![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
estepheiaWhoohooo! This is post number 1.500. *throws confetti*
This LJ was created over two years ago, on October 28th (meaning I missed my LJ's second b-day). I was sired by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
firehorse who I knew from the nummytreats S/X fic list. Waitaminute, do 1.500 posts in 740 or so days peg me as a spammer?
Anyway, what better way to celebrate my LJ life than to post a new fic installment. Here's part 3 of my Giles/Ethan fic, that was formerly titled 'Untitled', then 'Home' and now 'Host' (I will actually go and change the title in my previous posts, to avoid confusion). And yes, I remember saying this would be short. Apparently 'short' is no longer on the menue. Ve do not know se meaning of se vord 'short'.
TITLE: Host
PAIRING: Giles/Ethan
SPOILERS: post-NFA
RATING: hard R
SUMMARY: Some things that go bump in the night are far from scary (and I suck at summaries)
AN: written forxanphibian and kate74
Oh and before I forget: many many many thanks toladycat777, hesadevil, and patintexas who beta'd this for me.
Earlier parts: Part 1 - Part 2
If you'd like to read the beta'd version of the two earlier posts, they are archived together at my site: Host - Part one.
"Didn't know I had an appointment to keep, otherwise I'd have popped by sooner. Awww Rupert, can you forgive me for standing you up?" Ethan batted his eyelashes, but he wasn't smiling. "Tell me, Ripper, now that you have me, what are you going to do with your old mate Ethan?"
Host - Part 3
Beat him to a pulp? No, of course not, even though his fingers curled into fists with the urge to pound and bash. How was it that Ethan never failed to bring out the adolescent thug in him – even without drugs or spells? A minute ago he'd felt a pang of pity for his erstwhile friend, but now the familiar mixture of irritation and vicious anger jostled aside all nobler impulses.
Giles stared at the tray before him, took a deep breath, and fought down his anger. He couldn't quite calm down his furious heart, but he could at least deny Ethan the satisfaction of knowing just how much he still got under his skin. He retreated behind the homely bulwark of good manners.
"Tea?" Giles did not wait for an answer but handed Ethan a cup of strong Earl Grey with milk and sugar, before picking up his own cup – maintaining a perfect façade of hospitality, ever the implacable, civilized librarian. "Rest assured," he said lightly, but with more than a hint of malice, "it won't kill you. Or turn you into a Fyarl demon."
Ethan had been inhaling the tea's fragrant aroma with an expression close to rapture. Obviously, the thought that the drink might be spiked hadn't even crossed his mind. But now he frowned as he contemplated the possibility. "Would make things easier for you though, wouldn't it, Rupert? Me, dead…," he mused. "No evil Ethan to upset your tidy black-and-white world."
Giles stifled a sigh. There was nothing tidy or clear-cut about his world, not anymore. It was a world where a soulless vampire could grow enough of a conscience to experience remorse and want his soul back; where a bright, talented young girl who'd fought evil for years, suddenly found so much darkness and rage inside her, that she flayed a man alive; where a watcher took a human life, smothering a young man with his bare hands, because a god of chaos happened to be trapped inside the man's body. When exactly had the world turned into a palette of greys? Giles took off his spectacles and wearily rubbed the bridge of his nose. "If I wanted you dead, you would be," he said. "You would be lying on my bedroom rug right now, with an old sheet covering your face."
Ethan digested this. "True, you had the perfect chance to finish me off. All it took was a pillow and a bit of pressure. Why didn't you?" The challenge in his eyes was blatant. "And please don't insult my intelligence by saying you wouldn't do such a thing. I know you have it in you, Ripper."
"I didn't have to."
Ethan frowned at that, but Giles did not elaborate.
"So," Ethan finally broke the lengthening silence. "Speaking of death, and seeing that you're not in Sunnydale anymore, I take it your precious Slayer finally kicked the bucket?"
"Buffy's fine, retired, actually. Thank you for asking," Giles said coldly.
"Retired? How quaint." One could almost see the cogs and wheels spinning and turning in Ethan's head, as the chaos sorcerer tried to make sense out of the few tidbits of information Giles had surrendered. Five years was a long time to be out of the loop. "What about the Hellmouth? Who watches that? I take it, it didn't retire as well."
"As a matter of fact, it did. The Hellmouth collapsed and took the whole town with it."
That elicited a wan smile. "Must have been quite a show. Too bad I missed it."
Giles tensed. "Still thriving on chaos and destruction, I see. You are, as always, utterly indifferent towards the suffering of innocents. Obviously, you haven't changed a bit."
"Oh, but I have," Ethan said, still smiling, a disconcerting, almost feverish gleam in his eyes. "You wouldn't believe how much I've changed. I'm a new man. Amazing what a few years of incarceration can do for you. I'm all enlightened now, and ennobled. I've got redemption practically coming out of my arse. Give me a puppy to hug and I'll prove it."
"By nailing it to the church door, no doubt. I know you, Ethan. You're selfish, self-centered, and callous. No matter what you do or say, I'd sooner believe in a striped leopard, than in you suddenly changing your spots." A note of regret threatened to creep into his voice but Giles harshly stomped on the sentiment. The key to dealing with Ethan was to keep all emotion at arm's length: anger, regret, even pity. Especially pity.
"Ah yes, you always had me completely figured out, Rupert." Ethan put down his empty cup and leaned back on the sofa in what was clearly meant as an expression of unrepentant defiance. "But if I'm irredeemably evil, what am I doing on your sofa, drinking your tea? What about your solemn duty to do away with the likes of me? My, my, what a dilemma."
With his usual infuriating acuity Ethan had summed up the situation. "There's no dilemma," Giles said, trying to convince himself that he wasn't caught between a rock and a hard place. "Even if I wished, for old times' sake, to set you loose, you and I both know I can't."
Ethan nodded slowly. "Tell me, Rupert, will you kiss me, before you screw me?"
"Shut up."
Silence. Eventually Ethan got up for a refill. His movements were slow. The heavy tea-pot bobbed in his unsteady hands and the clanking of the spoon in the sugar bowl was unnaturally loud, but he succeeded without major mishap.
He shuffled to the nearest window, parted the curtains and peered into the darkness outside. "You do realize, old chap, I won't go back, right?" The way he sipped his tea, and the way he spoke, over his shoulder and without raising his voice, gave him an almost serene air. "Not if I can help it."
Giles did not have to point out that in his current frail state Ethan couldn't put up much of a fight. He wore no chains, but he was still Giles's prisoner. They both knew it.
Ethan turned away from the window and walked towards the fire. Its glow dyed his orange prison garb a sanguine hue. "Remember the last time we played?"
Played? That was one way of calling it. Giles had ended up with his trousers pooling round his ankles and his back pressed against the inside of his front door, while Ethan slithered down to fellate him with staggering skill. Afterwards they'd stumbled upstairs, laughing and groping, shedding their clothes on the way like autumn leaves. The sex had been bloody brilliant, as always, the kind that turned a man's brains into mush and his spine into a lightning rod. Sheer magic. Just like old times.
Giles geared up to make a cutting remark about the harsh light of day and the lack of afterglow, about waking up with Fyarl horns, paralyzing mucous, and an axe to grind, when he realized that Ethan was referring to the chessboard on the side table.
"Oh you mean chess?" he said, quickly covering up his fluster. "Well, of course. How could I forget? You cheated, yet I still beat you." Giles smiled at the memory of chess pieces hurled at him in sullen anger. "Every time," he added.
"That you did." Ethan picked up the white bishop and wistfully turned it in his hands, caressing the smooth ivory with his thumb. "Don't you ever get tired of walking the straight and narrow path?"
"No, never," Giles lied unblinkingly. "What about you? Were you never tempted to serve another purpose than your own self-gratification?"
He expected instant denial, but instead Ethan asked: "Do you think you could still beat me?"
Giles had played regularly before coming to Sunnydale, but not in recent years. Only occasional games of correspondence chess against strong opponents like Robson had prevented him from completely losing his edge. Nevertheless he trusted his ability to stay focused. Ethan on the other hand had always played a bold but erratic game, full of overplays, and he was prone to abandon a good position for short-term gain.
"I could say that it depends on whether you've practiced, but we both know I'll always be the better player," Giles said with conviction. Theoretically, Ethan had the brains to be a good player, but his personality inevitably got in the way.
Ethan pondered this. He put the white bishop back on the board. "Let's find out," he said. "I win, I walk. Out of your house, out of your life. You'll never see me again. I give you my word on that."
"We both know how much that is worth," Giles said disparagingly. "But let's suppose for a minute that I agree to this ludicrous scheme of yours: what if I win?"
"You slap on the cuffs and I'll go wherever you send me, without making a fuss. How about it, Rupert?"
"No." There had to be a catch somewhere, Giles was certain of it. Ethan would never surrender like that – not unless he had a trump up his sleeve.
"What, backing down from a challenge? That's not the Ripper I know."
"You're the one who's always into playing games, not me." Giles put down his cup and strode towards the door. "I'll go get some sheets. You can sleep on the sofa."
One word, spoken in a small voice, rooted him to the spot: "Please?"
Giles did not turn. He did not want to look at Ethan's face and he certainly didn't want to hear anything Ethan had to say, but his feet had developed a will of their own, steadfastly refusing to whisk him away to safety.
"A chance, that's all I ask," Ethan said behind him, softly, pleadingly. And when Giles didn't answer: "For old times' sake."
Giles sighed, defeated. "Very well. But I'm white."
"Of course you are."
TBC
This LJ was created over two years ago, on October 28th (meaning I missed my LJ's second b-day). I was sired by
firehorse who I knew from the nummytreats S/X fic list. Waitaminute, do 1.500 posts in 740 or so days peg me as a spammer?Anyway, what better way to celebrate my LJ life than to post a new fic installment. Here's part 3 of my Giles/Ethan fic, that was formerly titled 'Untitled', then 'Home' and now 'Host' (I will actually go and change the title in my previous posts, to avoid confusion). And yes, I remember saying this would be short. Apparently 'short' is no longer on the menue. Ve do not know se meaning of se vord 'short'.
TITLE: Host
PAIRING: Giles/Ethan
SPOILERS: post-NFA
RATING: hard R
SUMMARY: Some things that go bump in the night are far from scary (and I suck at summaries)
AN: written for
xanphibian and kate74Oh and before I forget: many many many thanks to
ladycat777, hesadevil, and patintexas who beta'd this for me.Earlier parts: Part 1 - Part 2
If you'd like to read the beta'd version of the two earlier posts, they are archived together at my site: Host - Part one.
"Didn't know I had an appointment to keep, otherwise I'd have popped by sooner. Awww Rupert, can you forgive me for standing you up?" Ethan batted his eyelashes, but he wasn't smiling. "Tell me, Ripper, now that you have me, what are you going to do with your old mate Ethan?"
Host - Part 3
Beat him to a pulp? No, of course not, even though his fingers curled into fists with the urge to pound and bash. How was it that Ethan never failed to bring out the adolescent thug in him – even without drugs or spells? A minute ago he'd felt a pang of pity for his erstwhile friend, but now the familiar mixture of irritation and vicious anger jostled aside all nobler impulses.
Giles stared at the tray before him, took a deep breath, and fought down his anger. He couldn't quite calm down his furious heart, but he could at least deny Ethan the satisfaction of knowing just how much he still got under his skin. He retreated behind the homely bulwark of good manners.
"Tea?" Giles did not wait for an answer but handed Ethan a cup of strong Earl Grey with milk and sugar, before picking up his own cup – maintaining a perfect façade of hospitality, ever the implacable, civilized librarian. "Rest assured," he said lightly, but with more than a hint of malice, "it won't kill you. Or turn you into a Fyarl demon."
Ethan had been inhaling the tea's fragrant aroma with an expression close to rapture. Obviously, the thought that the drink might be spiked hadn't even crossed his mind. But now he frowned as he contemplated the possibility. "Would make things easier for you though, wouldn't it, Rupert? Me, dead…," he mused. "No evil Ethan to upset your tidy black-and-white world."
Giles stifled a sigh. There was nothing tidy or clear-cut about his world, not anymore. It was a world where a soulless vampire could grow enough of a conscience to experience remorse and want his soul back; where a bright, talented young girl who'd fought evil for years, suddenly found so much darkness and rage inside her, that she flayed a man alive; where a watcher took a human life, smothering a young man with his bare hands, because a god of chaos happened to be trapped inside the man's body. When exactly had the world turned into a palette of greys? Giles took off his spectacles and wearily rubbed the bridge of his nose. "If I wanted you dead, you would be," he said. "You would be lying on my bedroom rug right now, with an old sheet covering your face."
Ethan digested this. "True, you had the perfect chance to finish me off. All it took was a pillow and a bit of pressure. Why didn't you?" The challenge in his eyes was blatant. "And please don't insult my intelligence by saying you wouldn't do such a thing. I know you have it in you, Ripper."
"I didn't have to."
Ethan frowned at that, but Giles did not elaborate.
"So," Ethan finally broke the lengthening silence. "Speaking of death, and seeing that you're not in Sunnydale anymore, I take it your precious Slayer finally kicked the bucket?"
"Buffy's fine, retired, actually. Thank you for asking," Giles said coldly.
"Retired? How quaint." One could almost see the cogs and wheels spinning and turning in Ethan's head, as the chaos sorcerer tried to make sense out of the few tidbits of information Giles had surrendered. Five years was a long time to be out of the loop. "What about the Hellmouth? Who watches that? I take it, it didn't retire as well."
"As a matter of fact, it did. The Hellmouth collapsed and took the whole town with it."
That elicited a wan smile. "Must have been quite a show. Too bad I missed it."
Giles tensed. "Still thriving on chaos and destruction, I see. You are, as always, utterly indifferent towards the suffering of innocents. Obviously, you haven't changed a bit."
"Oh, but I have," Ethan said, still smiling, a disconcerting, almost feverish gleam in his eyes. "You wouldn't believe how much I've changed. I'm a new man. Amazing what a few years of incarceration can do for you. I'm all enlightened now, and ennobled. I've got redemption practically coming out of my arse. Give me a puppy to hug and I'll prove it."
"By nailing it to the church door, no doubt. I know you, Ethan. You're selfish, self-centered, and callous. No matter what you do or say, I'd sooner believe in a striped leopard, than in you suddenly changing your spots." A note of regret threatened to creep into his voice but Giles harshly stomped on the sentiment. The key to dealing with Ethan was to keep all emotion at arm's length: anger, regret, even pity. Especially pity.
"Ah yes, you always had me completely figured out, Rupert." Ethan put down his empty cup and leaned back on the sofa in what was clearly meant as an expression of unrepentant defiance. "But if I'm irredeemably evil, what am I doing on your sofa, drinking your tea? What about your solemn duty to do away with the likes of me? My, my, what a dilemma."
With his usual infuriating acuity Ethan had summed up the situation. "There's no dilemma," Giles said, trying to convince himself that he wasn't caught between a rock and a hard place. "Even if I wished, for old times' sake, to set you loose, you and I both know I can't."
Ethan nodded slowly. "Tell me, Rupert, will you kiss me, before you screw me?"
"Shut up."
Silence. Eventually Ethan got up for a refill. His movements were slow. The heavy tea-pot bobbed in his unsteady hands and the clanking of the spoon in the sugar bowl was unnaturally loud, but he succeeded without major mishap.
He shuffled to the nearest window, parted the curtains and peered into the darkness outside. "You do realize, old chap, I won't go back, right?" The way he sipped his tea, and the way he spoke, over his shoulder and without raising his voice, gave him an almost serene air. "Not if I can help it."
Giles did not have to point out that in his current frail state Ethan couldn't put up much of a fight. He wore no chains, but he was still Giles's prisoner. They both knew it.
Ethan turned away from the window and walked towards the fire. Its glow dyed his orange prison garb a sanguine hue. "Remember the last time we played?"
Played? That was one way of calling it. Giles had ended up with his trousers pooling round his ankles and his back pressed against the inside of his front door, while Ethan slithered down to fellate him with staggering skill. Afterwards they'd stumbled upstairs, laughing and groping, shedding their clothes on the way like autumn leaves. The sex had been bloody brilliant, as always, the kind that turned a man's brains into mush and his spine into a lightning rod. Sheer magic. Just like old times.
Giles geared up to make a cutting remark about the harsh light of day and the lack of afterglow, about waking up with Fyarl horns, paralyzing mucous, and an axe to grind, when he realized that Ethan was referring to the chessboard on the side table.
"Oh you mean chess?" he said, quickly covering up his fluster. "Well, of course. How could I forget? You cheated, yet I still beat you." Giles smiled at the memory of chess pieces hurled at him in sullen anger. "Every time," he added.
"That you did." Ethan picked up the white bishop and wistfully turned it in his hands, caressing the smooth ivory with his thumb. "Don't you ever get tired of walking the straight and narrow path?"
"No, never," Giles lied unblinkingly. "What about you? Were you never tempted to serve another purpose than your own self-gratification?"
He expected instant denial, but instead Ethan asked: "Do you think you could still beat me?"
Giles had played regularly before coming to Sunnydale, but not in recent years. Only occasional games of correspondence chess against strong opponents like Robson had prevented him from completely losing his edge. Nevertheless he trusted his ability to stay focused. Ethan on the other hand had always played a bold but erratic game, full of overplays, and he was prone to abandon a good position for short-term gain.
"I could say that it depends on whether you've practiced, but we both know I'll always be the better player," Giles said with conviction. Theoretically, Ethan had the brains to be a good player, but his personality inevitably got in the way.
Ethan pondered this. He put the white bishop back on the board. "Let's find out," he said. "I win, I walk. Out of your house, out of your life. You'll never see me again. I give you my word on that."
"We both know how much that is worth," Giles said disparagingly. "But let's suppose for a minute that I agree to this ludicrous scheme of yours: what if I win?"
"You slap on the cuffs and I'll go wherever you send me, without making a fuss. How about it, Rupert?"
"No." There had to be a catch somewhere, Giles was certain of it. Ethan would never surrender like that – not unless he had a trump up his sleeve.
"What, backing down from a challenge? That's not the Ripper I know."
"You're the one who's always into playing games, not me." Giles put down his cup and strode towards the door. "I'll go get some sheets. You can sleep on the sofa."
One word, spoken in a small voice, rooted him to the spot: "Please?"
Giles did not turn. He did not want to look at Ethan's face and he certainly didn't want to hear anything Ethan had to say, but his feet had developed a will of their own, steadfastly refusing to whisk him away to safety.
"A chance, that's all I ask," Ethan said behind him, softly, pleadingly. And when Giles didn't answer: "For old times' sake."
Giles sighed, defeated. "Very well. But I'm white."
"Of course you are."
TBC
