{ sunnydale } and that same sun that warms your heart will suck the good earth dry
Their friendship was born of convenience - Rupert's, actually, although Ethan didn't put it quite like that when he mentioned he'd been insinuating himself into Joyce Summers's good graces as an art contact - but Ethan found himself becoming fond of her almost despite himself. Joyce was a smart woman, and savvier than he first gave her credit for; he hadn't anticipated genuinely looking forward to coffees and brunches and exchanging opinions on what's coming through the gallery this week.
"...we were fostering her," Ethan lied seamlessly about the potential that had been reassigned when Joyce had asked who the girl was in the picture that Rupert pretended he hadn't noticed in Ethan's wallet, "for friends of ours during some difficult family times. You know how it is. I suppose I wasn't expecting it to be so difficult to give her back."
The way he remembers it, Dawn had come back with the smoothie he'd given her a few dollars for and Joyce had looked at him sympathetically and they hadn't said anything else about it, but she hadn't minded when he took more of an interest in her own daughter. That's not the way it really happened (there had been no Dawn, and no smoothie, and they'd talked for a while about whether or not he and Rupert would ever consider adopting), but it's the way he remembers it and after Joyce has died and Ethan's signed everything he needs to in order to accept legal guardianship of her, he thinks about that afternoon. The Summers house feels emptier without its matriarch, and he sits on the porch with a cigarette and listens to the sound of people falling apart behind the door.
He's never managed to get used to grief. Randall was the first, and when he thinks of Randall he has to think of Diedre, too, caught unawares when Eyghon returned for the rest of them and ripped out of the dull, suburban life that she'd consigned herself to. He misses her, and some days he blames her; he might not be here, grieving again, if it hadn't been her stupid idea to introduce him to Rupert Giles in the first place. Mia had been another little grief, not dead but out of reach, and he loves Buffy enough to be sorry for blaming her for that before he knew her. Not enough to share it, the ever-unfamiliar face who lives next to Ethan's driver's license and credit card, but enough to have long-sinced stopped holding her unfairly responsible for the separation.
He taps ash into the mug (Rupert's) that he brought out here with him and figures that means he's grown as a person at some point over the past thirty years.
"Bully for me," he mutters, sardonic.
"What?"
Ethan holds his arm out without turning and waits until Dawn's tucked herself against his side, her long, lanky legs draped over his knees to pull back in, quiet. "Nothing, sweetheart, I'm drunk." Which is true. "Rupert is with your sister, I take it."
Dawn nods against his shoulder, and Ethan exhales smoke over the top of her head. "Well, good."
It's not, really; it will be, eventually.