An Antique Roman: Ethan Rayne Ficathon
Written for for 47_trek_47
The request was:
Characters or pairings you want with Ethan: Giles (slash, implied or explicit); Ethan tricking, coercing, and/or cajoling Giles into helping him with a less-than-ethical spell; present day, post-Chosen setting; some involvement of the rest of the Buffy ensemble
Two things you don't want: fluff, comics canon
Maximum rating you'd prefer: Sky's the limit, baby.
A/N: My sincere apologies to 47_trek_47, as this fic is not complete. I am posting the part I had written prior to the sudden illness and death of my father, which made writing impossible during the past few weeks. I do promise to complete it as soon as possible (which means as soon as I get some rest and nudge my muse back into working order). I had told antennapedia that I would prefer not to drop out, as I have never before failed to make a deadline on a commitment I have made (and my father did not raise a quitter, so I didn't want to start now) and she said it would be acceptable to post the first chapter now, in lieu of the complete story. Again, my apologies, and I will link additional parts to this chapter. Thank you.
What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas, Chapter One
“Oh, come on, old man, be a sport! It'll be fun.”
Ethan's impish grin seemed to spread and grow until it was all Giles could see. Rather like the Cheshire cat, he thought.
Giles took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Everything seemed to blur and he felt muzzy-headed. He couldn't be drunk; he'd only had two-or possibly three-drinks, and he'd always heard that casinos watered the gratis drinks, in any event.
“How long has it been since you let loose, Ripper? I can tell you exactly how long it's been for me-to the day. It's just a spot of harmless fun. No one will get hurt, and fair is fair. Wha'd'ya say?”
Giles replaced his glasses and looked at Ethan. He felt more relaxed and free than he'd felt in a long time. Free of guilt that he'd allowed the situation with Ethan to drag on for years, with nary a thought for Ethan, while he lived his life and went about his business. Free of responsibility, for the moment at least, and hopefully for the whole of the next week. He hadn't realized how much the responsibility had worn on him, ever since he discovered that he was the ersatz Watcher's Council, responsible for first finding and arranging protection for known potential slayers, and then reforming the Council after Buffy and Willow reformed the world. No longer was there one Slayer and hundreds of Watchers-for a time there had been one Watcher and hundreds of Slayers, and even now he was responsible for supervising the new Watchers.
As he looked at Ethan's twinkling eyes and infectious grin, he felt an answering grin forming on his own face.
“Well,” Giles said, “they do say 'the house always wins'.”
Ethan nodded. “They do indeed say that. But what do you say, Ripper?”
“I? I say . . . not bloody likely.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
One month earlier-
Rupert Giles' eyes flew open and he clawed at the covers in an attempt to extricate himself. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and when he dropped his face into his hands, he noticed they were shaking. No need to wonder what had awakened him so precipitously; he knew. He'd had the dream again-the same dream he'd been having every night for the past fortnight. Giles scrubbed his hands over his face, and then ran one hand through his sleep-tousled hair. He got to his feet, hitched up the brushed-cotton pajama bottoms he wore, and then padded barefoot into the sitting room. The moon shone through the gap where the drapes didn't quite meet and was enough light to see by, but the moon's light was cold and silvery. He needed warm, friendly, yellow light, so he made his way to the lamp beside the reading chair and switched it on.
The half-empty bottle of Lagavulin still sat on the top of the credenza. He had neglected to put it away after fortifying himself aprés last night's dream.
Giles poured an inch of Scotch into last night's glass and sank into the comfortable leather chair within the circle of light cast by the lamp.
The dreams all began the same way: Giles was young and rebellious and extremely ticked off at his family and his life. There had to be more to life-more than school and work and sacred duty. He wasn't sure what form that 'more' would take, but he was bloody anxious to find out.
The 'more' took the form of Ethan Rayne, and the dreams segued into montages of the two of them doing things together-searching for old books in Portobello road, drinking in pubs, sneaking into avant garde plays and bloody brilliant musicals on the West End, and occasionally spending the entire afternoon dressing up like Ziggy Stardust for a lark, then hitting the hot new clubs and impressing the shite out of the Americans and Germans who congregated there. But not the French, for some reason. The French students never seemed to be into Glam Rock; they preferred Jerry Lewis. Sans the 'Lee', of course. No accounting for taste, he guessed.
And then when he was feeling happy and relaxed, warm, and powerful in his youth, his sexuality and his magic, the tenor of the dreams changed.
He felt cold, isolated, alienated and hopeless. And the world was comprised of Ethan's eyes. He was drowning in those eyes. Some nights they cajoled. Some nights they demanded. Sometimes they were bottomless pits of sadness, at other times they flashed with rage, but the nights they were filled with fear and hopelessness were the worst.
But no matter what emotion Ethan's eyes conveyed, the message was always the same: Help me! How could you do this to me? How could you lock me away and just forget about me? I'd never have done this to you, Ripper, and you bloody well know it! Please, I need you. I need your help. There isn't anyone else. Get me the fuck out of here!
~*~*~*~*~*~
Ethan slumped with exhaustion, and finally stretched out on his narrow cot, which was bolted to the wall. It was nearly morning, and he wondered how many more days he could keep this up. Bloody Rupert was thick as a brick. It had taken Ethan months to breech the defenses Rupert had set on his mind. Months of energy-sapping, psychically draining work, before he finally found a way in. He felt the familiar touch of Ripper's mind and suddenly realized how much he'd missed this.
Ethan poured his hopes and dreams, his memories of when things were good between them, into Rupert's mind. He gave it his all, and then . . . nothing. Absolutely, sodding nothing happened. Nothing at all.
So Ethan did it again and again. He ate sparingly, in case they were drugging his food, when he really wanted to devour every scrap to replace the energy he was expending. He was sure he had connected; he couldn't be mistaken about that. But Rupert wasn't answering. And so, he did it again and again. Finally, he fasted for a full day and a night. No food, no water, in case he had guessed wrong, and the drugs were in the water. He gathered the remnants of his power for a final sending.
He built the world they'd shared, bit by bit-the lost world in which they'd been together and happy, with their whole lives stretching out before them. He poured everything he was into the vision. It left him hollow and aching, but it didn't matter. He had to reach Ripper. He must succeed. The alternative was unacceptable. To die alone and forgotten in a secret military facility for a 'crime' that he and Ripper would have barely classified as mischief in the old days, and then had a good laugh about over a pint? Not bloody likely! He'd spent quite enough time as a 'guest' of the Initiative, thank you very much! Rupert could not possibly have changed so much that he failed to see the injustice of the situation, could he? Rupert was supposed to be a White Hat, wasn't he?
“And I? I'm not a demon or a terrorist. I don't belong here, and if you'd get your bloody head out of your arse, you'd know that! I'm Ethan Rayne! Get me the fuck out of here!”
~*~*~*~*~*~
Giles stared at the empty glass, and then reached for the bottle. He hesitated for a moment, and then capped the bottle, replaced it inside the credenza, and firmly shut the door.
What had he been thinking? For all of his faults-and they were legion-Ethan was human. How could he have allowed Ethan to remain in the custody of the Initiative for . . . more than six years? When Riley first suggested the Initiative take Ethan into custody, it had seemed like a bloody good idea. He'd been hurt and angry, and also foolish and vindictive, if he wanted to be perfectly honest with himself, and time in a military prison seemed no more than Ethan deserved.
And yet . . . he knew the Initiative wasn't remotely trustworthy. They placed their confidence-and funding-in people like that shrew Walsh. They'd tried to build an unstoppable demon army. They'd drugged and chipped one of their own trusted Commanders. What would they have done to Ethan over the six years he was in their custody? Faith had served three years for multiple murders, and he'd sentenced Ethan to six years for . . . mischief? Oh, dear lord!
He needed to rectify that decision, and he would. He'd think of some way to get Ethan out. But first, he needed a shower.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Ethan was bored. He'd tried every magical spell he could think of to get out of the Initiative's ham-handed clutches, but nothing had worked. He was finally forced to admit that something about the facility must be dampening his magic. Possibly, the gloom, despair and/or rage emanating from the other 'guests', such as the Fyarl in the next cell. And wasn't that just bloody ironic. Turning Ripper into a Fyarl was what had gotten him here in the first place, and now he was doomed to spend his time in close proximity to one. He'd taken to calling it 'Ripper' for a lark, but the joke had quickly worn thin.
Ethan had finally broken down and sent out a call for help, but either Ripper-the real Ripper-was too bloody thick to recognize it as such, or. . . .
No. He refused to contemplate the 'or'-the possibility that Rupert didn't care what happened to him and planned to just leave him in this oubliette of a facility.
But, for the first time in his life, Ethan Rayne was flat out of ideas. Not that he was giving up. By no means was he giving up! He just needed some time to think of his next move, that's all.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Continued in Chapter Two
The request was:
Characters or pairings you want with Ethan: Giles (slash, implied or explicit); Ethan tricking, coercing, and/or cajoling Giles into helping him with a less-than-ethical spell; present day, post-Chosen setting; some involvement of the rest of the Buffy ensemble
Two things you don't want: fluff, comics canon
Maximum rating you'd prefer: Sky's the limit, baby.
A/N: My sincere apologies to 47_trek_47, as this fic is not complete. I am posting the part I had written prior to the sudden illness and death of my father, which made writing impossible during the past few weeks. I do promise to complete it as soon as possible (which means as soon as I get some rest and nudge my muse back into working order). I had told antennapedia that I would prefer not to drop out, as I have never before failed to make a deadline on a commitment I have made (and my father did not raise a quitter, so I didn't want to start now) and she said it would be acceptable to post the first chapter now, in lieu of the complete story. Again, my apologies, and I will link additional parts to this chapter. Thank you.
What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas, Chapter One
“Oh, come on, old man, be a sport! It'll be fun.”
Ethan's impish grin seemed to spread and grow until it was all Giles could see. Rather like the Cheshire cat, he thought.
Giles took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Everything seemed to blur and he felt muzzy-headed. He couldn't be drunk; he'd only had two-or possibly three-drinks, and he'd always heard that casinos watered the gratis drinks, in any event.
“How long has it been since you let loose, Ripper? I can tell you exactly how long it's been for me-to the day. It's just a spot of harmless fun. No one will get hurt, and fair is fair. Wha'd'ya say?”
Giles replaced his glasses and looked at Ethan. He felt more relaxed and free than he'd felt in a long time. Free of guilt that he'd allowed the situation with Ethan to drag on for years, with nary a thought for Ethan, while he lived his life and went about his business. Free of responsibility, for the moment at least, and hopefully for the whole of the next week. He hadn't realized how much the responsibility had worn on him, ever since he discovered that he was the ersatz Watcher's Council, responsible for first finding and arranging protection for known potential slayers, and then reforming the Council after Buffy and Willow reformed the world. No longer was there one Slayer and hundreds of Watchers-for a time there had been one Watcher and hundreds of Slayers, and even now he was responsible for supervising the new Watchers.
As he looked at Ethan's twinkling eyes and infectious grin, he felt an answering grin forming on his own face.
“Well,” Giles said, “they do say 'the house always wins'.”
Ethan nodded. “They do indeed say that. But what do you say, Ripper?”
“I? I say . . . not bloody likely.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
One month earlier-
Rupert Giles' eyes flew open and he clawed at the covers in an attempt to extricate himself. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and when he dropped his face into his hands, he noticed they were shaking. No need to wonder what had awakened him so precipitously; he knew. He'd had the dream again-the same dream he'd been having every night for the past fortnight. Giles scrubbed his hands over his face, and then ran one hand through his sleep-tousled hair. He got to his feet, hitched up the brushed-cotton pajama bottoms he wore, and then padded barefoot into the sitting room. The moon shone through the gap where the drapes didn't quite meet and was enough light to see by, but the moon's light was cold and silvery. He needed warm, friendly, yellow light, so he made his way to the lamp beside the reading chair and switched it on.
The half-empty bottle of Lagavulin still sat on the top of the credenza. He had neglected to put it away after fortifying himself aprés last night's dream.
Giles poured an inch of Scotch into last night's glass and sank into the comfortable leather chair within the circle of light cast by the lamp.
The dreams all began the same way: Giles was young and rebellious and extremely ticked off at his family and his life. There had to be more to life-more than school and work and sacred duty. He wasn't sure what form that 'more' would take, but he was bloody anxious to find out.
The 'more' took the form of Ethan Rayne, and the dreams segued into montages of the two of them doing things together-searching for old books in Portobello road, drinking in pubs, sneaking into avant garde plays and bloody brilliant musicals on the West End, and occasionally spending the entire afternoon dressing up like Ziggy Stardust for a lark, then hitting the hot new clubs and impressing the shite out of the Americans and Germans who congregated there. But not the French, for some reason. The French students never seemed to be into Glam Rock; they preferred Jerry Lewis. Sans the 'Lee', of course. No accounting for taste, he guessed.
And then when he was feeling happy and relaxed, warm, and powerful in his youth, his sexuality and his magic, the tenor of the dreams changed.
He felt cold, isolated, alienated and hopeless. And the world was comprised of Ethan's eyes. He was drowning in those eyes. Some nights they cajoled. Some nights they demanded. Sometimes they were bottomless pits of sadness, at other times they flashed with rage, but the nights they were filled with fear and hopelessness were the worst.
But no matter what emotion Ethan's eyes conveyed, the message was always the same: Help me! How could you do this to me? How could you lock me away and just forget about me? I'd never have done this to you, Ripper, and you bloody well know it! Please, I need you. I need your help. There isn't anyone else. Get me the fuck out of here!
~*~*~*~*~*~
Ethan slumped with exhaustion, and finally stretched out on his narrow cot, which was bolted to the wall. It was nearly morning, and he wondered how many more days he could keep this up. Bloody Rupert was thick as a brick. It had taken Ethan months to breech the defenses Rupert had set on his mind. Months of energy-sapping, psychically draining work, before he finally found a way in. He felt the familiar touch of Ripper's mind and suddenly realized how much he'd missed this.
Ethan poured his hopes and dreams, his memories of when things were good between them, into Rupert's mind. He gave it his all, and then . . . nothing. Absolutely, sodding nothing happened. Nothing at all.
So Ethan did it again and again. He ate sparingly, in case they were drugging his food, when he really wanted to devour every scrap to replace the energy he was expending. He was sure he had connected; he couldn't be mistaken about that. But Rupert wasn't answering. And so, he did it again and again. Finally, he fasted for a full day and a night. No food, no water, in case he had guessed wrong, and the drugs were in the water. He gathered the remnants of his power for a final sending.
He built the world they'd shared, bit by bit-the lost world in which they'd been together and happy, with their whole lives stretching out before them. He poured everything he was into the vision. It left him hollow and aching, but it didn't matter. He had to reach Ripper. He must succeed. The alternative was unacceptable. To die alone and forgotten in a secret military facility for a 'crime' that he and Ripper would have barely classified as mischief in the old days, and then had a good laugh about over a pint? Not bloody likely! He'd spent quite enough time as a 'guest' of the Initiative, thank you very much! Rupert could not possibly have changed so much that he failed to see the injustice of the situation, could he? Rupert was supposed to be a White Hat, wasn't he?
“And I? I'm not a demon or a terrorist. I don't belong here, and if you'd get your bloody head out of your arse, you'd know that! I'm Ethan Rayne! Get me the fuck out of here!”
~*~*~*~*~*~
Giles stared at the empty glass, and then reached for the bottle. He hesitated for a moment, and then capped the bottle, replaced it inside the credenza, and firmly shut the door.
What had he been thinking? For all of his faults-and they were legion-Ethan was human. How could he have allowed Ethan to remain in the custody of the Initiative for . . . more than six years? When Riley first suggested the Initiative take Ethan into custody, it had seemed like a bloody good idea. He'd been hurt and angry, and also foolish and vindictive, if he wanted to be perfectly honest with himself, and time in a military prison seemed no more than Ethan deserved.
And yet . . . he knew the Initiative wasn't remotely trustworthy. They placed their confidence-and funding-in people like that shrew Walsh. They'd tried to build an unstoppable demon army. They'd drugged and chipped one of their own trusted Commanders. What would they have done to Ethan over the six years he was in their custody? Faith had served three years for multiple murders, and he'd sentenced Ethan to six years for . . . mischief? Oh, dear lord!
He needed to rectify that decision, and he would. He'd think of some way to get Ethan out. But first, he needed a shower.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Ethan was bored. He'd tried every magical spell he could think of to get out of the Initiative's ham-handed clutches, but nothing had worked. He was finally forced to admit that something about the facility must be dampening his magic. Possibly, the gloom, despair and/or rage emanating from the other 'guests', such as the Fyarl in the next cell. And wasn't that just bloody ironic. Turning Ripper into a Fyarl was what had gotten him here in the first place, and now he was doomed to spend his time in close proximity to one. He'd taken to calling it 'Ripper' for a lark, but the joke had quickly worn thin.
Ethan had finally broken down and sent out a call for help, but either Ripper-the real Ripper-was too bloody thick to recognize it as such, or. . . .
No. He refused to contemplate the 'or'-the possibility that Rupert didn't care what happened to him and planned to just leave him in this oubliette of a facility.
But, for the first time in his life, Ethan Rayne was flat out of ideas. Not that he was giving up. By no means was he giving up! He just needed some time to think of his next move, that's all.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Continued in Chapter Two