tarnished -- part one -- trekker |
Chapter Four | |
IOU |
He woke the next morning with an empty bottle of scotch, a pounding headache, and a bloodstain on the knee of his khaki trousers. He groaned and kicked at the sheet that was tangled around his leg, and when he sat up, it felt as though someone twisted the vice around his head tighter and his stomach rolled in protest. The light around the corners of the blinds seemed hot as a stove's heating element.
He ducked his head and his gaze fell to his knee again. A bright, accusing smear of red laid across pale, wrinkled fabric; a shock of color. His stomach murmured again, and he abruptly stood and wrestled his trousers open and down. He kicked them aside and stumbled to the bathroom in his pants and shirt.
Cold water and aspirin and then a hot shower rendered him, if not exactly human, then at least functional, and so, when he came back out and picked up the discarded trousers, the bloodstain caught his eye again and his higher functions finally began to process it.
What had he done?
Hitting Ethan was nothing new, of course. It had been the pattern of their relationship (though he still denied that was the appropriate word) for at least five years. But in Sunnydale, Ethan had been a threat. He'd been a threat to Buffy, and he had been a threat to the world, since he was on a Hellmouth with the potential to access so much power.
Here, last night, he had been no threat at all. He'd been nothing but an annoyance, and Giles was easily annoyed. Xander had annoyed him almost constantly for at least four years, and yet, he'd never hit him, of course. He never hit anyone, these days, who wasn't a threat to the world or his Slayer.
So what made Ethan different? What on earth had possessed him to think he had the right to...
Do what he'd done.
It weighed on his mind for the rest of the day, and he kept watching for Ethan, but as it turned out, he wouldn't see him again for three weeks.
***
Work dragged on. Endless translations of books of prophecies, most of which turned out to be hundreds of years out of date or frauds or just plain pointless. It wasn't all that different than what he'd done in Sunnydale, really, except that in Sunnydale, it had always been about accomplishing something. It had been about finding answers to real questions.
This translating felt far more like Council busywork designed to keep him occupied and to justify his paycheck, and it was dreary. Boring. Useless.
His daily routine was likewise unexciting.
He stopped by his parents' house again, but his father's stony, polite disregard continued, and he got the feeling that it bothered his mother, having to deal with the two of them, so he'd let them alone for the most part, restricting his contact to the occasional phone call.
His office-mates, once friendly, were likewise reserved now, regarding him with attitudes ranging from uncertainty to outright dislike.
He'd never liked being so alone in Sunnydale, but it had at least been temporary, in a way. He'd known that one day he'd come back home. What he hadn't bargained for, though he should have, was the reception he may receive once he got back, and now, spending his evenings alone seemed more unbearable than it ever had before.
He missed Buffy, and Willow, and Xander, Anya, Tara and Dawn. He worried about them, but he didn't call. He didn't let himself call. They needed this. Independence. He'd never asked nor claimed to be their father, but he knew that as long as he was there, that was, to a certain extent, what he would be. So he couldn't stay. Children needed to leave the nest, to make their own way. It was the way of things, and it was for the best.
But he still missed them.
By the time he walked into his usual pub and found Ethan at a table, sipping a drink and watching the patrons as though he'd never vanished into thin air, it was almost a relief.
***
"Ripper. Well, isn't this a surprise. I thought we didn't have a relationship."
There didn't seem to be any particular ill-will in Ethan's expression as Giles came up to his table.
"We don't," he said, by reflex, "But I... I owe you an apology."
Ethan raised his brows.
"My, my. I think that may be a first. Please, join me. This should be good."
"You don't have to be such an insufferable prat, you know," Giles said, as he sat down. There wasn't very much real heat in the words. In fact, he was almost feeling friendly.
"But I'm so good at it," Ethan said, then sipped his drink again. Giles was momentarily captivated by the muscles moving in his throat as he swallowed, then he shook himself away.
"Well, yes. I suppose one should work with what one has."
Ethan's eyes lingered for a moment on Giles' double scotch, then he looked up and said, "So, I believe you were about to beg forgiveness?"
"I wouldn't go that far," Giles said, drily, then sipped his scotch for fortification. "I-- What I did the other night... I'm sorry. I had no right. I shouldn't have--"
"You're apologizing for *that*?" Ethan said, "Oh, please, Ripper. You think for a second you did anything I didn't want? Come now, there are plenty of things you could be apologizing for that actually warrant an apology."
He was taken aback by this, but he supposed he shouldn't have been. After all, sex had, most likely, been what Ethan had been angling for, and sex had, technically, been what he'd got.
"Apologize for what?"
Oddly, Ethan's eyes flickered away for a moment, and then he said, blithely, "Oh, your abominable taste in clothing for one. I mean, really, Ripper, tweed?"
"I haven't worn tweed in-- well, yes, at the office, but only--"
That was *not* what Ethan had really been going for, either, but he wasn't sure what it was.
"Where were you?"
Ethan quirked a brow again. "Does it matter?"
"No."
"Business," Ethan said.
"Ah."
Giles didn't want to know anymore than that. They'd all be better off if he didn't.
***
Many rounds later, Giles said, "My father hates me."
"Makes me glad I never met mine," Ethan said.
"No, he... he doesn't really hate me, I suppose, but they all look at me as though I'm some sort of... harmful mutant."
"Well, maybe you are," Ethan said.
"You're not helping," Giles said.
"Oh, sorry."
"You're supposed to... pretend to be sympathetic and nod and say 'there, there.'"
Ethan nodded and said, "There, there."
"Why am I here?" Giles said, suddenly, sharply. Why was he here, in this pub, getting plastered with Ethan, again? Had he no shame? No ability to learn from his mistakes?
"Most likely because you want to get laid," Ethan said.
"I do not," Giles said. Well, ok, that wasn't true. "Not with you," he added, to clarify.
"Of course you do."
Giles felt righteously indignant as he said, "You keep bloody putting words in my mouth. What makes you so sodding sure of yourself, anyway?"
And wouldn't it be nice? To have that kind of self-esteem? That thought came unbidden, and Giles didn't like it.
"Why shouldn't I be? You honestly think there's the slightest chance we won't end up in bed by the end of the night?"
"Of course we're not going to-- no!"
Well, there was at least a chance they'd both be too drunk for such things. He could cling to that.
"Besides," Ethan said, leaning forward, his voice dropping low and intimate in a way that flickered through Giles' nervous system, "I believe you said you owe me."
"An apology," Giles said, "I owed you an apology. Which I gave. And you failed to accept."
Ethan settled back in his chair.
"You owe me a bit more than that, Giles."
"Keeping tabs now, are we?"
"Well, you did rather leave me hanging, so to speak. I'd say it's only fair."
"Since when have you cared about fair?"
"Generally, I care about fair when it's me getting the short end of the stick."
"Ah. Of course."
***
A slow drizzle was falling when they left the pub, the kind that hazed out distances and cushioned sounds and cast pale halos around street lamps. Beside Giles, Ethan pulled his coat closer around himself and knotted the belt. Giles tucked his hands in his pockets and looked up, letting the cool settle against his face, chilling away the warmth of the alcohol. They walked silently and slowly, neither speaking.
He felt oddly at peace with Ethan's presence. Maybe because this brought back memories of the streets of London, late at night, damp and mostly empty, where sometimes they'd wander for hours, intruding on the alley cats' nightly rounds. Those memories were the ones that didn't hurt, and it seemed that sometimes he forgot he had them. That there had been good times before the bad, quiet moments that needed no regrets but for the one regret that they had ended and ended so badly.
Still, when he reached his building, the loud steps made him even more paranoid than before, with the echo of two sets of footsteps in the stairwell. Ethan, though, remained eerily quiet even after Giles had unlocked the door to his flat and they'd walked inside.
"Sorry about the mess," Giles said, reflexively, only realizing that Ethan probably couldn't care less about a mess after he'd already said it.
He'd managed to unpack some of the boxes, but most of them were still in residence in his living room. He glanced back and found Ethan eyeing the place like a detective entering a crime scene. Their eyes met, then, and Ethan shrugged off his coat and tossed it over the ledge of the window into the kitchen, then toed off his shoes, not once looking away.
His eyes were dark and intent, and when he walked towards Giles it was less like he was walking and more like stalking.
Then he went right past Giles, six inches away without stopping, and Giles let out a soft breath, held in anticipation of being touched. Ethan didn't touch him, he only felt the soft breeze of his passing. Ethan himself headed down the hall.
There was nothing for Giles to do but take off his shoes and coat, lock the door, and follow him.
When he reached the bedroom, Ethan was not, as he'd suspected he may be, already naked. He stood before the bed, with his back to the door, apparently lost in quiet contemplation. Though, when Giles walked into the room and shut the door behind him, Ethan looked back over his shoulder and smiled.
The unfamiliarity of the goatee struck Giles again, yet another change to the face he remembered from his youth.
Ethan turned then, with only a small hint of the smile remaining at the corner of his mouth. His eyes were still dark and intense. Serious. He flicked his gaze down and then up, taking in Giles, who hung back by the door. Giles wasn't afraid, of course, but Ethan was different now than he usually was. Not clowning or flirting or any of his usual activities.
When Ethan stepped up close and unbuttoned the top button of Giles' shirt, Giles flinched. But as Ethan's fingers continued down, opening each button with a flick of a finger, his gaze never releasing Giles' own, Giles couldn't deny the attraction. Couldn't deny that the single-minded determination in Ethan's eyes was fascinating, or that he liked the way Ethan roughly undid his trousers.
That he sodding loved the way Ethan's hand shoved into his open fly and gripped his cock, and those eyes narrowed, and that smile widened just a bit, and that grip very nearly hurt, but still made Giles' knees go a bit watery, his breath go fast and staggered.
Then Ethan jerked his hand away, and Giles' whole body seemed to groan in disappointment.
"But this isn't about you, is it?" Ethan said, then, not smirking, except perhaps in a small twinkle in his eye. Though that twinkle seemed too dark and too hard-edged for glee. It more closely resembled the diamond tip of a saw blade.
And yet, that was even more fascinating.
"No," Giles said. Another ping of guilt echoed through his gut.
And perhaps a little fear, because giving Ethan free reign was about the most idiotic thing anyone, particularly him, could do. Still, he mostly felt certain he could handle anything Ethan threw at him. It was only Ethan, after all.
Though, "only Ethan," at this point, didn't seem as comforting as it usually did.
"How do you want to do this, then?" Ethan said, "Mouth or arse? Really I'm happy either way."
Such crudeness should not turn him on this much. None of this should be turning him on.
He pulled his thoughts back up to his brain and tried to consider the question. Much as there was the instinctual first kick of "Like hell am I going to let you fuck me," he hadn't actually even touched another man's cock in decades, and it would be easier to just lie there and let Ethan do what he would...
It had nothing to do, of course, with the fact that some part of him had been aching for Ethan to fuck him since he'd first stalked towards Giles back at the front door. Nothing at all.
Giles didn't answer verbally. He shrugged off his shirt and went to the bed, pushed off his trousers, pants and socks and then lay down on his stomach. Trying not to think. Humiliation pulsing through him in time with the arousal. He shut his eyes, but he could still hear the rustle of Ethan's clothing being shed and hitting the floor, and then the bed sagged and the springs creaked, and a warm hand settled at the nape of his neck, then ran down his back.
One finger teased at the dimple just above his arse-crack, and his muscles tensed. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter and just breathed.
"Oh, Ripper, come now. It's not that bad."
Feather-light fingers traced downwards, not delving in yet. Giles grit his teeth, and his cock throbbed with want.
"Just bloody do it," he grated.
Then Ethan leaned in, his hand leaving Giles' arse to brace himself over Giles back. His lips brushed against Giles' ear.
"You know me better than that, love," he said, and then he kissed down Giles' jaw, down his throat, to where his neck join his shoulder. Then bit down there, hard enough to force a small cry out of Giles. Not enjoying this, he was bloody well not enjoying this.
And then Ethan nuzzled his shoulder, a wire-brush new sensation of beard against his skin. Giles' breath left him, abandoned him completely, and left his mind dizzy with want and desire. Excitement. Ethan.
Strong male hand ran roughly down his side, scrape of that goatee against his skin.
He wanted. Wanted Ethan, wanted this. Wanted Ethan's cock, Ethan's teeth.
His hand curled into a fist, and then Ethan reached his waist and climbed over his leg and settled on the bed. His lips grazed that same dimple he'd touched earlier. Giles knew suddenly what he was doing and, with that knowledge, felt a rush of hot precome, spread his legs and groaned. He turned his face into the pillow and crushed it there, breathing the heat of his own breath as Ethan spread his cheeks, and that smooth hot wet tongue slid down.
Lack of air and the probing touch of that tongue made him dizzy. He spread his legs wider, felt the ache in his groin muscles, turned his head to the side again and gasped for cool air.
Dizzy heat, sweat, his heart hammered tangibly, he could feel his pulse in his throat, in his gut, in his cock. Ethan's tongue circled and pressed inside, just enough to touch soft, supersensitive skin. Ethan's chin brushed against his balls, tickled, felt good. So good.
"I thought... this wasn't about me," Giles said.
Ethan kissed along the curve of one arse cheek and murmured, "So you are enjoying this, then?"
"No," Giles snapped, disregarding any evidence to the contrary.
Ethan just chuckled again, and then licked patterns up Giles' perineum. Matching patterns of heat etched themselves in Giles' brain.
The next time Ethan pulled away--god knew how much later--Giles couldn't stop a small whimper of protest, then a hot blush at the sound. Ethan was only gone for a moment, and then his fingers touched Giles again, slick and pressing. He couldn't find it in him to tense up, so his body allowed the intrusion without protest. He shifted his hips, and his cock dragged against the covers, and he groaned again.
Fingers pulled and stretched and then slipped away, then the bed moved as Ethan resettled himself.
Then he turned his face back into the pillow and groaned a different kind of groan. His body and mind finally caught onto the same wavelength and the tension he'd been unable to summon before reported in, full force.
"Oh, relax, Rupert," Ethan said, the patience and amusement gone from his voice, the tenor more of a growl than a purr now.
Ethan dropped down, heavy heat over his back, like a thick, living winter blanket. His breath ruffled the fringe of hair at the nape of Giles' neck, and his hand burrowed between them, down between their legs. Then, a moment later, the guardian ring of muscle in his arse burned at a pressing intrusion.
Contradictory impulses of *fuck, that hurts* and *relax and it won't, you idiot,* curled through his mind and a fresh sweat broke out across his forehead. He forced the air out of his lungs and tried to tell half-involuntary muscles to obey his will.
"Oh, gods, Rupert," Ethan gasped, a strangled choke.
He wanted to say 'slow down,' but couldn't find the words in the vertigo of the pain. Wave of nausea after Ethan pulled back for a moment and then pressed in again, harder, deeper, Giles' muscles still clenched far too tight, still fought for every centimeter.
Everything seemed sharper, more real in that moment, as though he could count the threads in the sheet, feel each drop of sweat roll down his flanks.
"Ethan," he managed to say, but Ethan either didn't hear, or was ignoring him, or didn't get the message.
At the very least, he could honestly say his own erection was as absent as he'd been wishing for it to be all night. Somehow, though, that was a very cold comfort now.
But then, Ethan nuzzled his ear, then caught the lobe gently between his teeth, teased at it with his tongue, and the pain was beginning to abate, and Ethan wasn't pushing him, was just barely penetrating him. Small shallow strokes pushed against reluctant muscles that were finally, blessedly, beginning to unlock.
Giles sighed in relief, and with that exhalation, Ethan pressed in a bit deeper, and there was only a small spike of pain to mark the transition.
In fact, a few moments later, it was beginning to feel good, and Ethan was beginning to move with a more regular rhythm.
"Oh, yes," Ethan sighed.
He'd forgotten how this felt. It overwhelmed him, and rushed through him, left no part of his body untouched. It made him feel filled and possessed. Wanted. So deep now, that rhythm so impossible to ignore. The thought of being fucked was almost as intense as the sensation itself.
He gasped and pushed back, and now welcomed the shock of pain and the sensation of being pressed and forced and reshaped. He panted through flared nostrils, his chin tucked to his chest, body braced and lifted up on his elbows and knees, pressed into Ethan, his nose filled with the scent of his own sweat and arousal.
An arm wrapped tight around his chest, another hand sunk into the mattress, just within his limited line of sight. Ethan was up on his knees and fucking him hard now, every thrust redefining the world, Giles could still hardly breathe, but now it was with pleasure, pain seemed to be a distant memory, something that happened to other people, something meaningless and theoretical and far away, and god, now he was hard again. Leaking, wanting. Wanted to reach beneath himself and take himself in hand, but couldn't change position under Ethan's relentless rhythm.
Above him, Ethan rambled something meaningless and then slammed into him, one hard lunge, that pushed Giles' shoulders down to the mattress, that sparked one more flare of pain, and then--
Ethan collapsed over him, on hands and knees, his chest a presence just above but not touching Giles' back. Still inside of Giles, for a moment, and then he pulled out, pulled away.
Giles dropped to the bed on his side, trembling all over, and looked down his body to see Ethan just as the other man stood up, calmly picked up his trousers and shirt and headed for the bathroom. Giles stared after him, his befuddled mind trying to process this sudden abandonment.
He'd just begun to figure it out when Ethan emerged from the bathroom, dressed as impeccably as if he hadn't just buggered Giles' brains out.
"Debt repaid, then?" Ethan said, with a self-satisfied smirk.
And then he left.
Giles flopped onto his back on the bed. A part of him actually admired the man's capacity for evil.
"You bloody bastard," he said to the ceiling, as he heard his front door shut.
tarnished -- part one -- trekker |