Summer of Giles Fic III - Blazing Like Rebel Diamonds
And this concludes my posting day at this year's summer_of_giles. Thanks for sharing the day with me!
spikeNdru
Title: Blazing Like Rebel Diamonds
Author: spikeNdru
Pairing: Giles/Ethan
Timeline: Post Series, in a world which completely ignores comic 'canon', plus G/E backstory
Rating: FRAO/NC-17
Length: 4436 words
Warnings: '70's era drug use, M/M slash
For ficbitca_bear, who requested a fic based on The Killers' Read My Mind.
Special thanks to makd for the speedy beta last night! *mwah* Any remaining mistakes are my own.
On the corner of main street
Just tryin' to keep it in line
You say you wanna move on and
You say I'm falling behind
Can you read my mind?
Giles was attempting to work on his least favorite aspect of the job-the budget. Apparently, for some reason he could not fathom, the fiscal year began on the first of July. He had assumed that it would be difficult to reinvent an entire, worldwide organization when he agreed to take on the reform of the Council, but he hadn't known the half of it! He wasn't exactly a dunce regarding finances, and he had, after all, managed a quite successful retail shop. Although, he'd been more than happy to allow Anya to take over the more boring aspects of money management. Yet now, here he was, four days from a meeting with the soulless accountants, during which he must justify a budget which included far more items of miscellany than they were ever likely to understand, let alone approve. At least he hoped the appellation 'soulless' was a figure of speech. For all he knew, it may be quite accurate. Hadn't Anya once remarked that a popular vengeance curse was forcing accountants to recheck spread sheets for eternity? He feared there was a definite possibility that several of those cursed accountants were currently in the Council's employ.
Giles removed his glasses and rubbed the space between his eyebrows where his headache seemed to be concentrated. That infernal noise didn't help! Giles had had enough! He flung open the door of his suite of rooms and stepped into the corridor. Why, he wondered, had he chosen the ambiance of a large, old country manor for the new Council Headquarters rather than a modern, steel and concrete, blessedly soundproofed high-rise? He'd thought the ancient manor charming, with a plethora of rolling lawns and fragrant gardens perfect for strolling and contemplation.
But they had all been so busy the past few years, identifying and training slayers-which was naturally a priority-that he hadn't had the time to recruit and train the number of Watchers he would have liked. Which led to the current imbalance of many, many active, exuberant teenaged girls and very few calm, levelheaded adults to ride herd on them. All of which was directly responsible for the incessant cacophony of noise permeating the ancient walls of the manor house, rather than the contemplative quiet he had envisioned.
"Stop that at once!" he yelled at the top of his voice.
Various doors opened, heads appeared to stare at him, and the volume of sound increased.
"This is supposed to be study time, yes?" he inquired with exasperation.
"Um, Mr. Giles, they are studying," Vi assured him.
"One cannot possibly study with that infernal racket going on!"
The slayers looked at Vi in confusion. They had no idea what he meant.
"Oh!" Vi realized the problem. "The girls like to listen to music when they study. It helps them retain things."
"Music? Ah, that is where you are mistaken, Violet. I know music, and that is not it."
One of the cheekier American slayers laughed. "Everybody listens to rap and hip hop now! The Age of Rock is dead, unless you catch one of those lame Oldies stations. Those crappy 'power ballads' are as bad as that stuff with the trumpets that my grandparents said was 'real music'. But that stuff's beyond dead." She turned to her roommate and clarified. "My one gran was really old, and she used to listen to some guy called, um, Benny Goodfellow or something, on big, black, plastic records, and there weren't even any words! My other gran liked Brian Seltzer, and he at least had words, but they were really lame."
"Brian Setzer," Giles automatically corrected, and suddenly felt very old. He decided against even mentioning Slim Jim Phantom and the origins of the Stray Cats.
Vi suddenly reappeared-he hadn't even noticed her absence-and handed him a space-age-type gadget that she explained went in his ear. She hurriedly programmed her iPod.
"Here, try this," she suggested.
Giles eyed the device doubtfully. But if it would help him to complete the bloody budget, he'd give it a try. He thanked Vi and returned to his sitting room. He glared balefully at the spread sheets which had taken over his desk, and managed to get Vi's machine to work on the second try. He smiled with pleased surprise as actual music emanated from the device.
I never really gave up on
Breakin' out of this two-star town
I got the green light
I got a little fight
I'm gonna turn this thing around
The good old days, the honest man;
The restless heart, the Promised Land
A subtle kiss that no one sees;
Before you go, can you read my mind?
Although he had never heard this particular song before, for some reason it reminded him of Ethan. He hadn't thought about Ethan in ages.
How strange. It hadn't been so very long ago-he could remember it clearly-the time in which his mind had been solely occupied with magic . . . and Ethan. The two seemed indelibly bonded in his consciousness. Ethan and magic. It seemed he couldn't even think of one without the other. He thought guiltily of the times he could have used his knowledge of magic to help Buffy, and hadn't, because-for him-magic and Ethan were inseparable. Certainly, he'd performed the spell to defeat Catherine Madison, but that had been an emergency. He should have been the one to attempt Jenny's resoulling spell, rather than Willow, but . . . he couldn't do it. He just could not accept the thought of . . . dishonoring . . . his memories of Jenny by working her spell whilst his entire mind and body cried out for Ethan.
Willow. . . . He could have taught and mentored Willow through the years. Who better than he to guide her past the pitfalls of dark magic usage? But he couldn't bring himself to do it. He told himself his only responsibility was to the Slayer, not her . . . sidekicks. Better to ignore Willow's growing power and-like an ostrich with its head in the sand-pretend he didn't know where she was heading. Willow was sweet and level-headed; nothing like his younger self. She couldn't possibly experience the wild rebelliousness and the exhalant transformation as the Dark Magiks raged through her, eventually to consume her. Oh, no. Not Willow! Of course she couldn't!
He'd been a bloody idiot! He'd been so fearful of losing himself in the magic, as Ethan had been lost, that he'd nearly lost both Willow and the world he'd sworn to protect instead.
But he had known. He'd seen the first glimmerings of her descent into darkness when Oz left. He, himself, had tried. . . . God help him, he'd tried to bring Jenny back. Thankfully, he hadn't been able to locate an Urn of Osiris, because, grief-stricken, vengeful, and full of rage as he'd been, his spell would undoubtedly have gone horribly wrong. He should have realized how dark things could eventually get when he'd seen the consequences of Willow's My Will Be Done spell.
Hmmm . . . he'd never even thought of a spell to work his will. That, alone, should have told him that Willow had the potential for real trouble without guidance.
And then, she'd actually pulled off the Resurrection spell to bring Buffy back, and he hadn't a clue what was going on. He should have been able to sense something. She'd obviously been working on it all summer, intentionally hiding her plans from him. But he'd been so lost in his own grief, he couldn't spare a thought for anything else. And where in the bloody hell had she found an Urn of Osiris? He'd been told by his magic contacts that there were no more in existence!
And then there was Spike. Spike had much more magical knowledge and ability than anyone gave him credit for-he'd immediately suggested a general reversal spell, and known in exactly which book to look for one, in an attempt to cure Giles' blindness. He'd also pulled off the extremely complicated restoration spell to bring Drusilla back to health, and he was supposed to be so bloody perceptive-why didn't Spike notice what was happening with Willow? Ethan would have done.
And, once again, it all comes back to Ethan. God help him, he'd fought against thoughts of Ethan for so long. . . . And then Ethan had returned.
What had Ethan said? "Enjoy the night. We're just a couple of sorcerers. The night is still our time. Time of magic." He'd badly wanted Ethan that night. Giles smiled wryly. 'Badly' was indeed the operative word. He'd imbibed just enough alcohol to lubricate the chains which bound his memories, allowing them to slip free. . . .
The words of Vi's song, pouring directly into his mind through that amazing earpiece which made the music such an integral part of him, merged with his thoughts.
I pull up to the front of your driveway
With magic soakin' my spine
Can you read my mind?
He could hear the distinctive roar of Ethan's 1958 Triumph T100 approaching his flat.
"Oi! Ripper! Come out an' play!"
He threw up the sash and leaned out of the window.
"Whatcher, Ethan!"
Ethan's impish grin lit up his face. He braced his feet on the uneven cobblestones as he seductively straddled the loud motorcycle. Ethan dug into the right pocket of his sinfully tight jeans with some difficulty, eventually producing a small plastic bag, containing several small brownish lumps, which he waved at Giles. Ethan's grin grew wider.
"Get a move on, old man. It's a beautiful day! Oh, and bring some tinfoil, will you?"
Giles left the window open-it was a beautiful day, especially now that Ethan had appeared-thrust his long, slender feet into his boots, grabbed his denim jacket and was half out the door when he remembered the foil. He detoured to the tiny kitchen, ripped a sheet from the roll, hastily folded it into a square that would fit into the pocket of his jean jacket, scooped up his packet of fags and a small box of wooden matches and added them to the pocket as well. He slammed the door of his flat and bounded down the steps, taking them three at a time. He grabbed the newel post and swung around the first floor landing, without actually landing, and continued down the stairs to the ground floor.
He threw his leg over the extended seat of the bike, his long thighs curving around Ethan's arse just so, and wondered-not for the first time-if Ethan had chosen the motorcycle for just this reason. He thought of his own old gray Citroën, which his grandmother had given him when he'd completed his second year of uni, and idly wondered if she'd mind if he traded it in for an MG or a VW Kharman Ghia. The bike roared as Ethan fed it petrol and revved the engine, and Giles' erection pressed snugly against Ethan's arse. As one, they both automatically leaned to the left and Ethan turned the bike and peeled out of the lay-by, tires slipping on the cobbles. The tires found purchase on the macadam of the road, and they roared off into the unusually warm and sunny early June day.
Giles lifted a hand and raked the long strands of light brown hair out of his eyes as the Triumph gained speed and the steady force of the wind against his face took over to blow his hair behind him. It would be hard to imagine things getting any better than this, Giles thought happily.
He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. The rich, fecund scent of sun-warmed growing things, unique to the English countryside, overlaid by the metallic scent of warm motorcycle and unevenly burning petrol, formed a sense-memory he was sure he would remember forever.
~*~*~*~*~*~
They glided to a stop near a copse of trees. Ethan walked the bike forward, giving it just a breath of petrol, so it would move under its own power. With a flick of his foot, he lowered the kickstand and turned to grin at Giles.
The dappled sunlight highlighted Ethan's jaw and cheekbones and shadowed his eyes. His teeth seemed to glow in a shaft of light, and for a moment, Giles fancied he saw Death in Ethan's face. Then Ethan moved and the illusion was dispelled. Giles gave a wry laugh and shook his head.
Ethan unstrapped a pack from the back of the bike and motioned for Giles to follow him. They threaded their way through the copse of trees, and shortly arrived at a hidden glade. Wild primroses echoed the golden light of the sun and a clear, cold spring trickled into a natural basin. The gentle overflow from the basin caused the ground around it to be springy with moss, dotted with tiny white flowers. Giles scooped up water and drank thirstily and then splashed his face several times with water from his cupped hands.
Ethan raised an eyebrow, and then parted the strands of vines covering the place where the underground spring seeped through the rock. A small ledge had either been carved ages ago or was a natural feature of the rock. On the ledge stood a weathered stone statue in honor of the god of the spring. A hollowed stone cup hung below. Ethan dipped the cup into the basin and poured a few drops onto the ground for the ancient deity before drinking. He lay down on the moss, extended his arms to the sides and turned his face to the sun.
"Can you feel it, Ripper? Can you feel the magic just soaking into your spine?" Ethan laughed and sat up. "No? Then maybe you need a bit of help."
He unbuckled the canvas bag and took out four bottles of Dry Blackthorn cider.
"They got a bit shaken up on the trip here, an' if we opened one now it'd prob'ly explode. But . . ." Ethan carefully placed the bottles on their sides into the basin, dislodging a small wave of displaced water over the side as he did so. "Give 'em a half hour to cool down and they'll be right as rain-or should I say 'right as Rayne'?"
Giles snorted. "That joke may have been amusing the first hundred times I heard it, but by now you really need some new material, Ethan."
"Oh, well," Ethan shrugged. "Got the foil?"
Giles pulled the folded piece of aluminum foil from his jacket pocket and handed it to Ethan. He leaned back on his elbows as he watched Ethan deftly manipulate the foil into the shape of a long-stemmed, small-bowled pipe. Giles raked his hand through his hair, and then removed a small button bearing the Pink Floyd Dark Side of the Moon prism from his jacket lapel and handed it to Ethan. Ethan used the pin to poke tiny holes in the bottom of the bowl. He added one of the lumps of hashish and then began patting his pockets in dismay. Giles let Ethan's distress build for a few seconds longer, because it was bloody funny, and then tossed him the box of wooden matches he'd brought along.
~*~*~*~*~*~
"God is Clapton." Giles intoned slowly.
"What's that?"
"Hold on! Meant to say 'Clapton is God'! Saw that on a wall th'other day."
Ethan snorted. " 'M not sayin' Clapton isn't good-but 'God'? I hardly think so!"
"You're tryin' t'confuse me with too many negatives." Giles' brow furrowed as he tried to work out Ethan's point-if the wanker actually had one. "If you're not sayin' Clapton isn't good, then you're sayin' he is. An' that's what I already said."
"Right! That's what I said. He's good. Page is good. Bloody Pete Townshend is good, but 'God'? If Clapton is God, wha' does that make Hendrix?"
"Dead?"
Ethan's face wore such a comical look of outraged shock that Giles burst out laughing. He couldn't help it. A few seconds later, Ethan joined him and soon they were both giggling like loons. Giles laughed until his sides ached. And then-somehow-Ethan's hands were pressing his shoulders into the moss and Ethan's lips were pressing into his own. Giles couldn't decide if Ethan had moved impossibly fast or impossibly slowly. Ethan's tongue teased at his lips, and Giles opened his mouth to Ethan and decided it really didn't matter if time had gone all wonky.
Ethan's hands dug into Giles' shoulders as he deepened the kiss. Giles lightly ran his hands up and down Ethan's back and then gripped Ethan's arse, pulling Ethan tight against him. He rolled to the right, taking Ethan with him. He rose up on his knees, straddling Ethan, as he shrugged out of his jacket and pulled his T-shirt over his head. Ethan lay still and watched him through half-closed eyes.
Giles paused in the act of unbuckling his belt. He playfully slapped Ethan's denim-clad erection with the loose end of the leather.
"C'mon, you lazy git-get your bloody clothes off!"
Ethan laughed and complied. His abdominal muscles tightened as he lifted his shoulders from the ground to strip off his T-shirt. Giles paused momentarily to admire the view, then got to his feet and toed off his boots. He unbuttoned his jeans and they slid down his slim hips and long legs to the ground. He carelessly stepped out of them and kicked then aside. Ethan still wasn't undressed. Giles tossed his hair out of his eyes and considered. He placed his hands low on his hips, framing his erect cock, and tilted his head, quite aware of the picture he made. Ethan stopped attempting to undress and took a few seconds to notice and appreciate. Giles smiled. His own clothes were chosen for comfort-that they flattered his lean, lanky body was incidental. Ethan, on the other hand, preferred to dress for style over function.
Ethan's heeled ankle boots had actual zippers on the insides-one of which appeared to be stuck-and his skin-tight, narrow-pegged Italian jeans wouldn't possibly fit over the boot. Bloody Mod! thought Giles indulgently as he bent down to help. The fact that they were both rather stoned didn't make navigating the pitfalls of Ethan's sartorial choices any easier! But, working together, they finally prevailed.
The exertion of undressing Ethan had made them both ravenously hungry, and Giles hefted Ethan's pack to discover what there was to eat. Ethan had gone for the simple and traditional in regards to picnic fare-a crusty loaf of bread, large wedge of Stilton cheese, bag of grapes, several apples, tin of chocolate biscuits and the cider.
They fell upon the food as if they hadn't eaten in weeks, and then they smoked another chunk of hashish. Giles lay back with his head pillowed on his arm as he nibbled on the last bunch of grapes and concluded that there was something decidedly pagan about eating food stark naked in a woodland glade. It was as if he and Ethan had stepped out of time. Even the food Ethan had chosen-well, except for the chocolate biscuits-was the same fare that could have been eaten here a thousand years ago. Ethan was right-he could feel the magic in this place seeping into his skin.
The sun slanted through the tops of the trees as the afternoon waned, causing a dappled effect of light and shadow that gave Giles the illusion of being under water. Giles' movements were slow and languid, as if his body was moving through a medium thicker than air. He slowly trailed his left hand down Ethan's chest. His fingers tangled in the damp curls surrounding Ethan's cock, and he imagined the sensation of trailing vines beneath the firm stalk of a water plant, undulating in the current. The pale green light added to the dreamlike quality, and time seemed to slow.
Giles lowered his mouth and the salty taste of sun-warmed skin mingled with the clean, sharp scent of crushed moss to nearly overwhelm his senses. His body seemed to be moving in slow motion as he took Ethan's cock into his mouth. He could feel the strong beat of Ethan's heart in the blood rushing through the veins barely contained by the soft, thin skin. It was the most amazing sensory experience as the boundaries between them seemed to dissolve and he became a part of Ethan.
Giles gently raked his teeth along the underside of Ethan's cock as he pulled back; the muscles in his neck cording as he raised his head exquisitely slowly.
Ethan moaned and his hands tangled in Giles' hair as his hips thrust upward, frantic to increase the pace.
Giles groped for the small tube he always carried in the inside pocket of his jacket. He managed to get the top off one-handed, and coated his fingers with the lube. His fingers slowly pushed past the tight ring of muscle in Ethan's arse as his tongue teased the head of Ethan's cock. He felt Ethan deliberately relax, and Giles slipped two fingers inside him as his mouth thrust down on Ethan's cock. Ethan groaned and his hips bucked again. Ethan's fingers dug into Giles' shoulders and the susurrant sounds, barely heard on the edge of Giles' consciousness, resolved into a stream of words. "Oh Cronos oh god yes oh Janus please Ripper oh god now!"
Giles withdrew his fingers and hurriedly reached for the lube. He rapidly smeared it over his own cock and the time that had seemed to pass so slowly was suddenly racing by. He slipped his shoulders under Ethan's legs and rose to his knees. He thrust into Ethan, as his hand closed around Ethan's cock.
Ethan raised his eyes to Giles' face and Giles saw a look of wonder in Ethan's eyes.
He never knew what Ethan thought he had seen, and Ethan was never after completely sure, no matter how often he revisited the memory, if the stag's antlers he saw curving above Ripper's head was a mark of the ancient horned god or just a trick of the light.
~*~*~*~*~*~
The teenage queen, the loaded gun;
The drop dead dream, the Chosen One
Before you jump
Tell me what you find when you read my mind
That was it, wasn't it? His dreams had died with Randall Smythe. Ethan saw Randall's death as a regrettable mistake, but one from which they could learn. Randall hadn't been strong enough to host Eyghon; they'd be more careful the next time. He just couldn't understand why Giles would give it all up. "Yes, of course-we won't summon Eyghon again until we're sure of the abilities of each person we bring into the fold," Ethan had said. "But in the meantime, there are plenty of other spells we can work on. I've found this wonderful book at a used bookseller's stall in Portobello Road, and we could try one or two of the spells tonight. Just you and me, Ripper. Come on! Wha'd'you say? Oh, and don't make any plans for the weekend. There's an estate sale I've heard about on Friday and Saturday in York. The old man's grandfather had a reputation as a sorcerer of some power, so we'll need to get there early. Most people will have no idea of the value of the stuff-more interested in silver tea services and First Editions, but we can't afford to take any chances. Mouldy old books, amulets and what-have-you will prob'ly go for a song, if you know what to look for. And we do know, don't we, Ripper."
He wondered if Ethan had gone to his flat to collect him that Thursday night before the sale, as Ethan had planned. And he wondered what Ethan had thought when he discovered Giles had packed up and gone-gone running back to the safety of the Council and the life his father and grandmother had planned for him. The carefully controlled life of research, where no one died, except the Chosen One, and that was to be expected, after all. One Slayer dies; another is called. That's the way it worked-the way it had always worked. The Slayers died; the Council remained. She was just a weapon, after all. A means to an end. That's what the Council taught all those eager young candidates at the Watcher's Academy. It's the way it's always been, so it must be true.
Giles removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
Slippin’ in my faith until I fall
You never returned that call
I wanna breathe that fire again
He hadn't 'returned that call'. He'd never contacted Ethan again, although several rumours about Ethan had reached his ears over the years. He'd completed his training with the Council and then, after Merrick had been killed, he'd gone on to Watch the active Slayer. He'd discovered Quentin Travers had been opposed to his selection. He'd often wondered just how much the Council had known about those two years he'd spent with Ethan.
He and Ethan certainly hadn't been very covert or low-key about anything they did. The Council could have had rather interesting dossiers compiled on both him and Ethan if they wished. And that may have accounted for some of Quentin's animosity towards him.
Giles' lips curved into a very Ripper-like smile. He really did hope that there was an afterlife, and that wherever he had ended up, Quentin was aware that the Watcher they had summarily fired, and the Slayer they consistently tried to trip up with ridiculous tests, were now in complete control of the bloody Council!
And, as for Ethan . . . they'd only been together for two years. Two short years out of fifty-some. Didn't seem like much. Not long at all. But they had certainly been memorable years. And, oh-he and Ethan had blazed like rebel diamonds, hadn't they?
The stars are blazing like rebel diamonds cut out of the sun
When you read my mind . . .
Finis
spikeNdru
Title: Blazing Like Rebel Diamonds
Author: spikeNdru
Pairing: Giles/Ethan
Timeline: Post Series, in a world which completely ignores comic 'canon', plus G/E backstory
Rating: FRAO/NC-17
Length: 4436 words
Warnings: '70's era drug use, M/M slash
For ficbitca_bear, who requested a fic based on The Killers' Read My Mind.
Special thanks to makd for the speedy beta last night! *mwah* Any remaining mistakes are my own.
On the corner of main street
Just tryin' to keep it in line
You say you wanna move on and
You say I'm falling behind
Can you read my mind?
Giles was attempting to work on his least favorite aspect of the job-the budget. Apparently, for some reason he could not fathom, the fiscal year began on the first of July. He had assumed that it would be difficult to reinvent an entire, worldwide organization when he agreed to take on the reform of the Council, but he hadn't known the half of it! He wasn't exactly a dunce regarding finances, and he had, after all, managed a quite successful retail shop. Although, he'd been more than happy to allow Anya to take over the more boring aspects of money management. Yet now, here he was, four days from a meeting with the soulless accountants, during which he must justify a budget which included far more items of miscellany than they were ever likely to understand, let alone approve. At least he hoped the appellation 'soulless' was a figure of speech. For all he knew, it may be quite accurate. Hadn't Anya once remarked that a popular vengeance curse was forcing accountants to recheck spread sheets for eternity? He feared there was a definite possibility that several of those cursed accountants were currently in the Council's employ.
Giles removed his glasses and rubbed the space between his eyebrows where his headache seemed to be concentrated. That infernal noise didn't help! Giles had had enough! He flung open the door of his suite of rooms and stepped into the corridor. Why, he wondered, had he chosen the ambiance of a large, old country manor for the new Council Headquarters rather than a modern, steel and concrete, blessedly soundproofed high-rise? He'd thought the ancient manor charming, with a plethora of rolling lawns and fragrant gardens perfect for strolling and contemplation.
But they had all been so busy the past few years, identifying and training slayers-which was naturally a priority-that he hadn't had the time to recruit and train the number of Watchers he would have liked. Which led to the current imbalance of many, many active, exuberant teenaged girls and very few calm, levelheaded adults to ride herd on them. All of which was directly responsible for the incessant cacophony of noise permeating the ancient walls of the manor house, rather than the contemplative quiet he had envisioned.
"Stop that at once!" he yelled at the top of his voice.
Various doors opened, heads appeared to stare at him, and the volume of sound increased.
"This is supposed to be study time, yes?" he inquired with exasperation.
"Um, Mr. Giles, they are studying," Vi assured him.
"One cannot possibly study with that infernal racket going on!"
The slayers looked at Vi in confusion. They had no idea what he meant.
"Oh!" Vi realized the problem. "The girls like to listen to music when they study. It helps them retain things."
"Music? Ah, that is where you are mistaken, Violet. I know music, and that is not it."
One of the cheekier American slayers laughed. "Everybody listens to rap and hip hop now! The Age of Rock is dead, unless you catch one of those lame Oldies stations. Those crappy 'power ballads' are as bad as that stuff with the trumpets that my grandparents said was 'real music'. But that stuff's beyond dead." She turned to her roommate and clarified. "My one gran was really old, and she used to listen to some guy called, um, Benny Goodfellow or something, on big, black, plastic records, and there weren't even any words! My other gran liked Brian Seltzer, and he at least had words, but they were really lame."
"Brian Setzer," Giles automatically corrected, and suddenly felt very old. He decided against even mentioning Slim Jim Phantom and the origins of the Stray Cats.
Vi suddenly reappeared-he hadn't even noticed her absence-and handed him a space-age-type gadget that she explained went in his ear. She hurriedly programmed her iPod.
"Here, try this," she suggested.
Giles eyed the device doubtfully. But if it would help him to complete the bloody budget, he'd give it a try. He thanked Vi and returned to his sitting room. He glared balefully at the spread sheets which had taken over his desk, and managed to get Vi's machine to work on the second try. He smiled with pleased surprise as actual music emanated from the device.
I never really gave up on
Breakin' out of this two-star town
I got the green light
I got a little fight
I'm gonna turn this thing around
The good old days, the honest man;
The restless heart, the Promised Land
A subtle kiss that no one sees;
Before you go, can you read my mind?
Although he had never heard this particular song before, for some reason it reminded him of Ethan. He hadn't thought about Ethan in ages.
How strange. It hadn't been so very long ago-he could remember it clearly-the time in which his mind had been solely occupied with magic . . . and Ethan. The two seemed indelibly bonded in his consciousness. Ethan and magic. It seemed he couldn't even think of one without the other. He thought guiltily of the times he could have used his knowledge of magic to help Buffy, and hadn't, because-for him-magic and Ethan were inseparable. Certainly, he'd performed the spell to defeat Catherine Madison, but that had been an emergency. He should have been the one to attempt Jenny's resoulling spell, rather than Willow, but . . . he couldn't do it. He just could not accept the thought of . . . dishonoring . . . his memories of Jenny by working her spell whilst his entire mind and body cried out for Ethan.
Willow. . . . He could have taught and mentored Willow through the years. Who better than he to guide her past the pitfalls of dark magic usage? But he couldn't bring himself to do it. He told himself his only responsibility was to the Slayer, not her . . . sidekicks. Better to ignore Willow's growing power and-like an ostrich with its head in the sand-pretend he didn't know where she was heading. Willow was sweet and level-headed; nothing like his younger self. She couldn't possibly experience the wild rebelliousness and the exhalant transformation as the Dark Magiks raged through her, eventually to consume her. Oh, no. Not Willow! Of course she couldn't!
He'd been a bloody idiot! He'd been so fearful of losing himself in the magic, as Ethan had been lost, that he'd nearly lost both Willow and the world he'd sworn to protect instead.
But he had known. He'd seen the first glimmerings of her descent into darkness when Oz left. He, himself, had tried. . . . God help him, he'd tried to bring Jenny back. Thankfully, he hadn't been able to locate an Urn of Osiris, because, grief-stricken, vengeful, and full of rage as he'd been, his spell would undoubtedly have gone horribly wrong. He should have realized how dark things could eventually get when he'd seen the consequences of Willow's My Will Be Done spell.
Hmmm . . . he'd never even thought of a spell to work his will. That, alone, should have told him that Willow had the potential for real trouble without guidance.
And then, she'd actually pulled off the Resurrection spell to bring Buffy back, and he hadn't a clue what was going on. He should have been able to sense something. She'd obviously been working on it all summer, intentionally hiding her plans from him. But he'd been so lost in his own grief, he couldn't spare a thought for anything else. And where in the bloody hell had she found an Urn of Osiris? He'd been told by his magic contacts that there were no more in existence!
And then there was Spike. Spike had much more magical knowledge and ability than anyone gave him credit for-he'd immediately suggested a general reversal spell, and known in exactly which book to look for one, in an attempt to cure Giles' blindness. He'd also pulled off the extremely complicated restoration spell to bring Drusilla back to health, and he was supposed to be so bloody perceptive-why didn't Spike notice what was happening with Willow? Ethan would have done.
And, once again, it all comes back to Ethan. God help him, he'd fought against thoughts of Ethan for so long. . . . And then Ethan had returned.
What had Ethan said? "Enjoy the night. We're just a couple of sorcerers. The night is still our time. Time of magic." He'd badly wanted Ethan that night. Giles smiled wryly. 'Badly' was indeed the operative word. He'd imbibed just enough alcohol to lubricate the chains which bound his memories, allowing them to slip free. . . .
The words of Vi's song, pouring directly into his mind through that amazing earpiece which made the music such an integral part of him, merged with his thoughts.
I pull up to the front of your driveway
With magic soakin' my spine
Can you read my mind?
He could hear the distinctive roar of Ethan's 1958 Triumph T100 approaching his flat.
"Oi! Ripper! Come out an' play!"
He threw up the sash and leaned out of the window.
"Whatcher, Ethan!"
Ethan's impish grin lit up his face. He braced his feet on the uneven cobblestones as he seductively straddled the loud motorcycle. Ethan dug into the right pocket of his sinfully tight jeans with some difficulty, eventually producing a small plastic bag, containing several small brownish lumps, which he waved at Giles. Ethan's grin grew wider.
"Get a move on, old man. It's a beautiful day! Oh, and bring some tinfoil, will you?"
Giles left the window open-it was a beautiful day, especially now that Ethan had appeared-thrust his long, slender feet into his boots, grabbed his denim jacket and was half out the door when he remembered the foil. He detoured to the tiny kitchen, ripped a sheet from the roll, hastily folded it into a square that would fit into the pocket of his jean jacket, scooped up his packet of fags and a small box of wooden matches and added them to the pocket as well. He slammed the door of his flat and bounded down the steps, taking them three at a time. He grabbed the newel post and swung around the first floor landing, without actually landing, and continued down the stairs to the ground floor.
He threw his leg over the extended seat of the bike, his long thighs curving around Ethan's arse just so, and wondered-not for the first time-if Ethan had chosen the motorcycle for just this reason. He thought of his own old gray Citroën, which his grandmother had given him when he'd completed his second year of uni, and idly wondered if she'd mind if he traded it in for an MG or a VW Kharman Ghia. The bike roared as Ethan fed it petrol and revved the engine, and Giles' erection pressed snugly against Ethan's arse. As one, they both automatically leaned to the left and Ethan turned the bike and peeled out of the lay-by, tires slipping on the cobbles. The tires found purchase on the macadam of the road, and they roared off into the unusually warm and sunny early June day.
Giles lifted a hand and raked the long strands of light brown hair out of his eyes as the Triumph gained speed and the steady force of the wind against his face took over to blow his hair behind him. It would be hard to imagine things getting any better than this, Giles thought happily.
He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. The rich, fecund scent of sun-warmed growing things, unique to the English countryside, overlaid by the metallic scent of warm motorcycle and unevenly burning petrol, formed a sense-memory he was sure he would remember forever.
~*~*~*~*~*~
They glided to a stop near a copse of trees. Ethan walked the bike forward, giving it just a breath of petrol, so it would move under its own power. With a flick of his foot, he lowered the kickstand and turned to grin at Giles.
The dappled sunlight highlighted Ethan's jaw and cheekbones and shadowed his eyes. His teeth seemed to glow in a shaft of light, and for a moment, Giles fancied he saw Death in Ethan's face. Then Ethan moved and the illusion was dispelled. Giles gave a wry laugh and shook his head.
Ethan unstrapped a pack from the back of the bike and motioned for Giles to follow him. They threaded their way through the copse of trees, and shortly arrived at a hidden glade. Wild primroses echoed the golden light of the sun and a clear, cold spring trickled into a natural basin. The gentle overflow from the basin caused the ground around it to be springy with moss, dotted with tiny white flowers. Giles scooped up water and drank thirstily and then splashed his face several times with water from his cupped hands.
Ethan raised an eyebrow, and then parted the strands of vines covering the place where the underground spring seeped through the rock. A small ledge had either been carved ages ago or was a natural feature of the rock. On the ledge stood a weathered stone statue in honor of the god of the spring. A hollowed stone cup hung below. Ethan dipped the cup into the basin and poured a few drops onto the ground for the ancient deity before drinking. He lay down on the moss, extended his arms to the sides and turned his face to the sun.
"Can you feel it, Ripper? Can you feel the magic just soaking into your spine?" Ethan laughed and sat up. "No? Then maybe you need a bit of help."
He unbuckled the canvas bag and took out four bottles of Dry Blackthorn cider.
"They got a bit shaken up on the trip here, an' if we opened one now it'd prob'ly explode. But . . ." Ethan carefully placed the bottles on their sides into the basin, dislodging a small wave of displaced water over the side as he did so. "Give 'em a half hour to cool down and they'll be right as rain-or should I say 'right as Rayne'?"
Giles snorted. "That joke may have been amusing the first hundred times I heard it, but by now you really need some new material, Ethan."
"Oh, well," Ethan shrugged. "Got the foil?"
Giles pulled the folded piece of aluminum foil from his jacket pocket and handed it to Ethan. He leaned back on his elbows as he watched Ethan deftly manipulate the foil into the shape of a long-stemmed, small-bowled pipe. Giles raked his hand through his hair, and then removed a small button bearing the Pink Floyd Dark Side of the Moon prism from his jacket lapel and handed it to Ethan. Ethan used the pin to poke tiny holes in the bottom of the bowl. He added one of the lumps of hashish and then began patting his pockets in dismay. Giles let Ethan's distress build for a few seconds longer, because it was bloody funny, and then tossed him the box of wooden matches he'd brought along.
~*~*~*~*~*~
"God is Clapton." Giles intoned slowly.
"What's that?"
"Hold on! Meant to say 'Clapton is God'! Saw that on a wall th'other day."
Ethan snorted. " 'M not sayin' Clapton isn't good-but 'God'? I hardly think so!"
"You're tryin' t'confuse me with too many negatives." Giles' brow furrowed as he tried to work out Ethan's point-if the wanker actually had one. "If you're not sayin' Clapton isn't good, then you're sayin' he is. An' that's what I already said."
"Right! That's what I said. He's good. Page is good. Bloody Pete Townshend is good, but 'God'? If Clapton is God, wha' does that make Hendrix?"
"Dead?"
Ethan's face wore such a comical look of outraged shock that Giles burst out laughing. He couldn't help it. A few seconds later, Ethan joined him and soon they were both giggling like loons. Giles laughed until his sides ached. And then-somehow-Ethan's hands were pressing his shoulders into the moss and Ethan's lips were pressing into his own. Giles couldn't decide if Ethan had moved impossibly fast or impossibly slowly. Ethan's tongue teased at his lips, and Giles opened his mouth to Ethan and decided it really didn't matter if time had gone all wonky.
Ethan's hands dug into Giles' shoulders as he deepened the kiss. Giles lightly ran his hands up and down Ethan's back and then gripped Ethan's arse, pulling Ethan tight against him. He rolled to the right, taking Ethan with him. He rose up on his knees, straddling Ethan, as he shrugged out of his jacket and pulled his T-shirt over his head. Ethan lay still and watched him through half-closed eyes.
Giles paused in the act of unbuckling his belt. He playfully slapped Ethan's denim-clad erection with the loose end of the leather.
"C'mon, you lazy git-get your bloody clothes off!"
Ethan laughed and complied. His abdominal muscles tightened as he lifted his shoulders from the ground to strip off his T-shirt. Giles paused momentarily to admire the view, then got to his feet and toed off his boots. He unbuttoned his jeans and they slid down his slim hips and long legs to the ground. He carelessly stepped out of them and kicked then aside. Ethan still wasn't undressed. Giles tossed his hair out of his eyes and considered. He placed his hands low on his hips, framing his erect cock, and tilted his head, quite aware of the picture he made. Ethan stopped attempting to undress and took a few seconds to notice and appreciate. Giles smiled. His own clothes were chosen for comfort-that they flattered his lean, lanky body was incidental. Ethan, on the other hand, preferred to dress for style over function.
Ethan's heeled ankle boots had actual zippers on the insides-one of which appeared to be stuck-and his skin-tight, narrow-pegged Italian jeans wouldn't possibly fit over the boot. Bloody Mod! thought Giles indulgently as he bent down to help. The fact that they were both rather stoned didn't make navigating the pitfalls of Ethan's sartorial choices any easier! But, working together, they finally prevailed.
The exertion of undressing Ethan had made them both ravenously hungry, and Giles hefted Ethan's pack to discover what there was to eat. Ethan had gone for the simple and traditional in regards to picnic fare-a crusty loaf of bread, large wedge of Stilton cheese, bag of grapes, several apples, tin of chocolate biscuits and the cider.
They fell upon the food as if they hadn't eaten in weeks, and then they smoked another chunk of hashish. Giles lay back with his head pillowed on his arm as he nibbled on the last bunch of grapes and concluded that there was something decidedly pagan about eating food stark naked in a woodland glade. It was as if he and Ethan had stepped out of time. Even the food Ethan had chosen-well, except for the chocolate biscuits-was the same fare that could have been eaten here a thousand years ago. Ethan was right-he could feel the magic in this place seeping into his skin.
The sun slanted through the tops of the trees as the afternoon waned, causing a dappled effect of light and shadow that gave Giles the illusion of being under water. Giles' movements were slow and languid, as if his body was moving through a medium thicker than air. He slowly trailed his left hand down Ethan's chest. His fingers tangled in the damp curls surrounding Ethan's cock, and he imagined the sensation of trailing vines beneath the firm stalk of a water plant, undulating in the current. The pale green light added to the dreamlike quality, and time seemed to slow.
Giles lowered his mouth and the salty taste of sun-warmed skin mingled with the clean, sharp scent of crushed moss to nearly overwhelm his senses. His body seemed to be moving in slow motion as he took Ethan's cock into his mouth. He could feel the strong beat of Ethan's heart in the blood rushing through the veins barely contained by the soft, thin skin. It was the most amazing sensory experience as the boundaries between them seemed to dissolve and he became a part of Ethan.
Giles gently raked his teeth along the underside of Ethan's cock as he pulled back; the muscles in his neck cording as he raised his head exquisitely slowly.
Ethan moaned and his hands tangled in Giles' hair as his hips thrust upward, frantic to increase the pace.
Giles groped for the small tube he always carried in the inside pocket of his jacket. He managed to get the top off one-handed, and coated his fingers with the lube. His fingers slowly pushed past the tight ring of muscle in Ethan's arse as his tongue teased the head of Ethan's cock. He felt Ethan deliberately relax, and Giles slipped two fingers inside him as his mouth thrust down on Ethan's cock. Ethan groaned and his hips bucked again. Ethan's fingers dug into Giles' shoulders and the susurrant sounds, barely heard on the edge of Giles' consciousness, resolved into a stream of words. "Oh Cronos oh god yes oh Janus please Ripper oh god now!"
Giles withdrew his fingers and hurriedly reached for the lube. He rapidly smeared it over his own cock and the time that had seemed to pass so slowly was suddenly racing by. He slipped his shoulders under Ethan's legs and rose to his knees. He thrust into Ethan, as his hand closed around Ethan's cock.
Ethan raised his eyes to Giles' face and Giles saw a look of wonder in Ethan's eyes.
He never knew what Ethan thought he had seen, and Ethan was never after completely sure, no matter how often he revisited the memory, if the stag's antlers he saw curving above Ripper's head was a mark of the ancient horned god or just a trick of the light.
~*~*~*~*~*~
The teenage queen, the loaded gun;
The drop dead dream, the Chosen One
Before you jump
Tell me what you find when you read my mind
That was it, wasn't it? His dreams had died with Randall Smythe. Ethan saw Randall's death as a regrettable mistake, but one from which they could learn. Randall hadn't been strong enough to host Eyghon; they'd be more careful the next time. He just couldn't understand why Giles would give it all up. "Yes, of course-we won't summon Eyghon again until we're sure of the abilities of each person we bring into the fold," Ethan had said. "But in the meantime, there are plenty of other spells we can work on. I've found this wonderful book at a used bookseller's stall in Portobello Road, and we could try one or two of the spells tonight. Just you and me, Ripper. Come on! Wha'd'you say? Oh, and don't make any plans for the weekend. There's an estate sale I've heard about on Friday and Saturday in York. The old man's grandfather had a reputation as a sorcerer of some power, so we'll need to get there early. Most people will have no idea of the value of the stuff-more interested in silver tea services and First Editions, but we can't afford to take any chances. Mouldy old books, amulets and what-have-you will prob'ly go for a song, if you know what to look for. And we do know, don't we, Ripper."
He wondered if Ethan had gone to his flat to collect him that Thursday night before the sale, as Ethan had planned. And he wondered what Ethan had thought when he discovered Giles had packed up and gone-gone running back to the safety of the Council and the life his father and grandmother had planned for him. The carefully controlled life of research, where no one died, except the Chosen One, and that was to be expected, after all. One Slayer dies; another is called. That's the way it worked-the way it had always worked. The Slayers died; the Council remained. She was just a weapon, after all. A means to an end. That's what the Council taught all those eager young candidates at the Watcher's Academy. It's the way it's always been, so it must be true.
Giles removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
Slippin’ in my faith until I fall
You never returned that call
I wanna breathe that fire again
He hadn't 'returned that call'. He'd never contacted Ethan again, although several rumours about Ethan had reached his ears over the years. He'd completed his training with the Council and then, after Merrick had been killed, he'd gone on to Watch the active Slayer. He'd discovered Quentin Travers had been opposed to his selection. He'd often wondered just how much the Council had known about those two years he'd spent with Ethan.
He and Ethan certainly hadn't been very covert or low-key about anything they did. The Council could have had rather interesting dossiers compiled on both him and Ethan if they wished. And that may have accounted for some of Quentin's animosity towards him.
Giles' lips curved into a very Ripper-like smile. He really did hope that there was an afterlife, and that wherever he had ended up, Quentin was aware that the Watcher they had summarily fired, and the Slayer they consistently tried to trip up with ridiculous tests, were now in complete control of the bloody Council!
And, as for Ethan . . . they'd only been together for two years. Two short years out of fifty-some. Didn't seem like much. Not long at all. But they had certainly been memorable years. And, oh-he and Ethan had blazed like rebel diamonds, hadn't they?
The stars are blazing like rebel diamonds cut out of the sun
When you read my mind . . .
Finis