his character. Not to mention far too late.
"I didn't -- oh Lord." Rupert looked at him with what seemed to be fond exasperation, although possibly the fondness was a bit of wishful thinking. "Ethan, sod everyone else's convenience -- I'm thinking about what's best for you. As I don't have the least interest in watching you mope around, having a drink for old time's sake in every pub we got banned from in our dissolute youth, and unlike you, I'm far from resigned to your supposedly imminent demise, can we please start considering solutions, not suitable epitaphs?"
"Yes, please," Ethan said, thinking that Rupert knew him too well for comfort. "Unless you're about to suggest something that includes solitary confinement." He'd had far too much of that; just the thought of it made his skin crawl.
"I think that'd be even worse for you than staying here," Rupert said seriously. "You -- this not touching -- it's not helping you, Ethan." He put down his mug and leant against the wall, arms folded across his chest. "The magic -- it's all building up inside you and these power surges are your way of releasing that, I suppose. It's not really all that surprisingly when you think about it. Magic and electricity do have a number of properties in common. But it's damaging you, physically and emotionally." He straightened and began to walk over to Ethan. "You can't cut yourself off from the world, Ethan, not if you want to stay sane."
"It's not just that," Ethan said, watching Rupert warily from his spot on the couch. "Well, sometimes it is, but other times -- when I'm actually trying to work magic for example -- it's... I just lose control. The magic takes over and ends up channeling the electrical power right through me. I think." He gave Rupert a sheepish look. "Those are generally the times I lose consciousness and wake up hours later on the floor, so it's hard to know for sure what happens."
"So you can't do magic?" Rupert said, raising his eyebrows. "That's odd... I'd think that would be a way of releasing the build-up." He paused beside Ethan, sighed faintly and turned away, dragging over a wooden chair and sitting down very carefully out of reach. "Is this all right?" he asked. "Because I'm getting the feeling you don't want to repeat what happened last night."
"What I don't want a repeat of," Ethan said, "is the part where the thing I touch goes up in a shower of sparks and the smell of burning." He looked at Rupert with what he was sure was a fair amount of longing. "And about the other thing -- I can still do magic. I just can't predict whether or not I'll be able to control what happens afterwards." He felt his expression twist into a sardonic grin. "Chaos personified. Just what I always wanted."
There was a flash of something far too close to pity in Rupert's eyes, but none in his voice. "Be careful what you wish for... yes." He pursed his lips in thought. "Apart from feeling a little tired afterwards, and that wasn't necessarily connected, touching you didn't hurt me." His mouth curved into a small smile. "Not a spark in sight."
"That doesn't mean there wouldn't be next time," Ethan pointed out stubbornly. If he was the cause of Rupert being hurt, or worse... he'd never forgive himself. Or Rupert.
"True, but it's a risk I'm willing to take." Rupert held out his hand, palm up. "Because if I can't touch you, I can't help you. You know that. It limits the healing spells we could try, it keeps you cut off, isolated, which I'm sure is making things worse --" His face looked calm, unworried as far as Ethan could see. "So let's try it again, shall we?"
Ethan looked at him, aware that saying no to Rupert was, for him, almost as impossible as flying. Trying to keep the surge of fear in check, he nodded and reached out a hand that only shook a little bit, ready to pull it back in an instant if contact resulted in a shock. To his relief, nothing happened but their hands touching each other, Ethan's fingertips sliding over Rupert's warm skin. He shivered, but didn't stop now that he'd started, moving his hand so that his smallest two fingers curled around the edge of Rupert's palm, his thumb curving around on the other side so that he could hold on. He glanced up into Rupert's eyes, aware that his heart was pounding.
"See?" Rupert said, his voice husky and uneven although his hand was steady. "Nothing happening." His fingers closed around Ethan's hand, clasping it firmly, and he hitched his chair closer so that their linked hands could rest on his knees.
"Nothing?" Ethan asked. "I must be losing my touch."
Rupert's hand tightened slightly and he gave Ethan a rather tense smile. "Nothing bad," he clarified. "And no, you're not." He tilted his head and his smile became just a little challenging. "Am I?"
There was no way that Ethan was going to admit that as far as he was concerned Rupert would never lose his touch, but he suspected that his eyes gave everything away. Eyes, he reminded himself, that were sunken and bloodshot in a face that was too thin to be anything but pitiable. "You said something about possible solutions?" he said, wishing there were a way to sound something between desperate and utterly detached because he didn't want to seem either if the latter meant that Rupert thought he didn't care at all. He'd have to hope that the fact that he was still holding onto Rupert's hand would be enough.
"Did I?" Rupert murmured. "Oh -- well that depends on you. Given your earlier reaction, I'm not sure you're going to like what I suggest."
His upturned hand shifted slightly and Ethan felt warm fingers stroke across his wrist and pause where his pulse was beating hard and fast. There was just the slightest gleam of satisfaction in Rupert's eyes as though his question had been answered after all.
"You're not going to suggest putting me in a padded room with no access to electricity, are you?" Ethan asked, staying still despite the considerable effort it took. He knew that wasn't what Rupert was suggesting, but the thought of it plagued him so thoroughly that he had to give voice to it.
"No," Rupert said. "You know I'm not. Weren't you listening to me at all?" He didn't sound irritated despite his words, and the fingers against Ethan's wrist slid upwards under the turned-back cuff of his shirt, brushing lightly against his inner arm. "A retreat. A refuge. Somewhere quiet, and yes, without electricity. Somewhere we won't be interrupted and you won't be worrying about bloody kettles. Well?"
Ethan was so distracted by Rupert's touch that he had a difficult time remembering what he was responding to for a moment. "Just the two of us?" It sounded... "No. What if something were to go wrong? In the middle of bloody nowhere, with no medical care... it'd be asking for trouble." Putting complete strangers in danger was one thing, but risking Rupert's life wasn't something Ethan was willing to do.
"Were you always this stubborn?" Rupert asked, drawing his thumbnail over the skin he'd been touching, from the crook of Ethan's elbow to his wrist. "Ethan, you told me that if you stay here, you'll die. I'm not -- for various reasons -- willing to sit by and watch that happen. Now pick a county and I'll find us somewhere to stay. On the coast, do you think? So you don't feel so closed in?"
"I'm used to feeling closed in," Ethan muttered. On the other hand, the thought of being near the sea was appealing, somehow. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"
He wanted to be convinced that it would be all right but he found himself a little puzzled by how quickly Rupert had decided to help him. It wasn't that he didn't think Rupert's deplorable habit of saving everything from the world to Green Shield stamps didn't include him, but he'd expected a lecture at the very least. Not to mention his own unexpected honesty the night before.
"Rupert, old man," he began. "It occurs to me that -"
"Can we just get to the part where you agree with me that it is because this is wasting time that I don't think we have?" Rupert enquired pointedly. "And given that it's getting late, shall we have breakfast now?"
The sudden shift to the prosaic was matched by the removal of Rupert's hand as he stood up, clearly considering the discussion -- such as it was -- over.
Sullen and a bit overwhelmed, Ethan stayed where he was for a long moment, looking at his empty mug and wondering if he ought to just get up and walk out the front door. But when it came right down to it, Rupert was right about several things. Ethan was lonely, and being so isolated wasn't likely to do anything to improve his situation. Getting away from all sources of electricity was one of the few things he hadn't tried, and one of the few he was unlikely to try on his own. Rupert did, Ethan admitted to himself grudgingly, have a point.
Abandoning his vague suspicions about the ease with which they'd become the 'Save Ethan' team - and he supposed it could be as simple an explanation as guilt on Rupert's part - he went, mug in hand, and stood in the doorway to the kitchen, where Rupert was contemplating the inside of the refrigerator. "What if there isn't a part where I agree with you that you're right?" Ethan asked, just to see what Rupert would say.
"I've annoyed you, haven't I?" Rupert said without turning. "Been overbearing and bossy and got you to the point where you'd be willing to die just to piss me off." He straightened, holding an egg carton and some bacon, and gave Ethan what he had to admit was a charming smile, and one he didn't trust a bit. "I'm so sorry, Ethan." The smile vanished and his voice rose. "I'll just be tactful and polite and hope you don't die while you make up your mind about letting me help you, shall I?" He slammed the food down on the counter and glared at Ethan.
Ethan... well, the only accurate way to put it would be to say he snapped. "Yes," he snarled, stepping further into the kitchen and putting his mug down before he broke it. "That's exactly what you ought to be doing, considering. This isn't about you, Rupert. For once in my bloody life there's something that's not about you, astonishing as that may be to believe." He knew that he should try to calm himself down, to stop the surge that was building inside him, ready to lash out. In a desperate attempt to distract it, he slapped the flat of his hand down on the countertop with all the force he could muster. "I suppose you've conveniently forgotten that the last time I trusted you, you left me. And yet you expect me to blithely go along with whatever scheme you cook up just because you say that you want to help me?"
There was a part of him that wanted to touch Rupert, to hurt him and show him what it felt like, but he didn't. Wouldn't let himself. Instead, he opened up, sending a powerful psychic blast to within inches of Rupert's face, all the fury and hurt that Rupert had caused him bundled into a neat package of raw emotion that the other man wouldn't be able to deny.
Things Rupert had said to him, little things that probably hadn't been meant to hurt as much as they did but which cut Ethan to the quick, lingering for years. Inflections of Rupert's voice Ethan could still remember and reproduce, disdain and disgust laced throughout words that didn't hold nearly as much power without that inflection. The way Rupert had allowed himself to be taunted by Ethan into sudden flares of anger which, while gloriously exciting, hadn't really been meant to goad Rupert to physical violence.
Getting back to the flat they'd shared for nearly ten months and finding Rupert's things gone, with no note or explanation of any kind.
What Ethan had dreamed of doing if he'd ever seen Rupert again. The careful plans he'd hatched during late nights alone in the flat. How he'd hunt down Rupert and make him pay...
Ethan could see the shock on Rupert's face, and felt a moment of pure, savage satisfaction. Then as Ethan had expected, the use of his magic resulted in an overload that caused the power in the nearest electrical outlet to arc and surge through him, every nerve in his body on fire as the electricity burned its way through his system. He only had a moment in which to hope that his heart didn't stop this time before everything went black.
Giles couldn't catch Ethan in time; had to watch him crumple and fall, narrowly missing hitting his head on the counter as he slumped backwards, body jerking horribly, giving a scream that cut through his own pain-filled cry and ended only when Ethan's eyes rolled up and he went limp. Giles couldn't catch him because he was dealing with his own physical reaction to what Ethan had just done, a reaction that had sent him stumbling backwards as if the blow had been from a fist and not Ethan's mind.
He joined Ethan on the floor, going to his knees and doubling over as the seething mass of emotions nearly overwhelmed him.
He knew that they were exaggerated -- that even at the height of his despair Ethan hadn't felt quite that murderous, quite that betrayed.
Because if he had, Giles really didn't think Ethan would ever have forgiven him enough to have been in the same room as him, let alone ask for help.
He tried to crawl to him and managed to make progress only when Ethan lost consciousness and the effects of the spell snapped off abruptly -- God, he hoped he'd just lost consciousness anyway.
Even without the bombardment of emotions, Giles' head was still throbbing and he was close to throwing up, but he ignored both symptoms and reached Ethan's side, shoving his hand inside Ethan's shirt and searching for a heartbeat.
For a long moment there was nothing, and he found himself chanting, "Come on, you bugger, come on..." under his breath, feeling a bleak despair, but then he shifted his hand sideways and felt the reassuring beat press briefly against his palm.
He closed his eyes and swallowed hard before getting to his feet and soaking a tea towel in water. Kneeling down, he slipped his arm under Ethan, cradling his shoulders and lifting him slightly, and began to sponge away the blood dripping steadily from Ethan's nose.
This close, in daylight, there was nothing to hide the changes in Ethan, and Giles stared down at his gaunt, exhausted face, robbed of any animation now, and stopped doubting that Ethan was close to dying.
Ethan's eyes opened, slowly, reluctantly and Giles said in a voice he barely recognised, "If you ever do that again, Ethan, I'll --" Ethan blinked up at him as if he was trying to work out what had happened, and why he was on the floor, but didn't speak. Giles leant back against the cupboard and sighed, feeling the fury drain away. "Please don't," he said. "Just -- don't."
Shifting position so that his legs were in front of him, he pulled Ethan closer, so that his head and shoulders were supported against his lap, and carried on cleaning his face.
For too long, Ethan lay there allowing it, occasionally opening his eyes before closing them again. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse. "Are you hurt?"
"No." It was a lie, but not that much of one. "What about you? Do you need a doctor?"
Ethan opened his eyes again. It looked as if he was having a hard time focusing them. "Wouldn't help," he said. "Give me a minute?"
Giles nodded, not bothering to suggest that he help Ethan to the couch. The kitchen floor wasn't all that comfortable, but Ethan didn't look in a fit state to be moved. A silence fell, strangely comfortable under the circumstances, and without thinking too much about it, Giles slipped one hand into Ethan's where it lay splayed out across his chest, and with his other smoothed Ethan's hair back off his forehead, repeating the slow, gentle movement when Ethan sighed, closed his eyes, and relaxed.
"Don't worry," Ethan said. "Safe for a good couple of hours now, if past events are any indication." He looked up at Giles and offered a crooked smile. "I'd forgotten what a nice pillow you make."
"A few hours..." Giles repeated. "How soon will you be fit to travel?" He met Ethan's gaze and said softly, "You're not going to be able to stop me helping you, Ethan. No matter what you do." A bit more shakily than he would have liked, he asked, "What the bloody hell was that?"
Ethan sighed. "Nice little trick I picked up at the Initiative. I'm not sure where it came from, exactly. Just... one day, there it was, offering up its meagre ability to pay my captors back for a tiny portion of what they'd put me through. I certainly wasn't about to refuse the opportunity."
Giles brushed the back of his hand against Ethan's face and couldn't stop himself asking, "Did you -- do you really feel that way? Still? Hate me that much?"
Ethan shook his head slightly. "I don't hate you, Ripper." It seemed completely sincere, and he turned his hand under Giles' where they rested on his chest and held on. "I won't deny that there've been moments when I have --rather long moments, at times -- but I don't really. Not deep down."
Giles sighed. "It's been easy to hate you sometimes, Ethan. Tempting, even. But deep down? No. I just -- I can't." He felt his lips quirk in a small smile. "But if you want me to stop trying, can I suggest you find another way of telling me to back off? That wasn't very pleasant at all, even if I did ask for it."
His expression hardened for a moment then Ethan sighed again and gave Giles' hand a squeeze. "I'll try. I don't, even if all past behaviour points to the contrary, want you to hate me." His eyes went worried. "There, see? If you want to get me to agree to a round of true confessions, all you have to do is wait until I'm half dead with electrical shock. Apparently I'll say anything."
Giles glanced down at their linked hands which told him more than Ethan's words. "I don't even have that excuse," he murmured.
"Clearly, we should quit while we're ahead," Ethan said, with a hint of his familiar cocky grin. But he did start to struggle to a sitting position, which he managed to achieve with Giles' help, although he slumped against the cupboard beside him and ran a tired hand over his face. "What now?"
"We should eat something..." Giles said reluctantly. He felt both hungry and nauseous, which wasn't an ideal combination. "Maybe later, though." He turned his head towards Ethan. "Will you let me find somewhere for us to go?"
He kept his voice undemanding with an effort, still cursing himself for forgetting how badly Ethan reacted to being pushed around. Even when it was with all good intentions. He'd been so horrified by the thought of the danger Ethan posed that he'd reacted instinctively with the plan to get Ethan anywhere as long as it was away from people.
But not away from him. Somehow, despite what had just happened, Giles still didn't feel that he was at risk. That belief was worrying in some ways, even inexplicable given that Ethan had every reason to hate him, but he couldn't seem to shake himself free of it.
Ethan nodded, wiping his upper lip and looking at his fingers as if inspecting them for blood. "Actually, if you can spare the hot water, I'd love a quick shower. This window of time is the only one in which it's really safe for me to take one." He gave Giles an appraising look. "I promise I'll do my best not to think of you when I'm touching my wet, naked body."
Giles stood up without answering and then reached down, taking a fistful of Ethan's shirt, minus some buttons now. Bracing himself with a hand on the counter, he hauled Ethan up to his feet and kissed him without letting himself think about the consequences, a brief, hard kiss that he ended before Ethan had time to respond. "Good luck with that," he said pleasantly.
"Bastard," Ethan muttered, but there was a hint of a smile as he turned away and disappeared into the bathroom, and after a minute or so Giles heard the shower start up.
Left alone, Giles went to work, dragging out a battered road atlas and trying to find somewhere that looked close enough to reach in a few hours -- he'd have to ask Ethan how he'd been managing to travel; he didn't much like the idea of the electrics in the car he was driving shorting out while they were on the motorway -- and isolated. The difficulty was that these days no one was likely to be renting cottages that didn't come equipped with all sorts of modern conveniences.
Picking up the phone and the Yellow Pages, he made a few enquiries and got nowhere on the cottage front, although he arranged for a rental car to be sent over from a company he'd used before. The sound of the water cut off and he bit his lip. He really wanted to get this sorted out before Ethan had second thoughts. A vague memory of a rather boring colleague surfaced -- Dave Jackson at the Council, whose idea of fun was a weekend spent in a small boat, out at sea, fishing for whatever he could catch, and turning up on Monday with decidedly smelly packages of mackerel for people who didn't have the heart to tell him to stop. Dave, who owned a small cottage right by the sea that he was always planning to do up, but never did because that would mean missing the chance to fish. By the time Ethan emerged, looking tired still, but far better than he had half an hour ago, Giles had arranged to rent the cottage -- Dave had been bemused that anyone would want to pay to sleep in what seemed to be one step up from a cardboard box, but quite happy about the prospect of the hundred pounds Giles had promised him.
"You know it's just a wood stove, right?" he'd said. "You'll need candles... calor gas bottle, no, hang on, there should be a spare one in the cupboard under the sink... there's no hot water... well, there's a shower, but I've tried washing dishes in it, and it doesn't work..."
"That's perfect, Dave. Just want to get back to basics. What about collecting the key?"
Dave had snorted. "It's in a can under the front step. Never had anyone find it yet and there's nothing to steal if they did. Help yourself, Rupert." He sighed. "Won't be able to go down for at least another three weeks. Pity that..."
"Yes," Giles had said insincerely. "Now, tell me how to get there..." Now, he smiled at Ethan. "Found a place. It's about 90 minutes away, not far from Rye. I'll need to go by my office once they bring the rental car over, and pick up some books that might be useful." He remembered that he was still in the middle of a translation job and added, "And a commission I'm working on; I'll have to take that with me. We'll need to get some food, I suppose, and you'll want to pack..."
"Not to mention get into some clean clothes," Ethan said, looking down at what he was wearing with an expression of distaste. "I could go off and collect some things, meet you back here in an hour or so? Unless you'd rather I meet you at your office."
"I'd rather you didn't go anywhere without me," Giles said bluntly before he realised how distrustful that sounded. Something in him didn't like the idea of them being split up for some reason. He tried to soften it. "You still don't look well. Doesn't it make more sense to let me drive you to your digs? What part of town are you in?"
"Brixton," Ethan said. "But I can get my things on my own, truly. You can trust me."
"I know that," Giles said quickly. "But it's not a matter of trusting you -- it's just faster if we stick together, especially if you say we've only got a few hours." He studied Ethan's wan face and sighed. "I'm not letting you deal with getting over to Brixton and back, Ethan. Not when you're barely able to stand. You'll simply have to put up with being coddled by me for a bit, no matter how much you hate it. Serve you right for scaring me half to death just now."
The expression on Ethan's face was difficult to read, but he nodded, seeming willing to concentrate on practical matters for the moment. "Did you say something about breakfast?" he asked hopefully. "Is there still time, before they bring the car?"
"For a fry-up?" Giles shrugged. "I don't see why not. Do you still drench your eggs in brown sauce? Because I've only got ketchup."
"I can live without brown sauce," Ethan said.
The twenty minutes or so that it took to fry up some rashers and eggs and make toast was well worth it to see the blissful look on Ethan's face when he put the first bite into his mouth. He sighed with something that seemed very close to pure pleasure and chewed with his eyes closed. It shouldn't have come as a surprise to Giles that Ethan ate every morsel on his plate and even stole a piece of toast from Giles' with a not particularly apologetic grin.
By the time they got to Giles' office, their final stop before the run to the coast, they'd already used up two hours. Ethan's place had turned out to be a room in a squat, the house so derelict that Giles had agreed to stay in the car without argument when told flatly that Ethan didn't need any help, thinking that if he didn't, the car wasn't likely to still be there when they came out.
Ethan had emerged in less than ten minutes, throwing a battered holdall onto the back seat. He stayed in the car while Giles shopped, staring moodily out of the window at the less-than-enthralling sights of Tesco's car park, only perking up when Giles tossed a handful of assorted chocolate bars in his lap as he got back in the car.
"Thought you might still be hungry."
Ethan didn't do more than nod by way of a 'thank you', but he'd eaten two by the time they got to Giles' office and he followed Giles up the stairs to the small room, glancing around curiously and looking more alert.
The answer phone was blinking, so Giles pushed the play button and listened as he began to collect a pile of books and papers that he'd need. "Hello, this is Carlton; just checking in on the status of the work you're doing for me. I don't think I need to remind you that it's imperative I get that translation by Friday. If for any reason you're not going to be able to deliver, I need to know that as soon as possible. If I don't hear from you, I'll assume everything's going according to schedule."
"What a charmer," Ethan said, half sitting on the edge of the desk.
"He's not usually quite that brusque," Giles said, frowning. "And I really don't know what's so vital about it, but it shouldn't be a problem to finish it by Friday. Dave's cottage is a mile from a village and there's bound to be somewhere I can fax it to him." He scooped all the relevant paperwork into his briefcase and then nodded towards the bookcases around the room. "Help me sort out some texts that might be useful, will you? There's an empty box in the corner."
Ethan did as asked without comment, going over and sitting on the floor in front of one of the bookcases and beginning to look over them. It wasn't until several minutes had passed in silence that Giles looked up to check on him, only to discover that Ethan was clearly lost in the book he'd opened, staring at the pages with a rapt sort of attention. Giles cleared his throat and Ethan glanced up guiltily, quickly putting the book into the empty box and moving on.
Giles thought of the bag in the car and realised that it probably held everything Ethan possessed, and that it wasn't big enough to hold many -- or any -- books. He winced. Ethan had once owned some books the Council would have given their collective eye teeth to have in their possession; he guessed they'd probably been sold over the years, or lost, and it was clear Ethan didn't have much more than the clothes on his back now. Giles contemplated some of the ways Ethan used to use to acquire cash and decided not to ask him how he'd been feeding himself and paying his rent.
When they'd half-filled the box, Giles picked it up, grunting slightly at the weight, and let Ethan take the briefcase as they headed down to the car. He was too occupied with keeping the box from tilting as he fumbled for the keys in his pocket to look around, but he felt the prickle of awareness that told him someone was watching them.
When he'd closed the boot, he glanced up and down the street, but as far as he could tell, no one was paying them any attention. Ethan had already got in, folding his arms and hunching over slightly so that he wasn't in contact with the frame of the car, looking tense again.
Giles didn't waste any more time. Passing Ethan the scrawled directions, he started the car and pulled out into the late-morning traffic.
He didn't need help getting out of London proper, which left Ethan with nothing to do but play passenger in the seat beside him. Ethan was not good at having nothing to do, although it was clear from how still he was sitting as Giles drove that he'd got better at it in the past years. Or perhaps he was just too tired to fidget.
Ethan sat forward slightly and looked into the side view mirror. "Nice neighbourhood," he said,.
"Better than where you were staying, you mean?" Giles asked, not bothering to pretend he didn't know what Ethan was getting at. "Well, yes." They pulled up at a roundabout and he nodded at a small, neat garden in front of a terraced house. "But you know, I think I'd pick the squat over a place with that many garden gnomes." He shuddered. "They give me the creeps."
"They are rather... domestic." Ethan said the word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. He looked in the mirror again then sat back in his seat, still being careful to keep himself within what seemed to be a small amount of space. He fell silent, and the next time Giles glanced over at him, his eyes were closed, his head tipped back slightly. He looked peaceful.
Giles spent a moment worrying that if he slept Ethan might lose control -- most of the blackouts had been at night, after all, and he made a note of that as something that might be useful to investigate -- but he didn't have the heart to wake him.
He drove out of the city, glancing over at Ethan every now and then when he was forced to stop for lights, or in traffic, but not letting his gaze linger.
With Ethan this vulnerable it seemed like an intrusion somehow.
Ethan woke some time later when his hand slipped down off his lap and fell between the passenger seat and the car door. Startled, he snapped awake, pulling his hand back up onto his thigh. "You shouldn't have let me sleep," he told Rupert angrily, feeling his heart racing.
"You didn't tell me that," Rupert said calmly, completing the turn into a quiet country lane that had woken Ethan up. "And it's only been about four hours since the last incident after all." He shrugged, giving Ethan a glance that seemed friendly enough. "But we're almost there so it's as well you're awake. I could do with your help navigating. We're deep into directions of the 'turn left at the red barn a mile after the field with the cows in it' variety, and I have a feeling we might miss a turning." He peered out at what seemed to be a lot of identical, flat, green fields. "Or possibly we already have."
It always made Ethan feel inexplicably irritated when Rupert responded to bad behaviour by acting calm and reasonable. "Where are we?" he asked, finding the piece of paper with the directions written on it. "Or is that the problem?"
"We definitely turned off the B3043 or whatever it was," Rupert muttered, slowing down to give a weathered signpost a hopeful look. "Does it mention anywhere called Petersham? That's a mile away apparently, over to the right. Dave kept correcting himself and I ended up just scribbling down anything that sounded useful. I think he knows the way so well he assumes the rest of the world does too."
Over the curve of a hill off in front of them, Ethan thought he caught a glimpse of the sea. "Turn left here," he said, frowning over the hastily written instructions. "That should put us on the right road. I think. Then we're looking for Ledham Lane." Within a few minutes, they had proof that his guess had been correct, and Rupert turned the car onto a road that appeared to be made of nothing but small rocks, with the occasional speck of dirt thrown in for good measure. "We really are miles from civilisation."
"Townie," Rupert said. "And that's the whole point, remember." The car jolted over a rather large rock and he grimaced. "No wonder Dave drives that battered old Jeep. We'll be lucky if we get there without losing the exhaust."
"At least it's not your car." Ethan was grateful for any number of things at that moment, including the fact that, so far, he hadn't done anything to damage the spotless little rental. He'd hitched rides on a few occasions only to have the cars die inexplicably, once when they'd been doing eighty on the M4. He and the two young men that had picked him up had nearly been killed before the driver had managed to wrestle the rapidly slowing vehicle to the side of the road.Ê "Oh, there. Is that it?" He pointed to a small, rather ramshackle looking shack with the sea behind it. "Please tell me that's not it."
"That's not it," Rupert said obediently. He gave Ethan a quick grin. "But I'm afraid it is, you know. Dave brought in some photographs once, and it looks depressingly familiar." He gestured towards the edge of the cliff -- rather too close to the cottage, in Ethan's opinion. "But you have to admit it's a glorious view."
The car pulled up in front of the small building and Rupert switched off the engine. The sound of the sea rose to meet them, loud against the surrounding silence.
"I think I prefer very tall buildings and unnaturally bright neon lights," Ethan said, getting out of the car carefully and reaching into the back seat for his bag. He wasn't quite ready to admit that he'd put up with this place if it meant getting a handle on his magical problem, not to mention if it meant being with Rupert. But then, he didn't need to admit it, did he. His presence was proof enough.
The smell of salt in the air was very strong, and Ethan looked at the house -- if one could call it that -- with displeasure. Years of exposure had stripped most of the paint from the outside, and one of the front windows looked askew. "Oh, look," he said. "Perhaps someone's broken in and stolen everything. We'll have to find the nearest B&B instead." He gave Rupert, who was taking bags from the boot, a hopeful glance.
Rupert snorted. "From what Dave says, 'everything' consists of a table, two chairs, a couch with a mouse nest in it and a bed. I think stealing everything would actually improve it."
"You do take me to all the best places," Ethan said. He went over and took one of the bags from Rupert by way of apology.
They made their way into the cottage, Rupert unlocking the front door with a key that had been hidden underneath a rusted tin under the front steps. Ethan felt automatically along the wall just inside the door for a light switch, not remembering until he found nothing that there was no electricity. This was going to be so much fun. "Did you buy candles?" Ethan asked. "Or are there lanterns?"
"I did buy candles," Rupert told him, "and there are oil lamps too." He dumped the bags he was carrying on the wooden table in the middle of the single room and looked around dubiously. "It won't be dark for a while anyway. Plenty of time to get settled in."
He seemed to be rather more subdued now he'd seen the place, which, perversely, cheered Ethan up.
Leaving the bag of food he'd been carrying next to the ones Rupert had set down, Ethan moved over to the bed that was against the far wall, noting that the only interior door in the cottage must lead to the bathroom. "All the comforts of home," he said. "You do realise there's only one bed?"
Rupert glanced around, taking in the bare surroundings. "You're forgetting the couch," he said, walking over to it and giving it a gingerly poke. He wrinkled his nose at the resulting puff of mildew-scented dust. "Let's keep on forgetting it, shall we? It's a double bed, Ethan, and I packed some old sleeping bags. I think we'll manage to share it without incident, don't you?"
"Well, that's a depressing thought," Ethan said, sitting down on the bed. "I know I'm a shadow of my former self, but I shouldn't like to think you'd need the Boy Scouts' equivalent of a chastity belt to protect your virtue." He couldn't help but remember the earlier, rather bruising kiss in Rupert's kitchen.
Rupert arched his eyebrow. "I don't recall you having problems pulling down zips in the past, Ethan, so it wouldn't be much of a protection, now would it?" Ethan got a slow, tight-lipped smile. "And possibly we're defining 'incident' differently?"
"Not if you're talking about sleeping bags." Ethan surveyed the bed glumly. "Although on the other hand we'd be less likely to catch some nasty disease. When do you think these sheets were last washed?" He certainly wasn't overly fastidious, but even he had his limits.
"I don't know," Rupert said, giving them an indifferent glance. "Probably never. I'm not planning to sleep on them, so it doesn't matter. Strip them off and I'll go and bring in something a little less redolent of fish."
He went back out to the car, returning with an armload of what proved to be the quilt and pillows Ethan had used the night before and two -- unzipped - sleeping bags.
In the meantime, Ethan had taken off the sheets and for lack of anywhere better to put them, shoved them under the bed. The mattress seemed to be in surprisingly good condition, at least, and as Ethan and Rupert worked together to spread out the sleeping bags and quilt, Ethan couldn't help but feel a sort of nervous anticipation. "There will be heat, won't there?" he asked, rubbing his hands together and watching Rupert out of the corner of his eye.
"And what am I supposed to say to that?" Rupert asked, sounding more amused than anything. "Point to the wood stove and the logs piled up beside it, which you can hardly have failed to notice, or remind you that when we've shared a bed before you've never complained about feeling cold?"
Ethan met Rupert's gaze directly. "We never did have a problem generating heat, did we."
"You know we didn't," Rupert replied, the amusement leaving his voice. "But if you're asking if there's anything left but ashes, I don't know." He smoothed his hand over the covers, adjusting them with unnecessary precision, and then sat down heavily on the bed. "You never stay, Ethan. You come back into my life, disrupt it, and leave, and I've no reason to think this is going to be any different." He turned his head and Ethan saw the conflict on his face. "I can play this game, I can trade innuendo-laded quips with you and I think we both know how that'll end -- and I'm not going to pretend I don't want that because I always want you. That never changes. But afterwards? I just don't know."
It took a great deal of self-control not to flare into anger. Or perhaps, Ethan thought, he was just too pleased that Rupert had admitted that he wanted him -- that he always wanted him. He sat down on the bed again, careful that there was some space between them. "I wasn't the one who left the first time," he pointed out. "That was you."
"You know why I did. Why I had to." Rupert shook his head. "We can't do this. Can't drag up something from, Christ, nearly thirty years ago and argue over it again. It's pointless." He placed his hand on the bed, his spread fingers a bare inch away from Ethan's hand. "Were you glad I could touch you without being hurt, Ethan? Or does it gall you to realise what it means that I can? How connected we still are? I couldn't help touching you last night, do you know that? I felt... compelled to do it. To go to you. On some level, we're still linked."
Ethan's chest felt tight. "Of course I was glad," he said quietly. "I knew how strong the connection was. Is. I just didn't realise it went both ways." That was the sort of thing that he shouldn't admit, he knew; this conversation was rapidly falling into dangerous territory. Better to concentrate on the concrete and not muddy the waters with emotion. "There's no guarantee that I can't hurt you, you know, just because we've touched a few times and you've walked away from it unscathed."
"That's certainly a risk, but it doesn't seem to be bothering you much as you're doing your best to make sure I can't think about anything but touching you," Rupert snapped. "Or am I supposed to not react to what you're saying? Sorry, but I'm finding that a little difficult given the circumstances."
"No," Ethan said, standing up, deliberately disengaging from the situation. "No, you're right." Clearly the hope that this would be anything more than a brief exercise was nothing but a pipe dream. He needed to get that through his head now. "We'll just focus on the problem, shall we? Not get personal?" There was no possible way he'd manage that, but he could pretend, certainly.
"I think I just made it rather embarrassingly clear that isn't possible, not for me," Rupert said tiredly. "And if you can think of a way we can do any sort of cleansing or healing rituals without it getting personal, I'll be amazed." He stood up. "Speaking of which, the books and my case are still in the car. I'll bring them in."
"All right." Ethan didn't argue.
While Rupert went out to the car, Ethan went over and looked through the bags of food. There was no refrigerator, of course, so nothing that strictly needed to be put away, and he wasn't sure there was any point in putting things in the few open cupboards above the small gas stove, but he began to do it anyway. He was too tired to be hungry despite his long nap in the car or to look up when he heard Rupert come back in and shut the door.
All he wanted to do, really, was to lie down and close his eyes, but he said, "Just tell me what you want me to do, Ripper."
He heard Rupert approach and then a hand reached over his shoulder and took a can of baked beans out of his hand while Rupert's other hand rested briefly against his shoulder. "You look as if you're about to collapse, Ethan." Rupert's voice sounded softer now, almost regretful. "Go and rest. I'll make us a sandwich or something and boil up a kettle on the primus. Or would you rather have a whisky? I brought along the bottle we were drinking last night."
"I think whisky's more likely to lead to me saying things I shouldn't," Ethan said. He didn't want to go even as far as the bed, so he sat on one of the hard wooden chairs at the dining table and watched as Rupert got the stove started.
"Why do you think there's anything you shouldn't say to me?" Rupert asked, sounding genuinely puzzled. "It's not that I think we know everything there is to know about each other, but you're hardly likely to shock me. And if you mean you'd be frank about my shortcomings, well, you do that when you're sober." He filled the kettle and dropped it on the small blue flames flickering around the gas ring.
"Please tell me I'm not the only one paying attention to this conversation," Ethan said. "Because if I am, that can't bode well. I may be too tired to make sense of any of it." He was sure Rupert had complained about Ethan saying things that made him want to touch him, and weary as he was, he couldn't help but think that in his right mind he'd be trying to work out how to say more of them, rather than less.
There was a pause, and he could've sworn Rupert's lips were moving slightly as if he were replaying the conversation. Then he saw understanding dawn. "Oh. You'd be saying -- right." He came and sat opposite Ethan, pulling his chair in and resting his linked hands on the table. "I don't exactly object to you saying things that leave me wanting to -- leave me wanting you. It's just when you say them and then point out that if I touch you I could end up flying across the room, I'm left feeling rather... frustrated?" Rupert shrugged, looking more than a little uncomfortable. "Is that more comprehensible?"
It hadn't been incomprehensible before. "That's why I didn't want the whisky," Ethan said, looking at the way Rupert's hands fit together. "You're trying to help me -- I'm still not quite sure why -- and the last thing a decent person would want is to make things more difficult for you."
"It always used to be your favourite hobby," Rupert said with a reminiscent smile on his face. "And you must be feeling tired if you're happy to describe yourself as a decent person." He lifted his hand to scratch at his chin, where the skin was starting to darken with emergent stubble. "I can think of several excellent reasons why I should be helping you -- noble ones, too -- but when it all comes down to it, I'm doing it out of selfishness. I don't want you to die, you see. I'd survive, I suppose, but I don't think I'd ever be perfectly happy again."
"I didn't say I was a decent person," Ethan said. He wasn't ready to think of himself that way, and didn't think he ever would be. He didn't want to care what other people thought or wanted; it was so much easier not to. "But I don't want to die."
Rupert's lips twisted in what might have passed for a smile. "Finally, we're in agreement on something." He turned his head. "Kettle's boiling. Sure you want tea, not whisky?"
Ethan nodded, propping his chin on his hand and watching as Rupert made the tea. God, he was so tired. "Thanks," he said, when Rupert set a slightly chipped mug and a sandwich down in front of him.
"Try and eat something," Rupert told him, "but don't feel you have to stay awake on my account. I'm going to just finish off a bit of work on that translation I told you I was doing, and then see what I can come up with in the way of damping down what's happening to you; getting it under control a little. You'll have to tell me what you've already tried, so I don't waste time going over ground you've already covered." He reached across the table and Ethan watched through a haze of tiredness as Rupert's fingers brushed against his, lightly, but not tentatively, testing his reaction. "It's been quite a long time since anything happened; is this -- do you think it's helping being here? Or is it too soon to tell?"
"I think I'm too tired to tell," Ethan said. "I don't think it's just the electricity that's the problem -- the magic's out of control, and somehow something they did made it so that my system accepts power from places it shouldn't. Maybe." He'd done a lot of thinking about it, but in the end grown unconvinced that knowing what caused the problem would enable him to solve it. Taking a sip of the hot tea, Ethan picked up his sandwich, determined to eat if he could manage it.
"From mundane sources, not just mystical..." Rupert sounded thoughtful as if that had triggered a line of thought, his attention turning inward as though he were scanning a mental index, searching for what he needed. "Yes. There's always some blending of the two of course, but they've made it so that, for you, it's a case of no barriers at all. And I'd imagine it's easier to reach for what's closest, most prevalent, which is why there's a possibility it will help you being here." He took a bite of his sandwich and washed it down with some tea. "Tomorrow, when you're rested, perhaps you could try doing a very small spell and see what happens."
Chewing seemed much more difficult than it should have been, but Ethan continued doggedly. "All right," he agreed, swallowing past the lump in his throat. He might have agreed to anything at that point. At least the tea went down easily.
"Ethan?" He glanced up. Rupert was studying him, his forehead creased in a concerned frown. "Why don't you just go to bed?" he suggested. "I think sleeping would do you more good than eating at this point."
"Are you sure?" Ethan shook his head then pushed himself to his feet. "Let's just pretend I didn't say that." He realised he was still wearing his jacket as he went over and sat down on the side of the bed, bending down to untie his shoes.
Rupert appeared in front of him as he was working on a knot that was defeating his fatigue-clumsy fingers, kneeling down and pushing Ethan's hands away, taking over the job of dealing with the shoe laces and tugging off his shoes.
"You'll be more comfortable without your jacket," Rupert said, getting to his feet. "But you'd better keep your shirt on until I get the fire going; it feels damp in here."
Ethan's eyelids were heavy and his muscles ached as he slid his arms out of the jacket and let it drop to the floor beside the bed. He didn't care about his shirt one way or the other. Lying down, he pressed his face into the pillowcase, inhaling Rupert's scent, clean and comforting, and closed his eyes.
He listened as Rupert piled logs into the fireplace and smelled the smoke as the fire was lit. The crackle of the flames and the soft hush as the heat drove the damp from the logs followed him into sleep.
The problem with going to bed before the sun had set was that one tended to wake up in the middle of the night. Ethan found himself stirring from a sleep so deep his dreams had been left behind and feeling an instant of panic because there was someone beside him, which, these days, at least, was unexpected enough to be startling.
"Sorry," Rupert whispered, settling down under the covers. "I didn't mean to wake you. Go back to sleep."
Ethan's heart didn't seem willing to be reassured -- he could feel it pounding in his chest as he tried to will himself back to a state of calm. He slid a hand toward Rupert unthinkingly, but realised what he was about to do before actually making contact. "What time is it?" he asked, his voice rough with sleep.
"About one," Rupert said, rubbing his hand over his eyes, keeping his voice low. "I've made some progress, but it got to the point where the words stopped making sense and so I gave in." Before Ethan could stop him, Rupert reached out his hand and Ethan felt it warm against his shoulder through the shirt he was wearing. "You're shaking. Are you cold? Ethan?"
He swallowed, finding it difficult to answer. "I must have been dreaming," he lied. He hoped Rupert wouldn't take his hand away.
He didn't. In fact, he shifted closer, rubbing his hand reassuringly down Ethan's arm. From what Ethan could see in the faint light thrown out from the dying fire, Rupert had stripped down to a T shirt and presumably, shorts. "You're awake now," Rupert said. "Do you want anything? Are you hungry?"
Ethan shook his head. He moved a bit closer, studying Rupert's face in the dim light. They were both older, and looked it, but Rupert seemed to be aging particularly well, the lines around his eyes etched there as if by an artist's hand. Ethan knew that he was staring, and that it was possibly something he ought to at least try to stop doing, but he couldn't seem to tear his gaze away. "Only half awake," he said, by way of an excuse in case one was needed.
"And I feel half asleep," Rupert said with a small chuckle. "If you put us together --" He didn't finish the sentence, and the hand moving slowly against Ethan's arm stilled. In the silence that followed, the catch of Rupert's breath was audible, and this close Ethan could see his eyes darken in what had to be a response to his own expression.
Rupert brought his hand up to cup Ethan's face, sweeping his thumb across Ethan's mouth, the way he always used to just before a kiss; half-question, half command. Ethan remembered halting that soft, insistent touch with a kiss or a sharp nip of his teeth; remembered drawing the thumb into his mouth, licking and sucking on it in a preview of what he would do to Rupert's cock, a minute, an hour later, depending on their mood.
He couldn't ever remember turning his head to avoid it.
He didn't now. Instead, Ethan pressed forward, taking advantage of however long this apparent reprieve would last and kissing Rupert. It was clumsier than he would have liked it to be, but Rupert didn't seem to mind, leaving his hand on the side of Ethan's neck and returning the kiss. It didn't last long, but Ethan was wide-eyed and anxious by the time it ended, meeting Rupert's gaze nervously as he waited for Rupert to say something, to reject or accept him.
"I've been watching you sleep," Rupert murmured, sliding his hand around Ethan's shoulders and bringing them even closer, until every word Rupert said left Ethan's face brushed by an exhaled breath. "Wanting to wake you as glad as I was that you were resting."
He turned his head and kissed Ethan, a slow, still-hesitant kiss that seemed to be as much about reassurance as it was about need because there was still a gap between them, whereas normally they'd have had their hands on each other by now, bodies wound together.
"You should have woken me," Ethan said, not quite daring to touch Rupert, letting the other man lead where this went. There was a tiny voice in his head telling him that if Rupert was in control and something went wrong, it would be Rupert's fault, not his.
Another kiss, careful lips encouraging his own to part so that Rupert could explore his mouth more thoroughly, and Ethan made a small sound, wanting more but not prepared to ask for it in so many words.
"Tell me if this isn't what you want," Rupert said in a voice barely above a whisper, sliding his hand over Ethan's back, the shirt he was wearing a barrier Ethan wished would vanish so that he could feel Rupert's hand against his skin. "Tell me because I don't think this is going to end with a kiss if you don't."
"I don't want it to end at all," Ethan said honestly. "I want this. You. I always have."
Rupert's hand moved down, tugging with an impatience Ethan had to admit he found flattering at Ethan's shirt until he'd freed enough of it to be able to slip his hand underneath it, fingers spread wide against Ethan's back.
"Why did I let you go to sleep with this many clothes on?" Rupert muttered, sounding so annoyed at himself that Ethan couldn't help smiling.
"Because I was half-dead on my feet?" Ethan asked, closing his eyes as Rupert's hand stroked over his bare skin. "I'd be perfectly happy to remedy the problem now, though; just say the word."
"And what would I have to say?" Rupert asked, pulling back just a little, though his hand stayed where it was, exploring Ethan's back, lingering over a scar Ethan had picked up in the Initiative and then moving away. "Would 'Please, Ethan, get naked as quickly as possible' work? Or does that lack a certain finesse?"
Ethan laughed. "When have I ever cared about finesse?" He shifted and yanked his shirt over his head a bit awkwardly, letting it fall where it would before getting up to take off his trousers. "I hope I'm not the only one getting naked," he said, looking at Rupert and the way the man's eyes were watching him as he disrobed.
"There wouldn't be much point in that, now would there?" Rupert replied, sitting up and pulling off his t-shirt. "But you can't expect me not to get a little distracted when you're stripping off a few feet away." He threw back the covers and lifted his hips enough to be able to push down his shorts, leaving him naked before Ethan had finished stepping out of his trousers. As Ethan watched, Rupert stroked his cock, already hard, his strong, elegant fingers touching it lightly, his gaze dropping to Ethan's erection. "As you don't mind me being direct, can I ask you to get back here so I can do this to you?"
"There's nothing I'd like more," Ethan said, sitting down again and stretching out beside Rupert. He was aware that he was older, thinner, but he was vain enough to know that he was still an attractive man, and recent events had proven that others thought so, too. He didn't care to dwell on those nameless, exceedingly forgettable encounters, not now, even if he was hesitant to reach out and touch Rupert.
"Nothing?" Rupert said, turning onto his side and meeting Ethan's eyes. "I think I can change your mind about that..." The teasing smile froze in place as his fingers found Ethan's cock as if all his concentration was on what he was touching. With a slow deliberation that had Ethan gritting his teeth, Rupert slid his fingertips from Ethan's balls to the tip of his cock and then wrapped his hand around with a possessive squeeze, leaning down to kiss Ethan without a hint of his earlier hesitancy.
As much as Ethan wanted to close his eyes, he didn't until the moment Rupert's lips touched his. It was too important that he be able to see who he was with because, truth be told, it was still a bit hard to believe. He pressed into the kiss eagerly, moaning against Rupert's mouth as the man's hand did incredible things to his cock.
He wanted so badly to touch Rupert, too. "Don't want to hurt you," he managed. "Or me. Tell me not to worry?"
"I want your hands on me," Rupert answered, turning his attention to Ethan's neck and sucking hard at it, just under Ethan's ear, biting and licking at the sensitive skin as Ethan shuddered in reaction. "And I'm not worrying about anything but how long you're going to make me wait for that." He ran his thumb over the slick head of Ethan's cock, timing it just as he gave Ethan's neck another kiss, an inch lower. Ethan could feel the jerk of Rupert's cock against his thigh, and he didn't need Rupert's bitten-off gasp to tell him how aroused Rupert was feeling.
Cautiously, Ethan reached out and touched Rupert's bare hip, stroking over the skin there as he relaxed when nothing happened. Well, relaxed as much as it was possible to with Rupert's thumb slicking over the head of his cock and his teeth biting at his throat. Ethan moved his hand down along the front of Rupert's thigh and then lower until he was able to close his grip around the hard, eager cock that he knew so well. "Yes," he murmured, tipping his head back to give Ripper better access.
Rupert whispered Ethan's name against his throat, making it sound like a thank you and then seemed to make a deliberate effort to slow things down, so that the next kiss Ethan got was gentler, if no less arousing, with a warm mouth travelling across his collarbone and then back to his lips. Rupert's tongue slid over his in a leisurely glide, and his hand left Ethan's cock to caress his body, Ethan feeling his skin waken under Rupert's touch.
Ethan moaned again, writhing his body sensuously against Rupert's, gasping when it became clear that Rupert still knew him intimately enough to touch him in ways that made his arousal soar. He bit at Rupert's lower lip, breathing harsh and anxious already despite Rupert's obvious desire to keep things slow. "Don't tease," Ethan begged. He didn't want to be touched gently; he wanted Ripper to fuck him roughly, to roll him over and shove that glorious cock into him without further preamble. "Fuck me."
For a second, he thought that was all it would take to get what he wanted because Rupert tensed, his fingers biting deep into skin he'd been stroking and his face tightening as he stared down at Ethan, clearly tempted by the idea. Then he shook his head. "No. Not tonight."
Dismayed, Ethan blinked up at Rupert. "No?" He tried, rather half-heartedly, to pull away, but Rupert was gripping his hip firmly and it wasn't as if he really wanted to get away. "What was all this about then?"
"Was?" Rupert raised his eyebrows. "It still is. Since when did I need to fuck you to make you come? And even if I had thought ahead and added lube to the shopping trolley -- which I didn't -- it wouldn't make any difference." The hand on Ethan's hip moved over. "You're not well, Ethan," Rupert murmured, dragging the side of his thumbnail slowly down Ethan's cock. "Why don't you just lie back and let me take care of you?" The wicked gleam in his eyes was at odds with the concern in his voice. "And Ethan? Telling me not to tease you is a waste of time. I like doing it far too much to stop."
Ethan shut his eyes as Rupert's thumb travelled over his balls to the skin just below, the touch light. "I'm certainly well enough to be fucked," he protested, without much hope. He wouldn't complain -- at least, not too much -- as long as Rupert kept touching him.
"Really?" There was a hint of something a little dark in the single word and it didn't do much to change Ethan's mind about wanting to be fucked. "You sound very sure about that. I won't bother asking how you know."
Ethan felt a hand push his legs apart and Rupert moved to kneel between them, staring down at him, his face unreadable in the fading light. "The last time I did this I was drunk, but I can still remember the sounds you made, how you tasted." He wrapped his hand around Ethan's cock, working it slowly, sliding his other hand over Ethan's belly, scratching at it in teasingly light patterns. "You're not easy to forget, you know."
Spreading his legs a bit more, Ethan reached up for something to hold onto, but there was no headboard of any kind on the bed. He had to settle for shoving his hands beneath the pillow and curling his grip around the top edge of the mattress. "Neither are you," he gasped as Rupert bent down and blew warm air teasingly over his erection, making it ache. "Ripper..."
"You're the only one who calls me that these days," Rupert said, ending his sentence with a slow drag of his tongue across the tip of Ethan's cock, tasting it, making a soft sound deep in his throat. "Do you think I can make you forget how to say it in the next five minutes?"
Ethan shivered with desire and lifted his hips slightly, asking for more. "Please." It wasn't a word he used often, but it was one he was more than willing to speak under these circumstances.
He looked down and got a smile from Rupert that made his breath quicken. Then Rupert's lips parted and he took Ethan in as deeply as he could, sucking hard, his teeth scraping lightly along the sides of Ethan's cock and his tongue swirling around the tip. Ethan had been prepared for everything but this sudden rush of sensation and he moaned, tightening his hold on the mattress.
Rupert lifted his head and grinned. "Three minutes?" he said, sounding just a bit too complacent for Ethan's liking.
Drawing a shuddering breath, Ethan nodded. "Thirty seconds, if you keep on like that," he said shakily. "Ripper, please." He'd beg a great deal more for a continuation of that performance.
He didn't have to. Rupert licked his lips and did it again, the warmth and suction causing a bolt of such pure pleasure to shoot through Ethan that he whimpered, the muscles in his arms straining as he clutched at the mattress. Rupert's teeth caused the most exquisite flares of pain when they scraped over his skin, and Rupert's mouth was hot and wet and perfect...
He could feel Rupert's free hand against his thigh, rubbing at it restlessly as if he was trying to distract himself from what his mouth was doing to Ethan. Which was something Ethan didn't think he could do himself because Rupert had begun to concentrate his attentions on the head of Ethan's cock, opening his mouth just enough to take in the first inch and wrapping his hand around the rest, stripping it with ruthless strokes while his lips and tongue tormented and teased -- and then slowly allowing it to slip deeper inside again, where Ethan wanted it to be.
The warmth of it soaked into him through his skin, the heat collecting, expanding into his groin as if Rupert were creating something there, some impossibly brilliant sun waiting to burn Ethan from the inside out. He groaned, the edges of his thumbs rubbing against the rough fabric of the mattress keeping him in the moment as he listened to the sound of his own breathing, and Rupert's, and the faint crackle of the fire dying in the fireplace. He wanted this to erase everything else that had come before, leaving nothing but this moment, the two of them together, Ethan where he belonged. Where he'd always known he'd belonged. He'd despaired of ever being here again, and that realisation eddied over and through him at the same time he came helplessly, hips rocking his cock into Rupert's incomparable mouth as he cried out.
He felt Rupert's lips and mouth tighten around him as he swallowed, the additional stimulus just this side of pain, drawing a final spurt from his cock as his body yielded as it had always done. When Rupert lifted his head, wiping his hand across his mouth unselfconsciously, Ethan could barely manage to return his smile.
Rupert moved up to lie beside him, pulling the covers up over them both, his hand coming to rest over Ethan's rapidly beating heart. "Did that wake you up, or make you ready to sleep again?" he murmured.
Ethan blinked lazily and turned, curling his body sideways against Rupert's so that he could feel Rupert's erection pushing insistently along his hip. "I think I could be persuaded to stay awake a bit longer," he said, lifting his chin and pressing his lips to Rupert's, his hand running across Rupert's chest lightly as he tasted the inside of Rupert's mouth with slow licks of his tongue.
"I don't think it'll be much longer," Rupert said with a soft groan, sliding his fingers through Ethan's hair and bringing their mouths together for another kiss. "And if you need more persuading than 'please', I'll do whatever it takes."
Ethan was, when it came right down to it, too weary to move from where he was. Nor did he want to stop kissing Rupert, not when Rupert's fingers were tangled in his hair and he was in such a perfect position to slide his hand down to grasp the eager erection that awaited him. He stroked it, feeling the way it fit in his palm, the way the slightly flared head rubbed over the ridge just above his ring finger.
"Don't stop," Rupert said, a pleading note in his voice letting Ethan know just how close he must be to coming. "God, just --" His tongue thrust hard into Ethan's mouth, silently urging him on, his hand slipping down to grip the back of Ethan's neck, his thumb making rapid circles against the skin he'd bitten to the point where Ethan was fairly certain -- even hoped -- that he'd left bruises.
Too sated to do more than what he was already doing, Ethan tightened his grip, squeezing Rupert's foreskin so that it slid back and forth along the shaft. He could smell Rupert's arousal and his own release in the air along with the wood smoke, and the little sounds Rupert was making into his mouth were sweet music. "That's right, Ripper," he whispered. "Show me."
Rupert threw back his head, eyes closed, face contorted, doing just exactly what Ethan had asked, although it was probably more of a response to Ethan's hand than his words. Coming hard with an inarticulate groan, his body shuddering in a pleasure Ethan could feel echoed in his own body, still warmly relaxed and tingling, he looked utterly open and vulnerable.
Which, strangely, made Ethan feel terrible and as always, his response to feeling terrible was to deny that he felt anything at all. He coaxed another trembling groan from Rupert and released his cock, bringing his own hand to his mouth and licking at Rupert's come while meeting the other man's eyes. "Have fun?" he asked mockingly.
Rupert closed his eyes and took a moment to compose himself before answering. "Yes, thank you," he replied finally, giving Ethan a look that was verging on wary. "Let me see," he said, getting out of bed and walking over to his jacket, slung over the back of one of the chairs. He pulled a neatly folded handkerchief from a pocket and used it to wipe himself clean. "This is where you pretend this was about as meaningful as any of your one-night stands, and possibly less, isn't it?" He returned to the bed and lay on his back, not touching Ethan, staring up into the darkness. "I'd forgotten that part, sorry."
"I'm hardly about to change my stripes now," Ethan said, not moving from his position facing Rupert. He wanted to touch Rupert, to run a hand along his skin comfortingly, but he wasn't about to get burned again, not if he could help it.
"Of course not," Rupert said in a level voice. "At this late stage, with death imminent, why should you?" He rolled to his side, giving Ethan nothing to look at but his back. "My apologies for complicating a fairly satisfactory encounter -- or am I overstating that too? -- with the foolish hope that we were actually making progress." He settled himself into a more comfortable position. "Good night, Ethan."
"Good night, Ripper," Ethan said, in as natural and pleasant a tone as he could manage, closing his eyes and telling himself that it was better this way. The last thing he needed was to get his hopes up that this was something more than a temporary arrangement, that Rupert might actually...
No. It was better this way.
|