tarnished -- part one -- trekker |
Chapter Three | |
What We Are? |
An hour and a half on the train to London. One hour waiting. Three hours being berated and interrogated by Quentin Travers. Another hour and a half on the train.
Suffice it to say, Giles was in a mood. Not a good mood. Quite the opposite. He was, to make the understatement of the year, bloody tired of Travers questioning his methods. Even if he himself was, rather, well, questioning his methods.
The fact still remained that Buffy was one of the longest-lived Slayers on record, and one of the most effective. And, of course, much of that was due to her, but he didn't think he was completely out of line giving himself at least a bit of credit.
He paused at the center of the bridge and looked down into the dark, slow river below. Lights rolled sluggishly over the surface, and it was silent in its course. The night air was still colder than he was adapted to, but it was better than being confined in his small apartment, and it was still far safer to wander here at night than it was in Sunnydale.
Though he still had a stake and a vial of holy water in his pocket simply due to habit.
There was still a slight chance of attack from a less supernatural source, of course, but that chance was also slim, and Giles felt that he'd been fighting the undead long enough that a simple human opponent would be a welcome respite. In fact, were he entirely honest with himself, after the day he'd had, he'd almost welcome a scuffle.
He finished crossing the bridge and wandered down the grassy bank towards the river itself.
The park was quiet tonight, and as he walked across the soft grass towards the deeper darkness of the water, he saw the first other people he'd seen in the past ten minutes. A couple strolled along the footpath, wrapped around each other and moving slowly. Giles found his eyes following them for a moment. They were young, university-aged most likely. The girl leaned in closer and tilted her head back, gazing up at her paramour with adoration, and for a moment they reminded Giles painfully of Xander and Anya.
He looked away, giving them their privacy, and finished the short walk down to the edge of the bank, as close as it seemed wise to stand.
Everything seemed so quiet. Darkness wreathed about him, and nothing seemed to move but for the water and the breeze. Of course, that stillness and aloneness was an illusion. The whole town was around him, though the trees and the bridge, which reared up off to his right, sheilded it from his view.
Even then, as though to prove his point, a car passed by over the bridge, throwing a sweep of headlights across the grass around him.
And then, even more damning evidence for the existence of the rest of the world, a voice came from behind his shoulder.
"You're wrong, you know."
Instantly, any relaxation he may have gleaned from the quiet vanished as a trembly tension raked up his spine.
He didn't turn. In fact, he tried his best not to show any of his reaction, keeping his voice low and level as he said, simply, "Go away, Ethan."
But of course, that had never worked before and didn't work now.
"About us."
"There is no us."
"Of course there is."
And he was not about to allow himself to be dragged into this ridiculousness.
"All right, then. Whatever you say."
He turned and walked up towards the path, anger buzzing through his mind at the intrusion on his aloneness. He didn't need this. Not tonight, not ever. He was willing to coexist with Ethan, truly, if it spared him the effort of constantly needing to watch his back, but if this was how it was going to be, then this would never work.
Ethan, of course, caught up and matched pace as Giles stalked up the path trying to wish him out of existence.
"You haven't gotten rid of me yet."
"Clearly not for lack of trying," Giles snapped.
"And, contrary to your obvious opinion, I was not in this town looking for you."
Giles stopped and wheeled towards him, fist clenching almost unconsciously in his pockets. "But now you are, which begs the questions of why, and of how I can make you stop."
Ethan just smirked.
"Most likely, you can't. And I don't think you'd really want to, either."
He couldn't answer that until he'd drawn a long slow breath. He looked Ethan directly in the eye, with one fist slipping out of his pocket, as he said, "My entire life, you've caused me nothing but trouble, Ethan. Believe me when I say I'd be ecstatic to be rid of you."
"You know, Rupert, all that repression really can't be good for your health."
"Sod. Off. Ethan."
And saying that was an honest warning, because the last time he'd been this angry was in the kitchen with Willow. He was so angry, he felt himself breaking into a sweat.
But Ethan just smiled a little wider and shook his head a tiny bit, and even as Giles' mind was screaming *just walk away,* his fist was already connecting with Ethan's jaw, and it felt far, far too good, in far too many ways. It always did, with Ethan.
Ethan, who was just laughing and touching his lip.
"Oh, go on, hit me again, Ripper. I know where this leads."
That voice was still telling him to walk away, but he'd been wanting to hit Ethan since yesterday, and he'd been wanting to hit *someone* all day, and it was simply too easy to bury his fist in Ethan's gut, catch his chin with his knee when he doubled over, and slam him backwards until they both hit the rough stone of the bridge with a bone-jarring thud.
It felt good.
He knew it shouldn't, but it did. That body under his own, that breath rushing pain-fast against his jaw. Felt good to see something other than superior amusement in those eyes, even if it was less like fear and awe and more like fierceness and arousal.
They were both breathing hard, and Giles hadn't pulled away, he stayed plastered over Ethan as heavily as he might be lying over him on a bed, held there by gravity. They were chest-to-chest and hip-to-hip, and Ethan slowly let his arms down and spread them across the brick, relaxation and surrender running through him.
Giles could hear the soft click in Ethan's throat as he swallowed. Smell him, his cologne and his body.
"So what now? Seeing as you rather have me at the disadvantage," Ethan said.
His lips felt dry, and something drove a spike of heat through his gut, so intense it hurt. They were both still breathing fast, and god, they were in public, though deep in shadow, and this... And he wanted something different now.
Or perhaps not different. The feeling in him, the aching urge, was no less violent, merely redirected.
He stepped back, quickly, too quickly to let Ethan know what he was doing. Threw one cautious glance over his shoulder, and then hissed, "You think we still have something? Fine then. Get on your knees."
Ethan chuckled, dark and deep, and he dropped gracefully to a kneel. Giles could have sworn he could feel that laugh against his skin, in his gut. He didn't care--or at least told himself he didn't care--that this played into Ethan's hand. What the hell did that matter? Ethan was the one on the ground.
Giles eased his feet apart and stepped forward, straddling Ethan, feeling his body pressed between his calves and his hands coming up to rest at Giles' knees. Giles pressed in close enough to make it awkward for Ethan, trapping him against the wall.
Giles splayed his hand against the bridge for support and said, "Go on, then."
And then Ethan's hands moved against him, unbuttoned him, unzipped, and were almost better than sex. Better than anything he'd felt in years. Hard, strangling heat rushed through him, along with a tingle of humiliation, of oh-god-we're-in-public.
But then Ethan pulled him out of his slacks, and Ethan's hand slipped down to grip the base of his cock, and then Ethan's lips folded around the head of his cock, and nothing mattered but that. Nothing in the world. He sighed, and pushed his hips forward, and that wet warmth surrounded him, and...
Yes. God, yes.
Ethan, slut that he was, was good at this. So good. Always had been, it seemed liked, as though he'd somehow been born with this knowledge. His tongue moved just right, and he allowed only a hint of teeth, tingling pleasure-pain.
His other hand curled around behind Giles' knee and then slid up the back of his thigh to settle in the crease between buttock and leg. The sharp tingle of pleasure was enough to make Giles thrust forward, to curse at the sensation. Too long since he'd done this.
He gasped when Ethan's breath cooled his wet skin, and pushed in again, this time beginning to find a rhythm: stroking, shallowly.
Ethan's fingers tightened on the back of his thigh, and he caught the rhythm, moved with it. This wouldn't last long. Shouldn't last long. Someone could notice them anytime now, the sooner the better, so Giles didn't bother trying to draw it out. Fast, inelegant, he let the wave build and then dug his fingers into Ethan's hair as it crested.
Release shuddered through him, freeing and so very strong, a feeling like no other, a relief on some profound instinctual level.
Then he pulled away, zipped up, and swallowed against his dry throat.
Ethan sat back on his heels and looked up at him, and Giles couldn't help a small, joyless smile when he said, "You wanted to know what you are to me? That is what you are, Ethan."
Then he walked back up the hill to the path without glancing back.
tarnished -- part one -- trekker |