By My Hand
By Byrne
Giles/Ethan
For Violetsmiles, in the Gilesficathon on LiveJournal, organised by Wolfling
NC-17, by accident.
Spoilers for entire run of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Joss's, not mine.  Disclaim, disclaim, disclaim.

Thanks to Jane Davitt and Ginnylovesspike for the beta.


By My Hand

November, 1977
England

It wasn’t much of a funeral, as things go, but at least it was a service.  The irony, or perhaps the simple poor taste, of giving Randall a good Christian burial was not lost on Rupert Giles as he stood in the rain and watched a nearly empty wooden casket being lowered into the ground.

He shed his tears, although how many of them were for the passing of his friend and how many were for his own soul he could not say.  There were not many people there to witness them anyway, and he doubted that it mattered in any event.  Randall was dead, it was over, all over.  ‘All over the place,’ Ethan’s voice said in Rupert’s head, although the man had not uttered the words, would not dare to do so given Rupert’s mood since the… mistake.

He’d not even come to the funeral, Rupert noted as he took Diedre’s hand.  Only Diedre and him.  Ethan’d not wanted to go out in the rain, and said he honestly didn’t see the point in a funeral at all.  Philip was still in shock, too scared and given to random moments of babble to really appear in public, so Rupert hadn’t pushed, just left him to Thomas.  He’d been surprised when Diedre said she’d go, but as they left the cemetery and she walked east while he headed west, he knew.

They were both saying goodbye to it all.  He wondered idly where she’d go, but didn’t dwell on it for very long; he was only vaguely decided about where he himself would go.  Or rather, his conscious mind was in flux; he was somewhat certain that when he finally started on a course he would have little choice but to follow it.  

The bus was cold and draughty, and he leaned his forehead on the glass and made misty circles with his breath.  He knew that Ethan would look for him.  He also knew that there was no way to save either of them if he went back to their little flat, back to Ethan even once more.  Throat raw and head throbbing, his heart breaking and bleeding, he closed himself off, sealed Ethan away, tucked him into the dark, next to his magic.

Ethan was harder to cage than the magic.

With walls going up in his mind and his heart, Rupert Giles closed his eyes and let the bus take him closer to his parents’ home, to the life he’d always known he’d have to lead, the choice made long before he realised or accepted it.

*

Rupert sat carefully on the wing chair, listening to his mother on the phone in the hallway, and he knew.  It had taken less time than he’d wagered for Ethan to gather himself together long enough to find the telephone number.  

Soft steps now, and his mother’s voice.  “There is a man named Ethan Rayne on the line, demanding to talk to ‘Ripper’.”  She was carefully neutral, but the disdain was obviously difficult to completely suppress.

Rupert clenched both his jaw and fist, his eyes stinging.  “Tell him…  tell him I said goodbye.”



February, 1978

Rupert sat on the edge of his bed, books scattered on the chair and desk, forgotten as soon as he’d seen the envelope in his post. The handwriting was unmistakable; long, thin strokes that drew the eye, each letter a work of art.  

He hated that his first reaction to seeing his name in that hand was joy.

Ripper,

Oh, do stop.  You’ve made your point quite well, dear, now it is time to come back to me.  I won’t push you, and I promise I’ll even try to behave, if you insist.  Really, this is intolerable.  I need you here with me—I’m so cold.  The bed is too big, the night too dark without you.  

Come home, Ripper, and let me show you how much you’re missed.

Yours.



October, 1978

He tore the edge of the envelope open, reading the letter as he walked to the library, already knowing that this would not be a pleasant note inquiring about his health.  Ethan’s handwriting looked spidery this time, although his heart still sang at its very existence in his hand.  

Ripper,

It seems that my letters get swallowed by Her Majesty’s Postal Service before they reach you.

You disappoint me, Ripper, really.  Not even a curt note to tell me I’ve been dismissed, a short letter to tell me that you’ve found comfort in the arms of your beloved Watchers Council.  Where are your manners, dear friend?  
Fret not.  I can, in fact, take a hint, and I’ll bother you no more.  Promise.  But then, you know me and promises—I keep mine the same as you keep yours.

Be seeing you,

Ethan

Rupert sighed and carefully tucked the paper into his notebook, shutting Ethan and the rather regrettable feelings he stirred, back into the closed space in his mind.



July, 1987

He wasn’t sure what he was drinking, but it was over ice and burned his throat nicely.  Rupert was sitting in the dark room, not moving except to lift the glass again and again.  Eventually the glass was empty, so he turned on a lamp and crossed to the table for more.  It wasn’t until he’d crossed the floor, somewhat raggedly, and picked up a book to throw at the wall that he saw it.  A slip of paper sticking out of the edge of a file, a file he’d been handed earlier that afternoon by a secretary.  He picked it up, working to focus on the lovely letters, each word drawn to mock him.

Dear, poor Ripper,

Another dead girl, and nothing for you to do.  Poor man.  Couldn’t stop it, can’t help it, and… oh!  Not even good enough to be called as Watcher for the next little girl.

Really, why do you even bother?

Watch this, Watch that, Watch me.  But not the poor, dead girls.  They don’t need you, do they?  No one needs you anymore, Ripper.

Be seeing you,

Ethan

He set the paper on the table, making sure the edges were set just so, that it was perfectly centred.  Then he picked up the phone and dialled Security.  “Yes, it’s Rupert Giles.  I’d like to report a breach within the Council buildings, although the culprit will be long gone, if he was ever here in person…”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

October, 1997
Sunnydale

Ethan looked up, wincing as he saw the intent in Ripper’s face just before the kick landed.  He was fairly sure he’d broken another rib, but it hurt nothing like as badly as it had been supposed to.

All pain was muted in the face of his Ripper, the glow of fury not dimmed in the least by twenty years.  It was wonderful, dreadfully so, to feel the passion of the man from this side.  He was stunning, so glorious, and it hadn’t really occurred to Ethan how much it would hurt to have the anger of Ripper aimed at him.  

He’d been wrapped too long in the memories of his Ripper, just like this, but lashing out to defend him, not to stop him.  Not to hurt, only to protect.  A child’s dream, he saw now.

The pain in his body faded in the face of the anger, the coldness in Ripper’s eyes…

The pain in his body was washed away by the pain of the empty place in Ripper where passion had been…

The pain in his body dismissed by one look from Ripper’s eyes…

Ethan watched as this strange creature, Ripper but not, Rupert Giles but not, continued to deny everything that he was, what he’d been.  Ethan’s heart shattered again, along with the statue of Janus, and it was all he could do to drag himself away from the scene before the tears came.

But he could not leave the town.  Not yet.  Ethan never was one for long goodbyes, so he left a note.

Be seeing you…



November, 1997

Ethan laid the last of the ink into the girl’s neck and knew that no matter what, this single act would ensure that Ripper killed him; it was most likely the only thing that would drive Ripper to his breaking point.  Not that he really wanted to die, but it was somewhat inevitable now.  Eyghon, Ripper… it didn’t matter anymore, he had reached an ending in either case.  He’d not completely realised quite how tied up his will to live and his will to die were, but it seemed that the closer Eyghon got, the more introspective Ethan became.   He blocked out the girl’s hiss and finished the tattoo, climbing off her back and the table with a small measure of satisfaction.

He wiped his hands and considered.  To give the Slayer to Eyghon would destroy any choice that Rupert Giles thought he had in the matter of one Ethan Rayne, and then the pain would end.

Oddly, Ethan had thought that he might be a tiny bit less selfish at the end of his life.  But, apparently not.  Oh well.

There was a shadow outside the doorway; the devil in the shape of Ripper’s lover.  How fitting.  With luck, the bitch would die as well.   The door crashed in, and Ethan’s lips twisted at the corner, not quite a smile.

Everything that defined him in one room—Chaos, the Slayer who took his Ripper, the woman who now held his Ripper, and soon—his Ripper.  Not a bad way to die.

It was a few minutes before the fighting and confusion ended and he could curse his luck while making his escape.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

November, 1998

Giles’ head hurt.  

It hurt in a way that meant he’d been mixing his liquor with other things, and that meant that it was an old-time feeling.  He rolled over in his bed and prayed he was alone,  relieved to find the bed empty next to him.

And then he had his first memory of the night before.  Joyce.  Oh dear God.

Giles sat bolt upright in bed before he could stop himself.  The resulting pain had him flat on his back again, the heels of his hands pressed into his eyes.

There had been… drinking and music and dope.  And Joyce, he couldn’t forget that, no matter how hard he tried.  Sweet and naïve and trying to be cool.  And then hungry and willing… oh dear God. But there was something else, something important trying to get through to the front of his brain.

Babies and a demon.

But the babies were safe; he knew that at a fundamental level.  Buffy and the others had been aware, even if he and hadn’t been, and the babies were safe.

Ethan.

Giles had an image in his head, vivid and stark, of himself holding a gun to the back of Ethan’s head.  Instinctively, his gut tightened in horror.  No, not that—anything but that.  To kill Ethan wasn’t possible, wasn’t thinkable, wasn’t… wasn’t true.

He hadn’t killed him, of course, but his panic lessened only slightly as he recalled Buffy taking the gun from him.  He’d beaten Ethan before, fought with him rather unfairly, but he’d not wanted to kill him.  He’d long known somewhere deep in his gut that no-one would drive him to anger quite the way that Ethan would.  When they were together everything was a blaze of passion, feelings so deep and sharp that they glittered like the very stars on a black night.  That kind of intensity would leak out in any number of ways, but when Giles had left Ethan in London there was little left for them but anger and violence.

He’d not pulled the trigger, but he’d wanted to.  Frustration, relaxed control, the thrill of being anything but the conforming librarian… it had released him and the result was anger.  Resentment and fear he’d long held locked away, focused on the only person he’d permitted himself to blame, aside from himself.

But now, aching head aside, he was in his right mind and could see it for what it was—another attempt to hide from himself, a misguided and warped effort of his mind to flee from responsibility.  He blamed Ethan, the representation of what he’d done wrong twenty years ago.  

He groaned and tried to get up again, made it into the shower by blocking out the night before and concentrating on putting one foot ahead of the other, focussing on getting the water to the right temperature.  When he could think without it causing physical pain he faced some truths, forcing himself to take an honest look at his actions.

He knew, had always known, that Ethan hadn’t been to blame for what he’d done.  He’d not even consciously blamed the man, but he’d done worse by lumping him in with what had happened. It was as if by turning from magic and the things they’d done and simultaneously leaving Ethan he had broken from his old ways and tied the entire time in a nice black satin ribbon, tangling the threads together so that a cloth was woven.

It was the only way he could have left, he knew.  In order to break from what he was doing he had to leave it all, he couldn’t have kept Ethan and gone on without the rest.  And Ethan, no matter how much he had loved the man, was exactly what he appeared to be—a strong mage, a worshipper of Chaos, one of the enemy.

He was also, Giles reminded himself in his moment of honesty, capable of great passion, of love so pure it made him ache to remember.  A man who gave himself utterly to what he needed.  At one point, it was Giles, but Giles had left.  Now it was Chaos, had been for a long time.

Shaking himself out of his dark thoughts, Giles washed himself and got ready for school.  He dressed slowly, choosing his clothing as if he was putting on a costume once more, returning to what he’d become from what he’d been.

As he left his home for the day he set aside his memories of Ethan, dimmed the feeling of release he’d attained while under the influence of the spell, and tried very hard to forget everything he could.  He would be the Watcher once more, with his past firmly in the past.  He’d done it before, he could do it again.

~*~

January, 2000

His head hurt.  It was amazing how much being a Fyarl demon could make one’s hangover worse, long past the time that said hangover should be done.  Giles sat on his couch, the lights dimmed to low after Buffy had left, and contemplated his lot in life.   True, he’d been feeling sorry for himself, what with Buffy neglecting to tell him so much.  She’d been slipping further and further away from him, busy with college and apparently a new boyfriend.  Add in the new boyfriend’s job, Giles’ own apparent lack of use, and… well.  He was just going to sink again if he followed that line of thought.  Which may very well have been the root of what happened this time.

He suspected that if he’d not been quite so low he would have found the ability to simply thrash Ethan again.  If he’d been up to his usual level of confidence Ethan’s voice would have simply floated past him, instead of piercing admittedly soft armour and catching on the worn cover Giles usual kept wrapped around the part of him that belonged to his former lover.

Not so former anymore, a part of him whispered.

It didn’t matter now.  Well, not as much as it could have.  A few drinks, some information exchanged, and Ethan had pushed the right buttons with ease.  His number to the waitress and a sly look across the table… that’s all it took.  He’d seen Giles’ expression, the half hidden stab of anger that Ethan would dare flirt in front of him, the affront to his prior—though not long exercised—claim on Ethan.

They’d drunk more, and toasted magic, but by that point it was all window dressing for people who didn’t care.  Giles needed, Ethan needed, and so they took.  Waking up as a Fyarl demon was a heavy price, Giles thought.  Drunk as they were, the sex wasn’t that great, and being Fyarl was particularly horrid.  He’d not been surprised that Ethan had encouraged Buffy to try to slay him—Ethan was still Ethan, after all—but it had more or less worked out well in the end.

Buffy had known him, Ethan had broken the spell, and Riley had proven to be somewhat useful after all by calling in the operation he worked for to cart Ethan away.  Giles smiled at the memory and relaxed into the couch.  He knew very well that no military facility would hold Ethan; Ethan had shown that he knew it as well, giving Giles an almost shy smile as he was placed into the waiting truck.

“Be seeing you, Ripper,” he’d purred, eyes laughing.

Giles hadn’t replied, merely waved his fingers and smiled back.  This time he was looking forward to seeing Ethan again; maybe they wouldn’t get quite so drunk.  He almost felt sorry for the Initiative if they thought they could handle a man like Ethan.  There was no way they’d be able to keep him.  

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Summer, 2000

It had been months since Ethan had been brought to Nevada, the blackest pit in the hell that was Ethan’s life.  The first few weeks had been a rude awakening for him, not at all what he’d expected.  From the stories he’s heard he fully expected interrogation and torture, both of which he’d had to endure.  But he’d confounded the scientists as blood tests and x-rays continued to prove his humanity to them.  They simply refused to believe that a human was capable of what he could do, and their lack of understanding brought forth their anger.

They deprived him of sleep and pumped him full of drugs, demanding that he perform for them.  He refused, of course, and they used more drugs, playing with their concoctions until they could suppress his freewill without destroying his control over the magic.  They’d discovered early on that if Ethan’s control was shattered people died, usually in gruesome ways.  Finally, even after he’d lit candles and floated various things, done all the stupid parlour tricks they’d demanded, they wanted more.

So they’d upped the drugs, refined his sleep cycle, and added the monotony of painful needles and electric shock to the regimen.  They could not seem to grasp how he did what he did, but they saw the potential he held, if only they could harness it.  They were wary of him, confused by his nature and the fact that he was as human as they were.  They disliked him and were not afraid to show that, taking exception to his manners, or lack of them.

He was held with the other prisoners, in a white cell with a huge clear wall so they could observe him at all times, standing there with their clipboards and taking endless notes as he sat with his back against the wall and tried to ignore them.  His food was filled with sedatives and he was often too groggy to mock them, but he did it when he could.

He could not get out.

When it stopped, when suddenly they began to only make sure he was fed and cleaned but he was no longer taken from his cell to the activity rooms, he wondered why.  He even asked, when a soldier brought him his dinner one evening.  Or at least he assumed it was evening; it no longer mattered.  But the soldier merely told him to shut up and eat, that he didn’t need to know what was going on.

Ethan was not stupid however, and had spent a lifetime watching people’s body language to threat assess them, to find out their desires and weaknesses.  The soldiers were quietly frantic, their bodies stiff with alert tension.  They were professional, not showing the cracks, but to Ethan’s eye they were panicking all the same.  Something, somewhere, had gone terribly wrong and they were marking time, trying to figure out a way out of the mess they’d created.

Ethan speculated about what had stirred the hornets so violently.  It could have been anything, really, and he entertained himself with visions of riots and escaping demons, with comforting thoughts of carnage and payback.  Or maybe their funding had been cut.  Most likely, however, they’d simply gotten in over their heads and unleashed something through their experiments that they didn’t understand and couldn’t control.  Whatever it was, unfortunately, had drawn all their attention away from the prisoners, including Ethan. True, that meant that the pain had stopped, but it also meant that not one of them was being taken from their cells anymore.  He’d not seen a gurney with a demon strapped to it pass his cell in days, and if no one was moving from their cells, that meant that the chances of escape were even less than they’d been before.

Days passed and became weeks.  Monotony had settled in and Ethan even began to hope that the base would implode. Violence at least would offer him a chance of the cell door sliding open for more than a few moments when some drone delivered his meals.  

He sat endlessly, reliving his past until it became another torture. He made up spells that he couldn’t use, re-wrote his childhood with a variety of endings, and abused himself with the crystal clarity of every time Ripper had made love to him.  He stared at the white walls and blanked his mind, meditated until he was refreshed enough to do it all over again.

He could tell the time by the way his stomach felt, never actually having lived in such a strictly regulated way before.  His body became used to the arrival of food, of eating and digesting and expelling.  He could predict to within a two minute frame when his next meal would arrive, in the hands of a silent soldier.  

The same soldier, lately, which was odd.  At the beginning there was always a change of the guard, so to speak, but lately his evening meal had been brought by a tall man with a dimple in his chin, his right shoulder slightly rounded for some reason.  The first time they spoke was an accident, Ethan looking at the tray as the soldier put it down and saying “Thank you,” in a quiet voice.  He’d gotten a surprised look and a nod, the soldier backing out of the cell with his hand on his sidearm just as usual.  Ethan had not meant to speak, certainly hadn’t meant to be polite, but it had just… happened.  Keeping quiet had seemed to be the best way to avoid drawing attention to himself—it would be a shame if the only creature being tortured in this place was himself.

The next evening the soldier looked at him curiously as he delivered the tray.  “There you go,” the man had said quietly.

“Thank you,” Ethan’d replied, his voice neutral.  He wasn’t sure what was going on, didn’t want to push.

For a week they carried on the same way.  They did not talk, Ethan kept his voice even and toneless—even he couldn’t pretend real thanks, they were merely observing social convention, as strange as that was.  And then Ethan saw a chance.  It was slight, barely there, but it was enough to occupy his mind.

He had no idea where the soldier went after his meal was delivered, or where he was beforehand.  The only thing he could count on was that he’d managed to become slightly more human in that soldier’s mind, and therefore an object of curiosity.  He also knew that his cell was watched, equipped with at least one video camera.  The military appeared not to favour covert observation in their cells, the camera was prominent in the back corner.  He assumed that there was another, as the blinking red light would instil rage in many creatures and would surely be destroyed in a fit of anger.  It would actually make sense if they used the ostentatious camera as bait and kept their real devise hidden.

He didn’t spend a lot of time thinking on it, really, he just knew.  The only thing that mattered was that a soldier, just one, might be sympathetic to him, and to that end he set about appearing even more human than he had before.  He murmured his thanks for his food, stayed quiet and meek appearing, and tried not to talk to himself.

All men have needs.  Food, shelter, clothing… these were all taken care of for him.  There was little he had left with which to bind himself to the human race, not in this place.  All that was really left to him, as he was unable to hold an intelligent conversation with his captors and was unwilling to debase himself by talking to an empty room while they listened in, was sex.

It was a good thing that Ethan was neither shy nor inhibited.  He knew even as he undid his trousers that masturbating for this audience was a means to an end, and he really had very little shame.  However, most men would, so he turned his back and lay facing the wall, letting the motion of his arm and hips be the only indication of what he was doing.  For a horrifying moment he wasn’t sure if he’d rise to the occasion; he’d been more intent on the plan than arousal, but his favourite memories didn’t fail him even then, and he soon gave himself into sensation almost forgotten.

He bit his lip to keep from crying out as he came, but in his mind he screamed so loudly that his Ripper might even have heard him if he’d been listening.

Ten minutes later his door slid open and Ethan opened one eye to watch as a wet cloth, a dry towel and a clean set of clothes were tossed in to him.  His soldier shrugged.  “Clean up.  You can’t be comfortable.”

Ethan smiled to himself and nodded.  

For a day or so Ethan tried to figure out what to do with his tool, now that he had it.  He was still locked in a cell, and the military was still quietly losing its collective grip on control.  He turned over various ideas, frustration rising inside him as nothing came to mind.  He was well and truly stuck, and now he had eyes trained on him.

When Fate stepped in Ethan almost wasn’t fast enough to catch the gift.  

His soldier stepped into Ethan’s cell with one hand on his sidearm and the dinner tray in his other hand, just as usual, his backup waiting in the hall and watching through the clear wall.  Ethan waited as the tray was set down, having learned long ago that if he stepped forward too soon he’d be damaged in some way.  He might not get his food through the ceiling anymore, but he was still a Hostile.  

“There you go,” said the soldier, this time with a small smile.  His lip twitched slightly, as if he had a tickle in his nose.

“Thank you,” Ethan replied.  He watched for a second as a thin trail of blood ran from the soldier’s nose and waited for a drop to fall.  “Did you know that your nose is bleeding?” he asked politely.

The soldier’s eyes widened and he raised his hand, wiping at his upper lip.  “Again?  Damn.  Thanks.”  He backed out, already talking to his backup.  “Started again.  For fuck’s sake, a little moisture in the air down here would be nice.”

Ethan moved.  He walked to his tray and swiped up the fallen drop of blood with the corner of his paper napkin.  Not ideal, by any means, but at least he had the blood.  He ate slowly, eyes unfocused as he tried to recall fragments of spells and cobble together others.  There was little he could do without candles and offerings, but blood was powerful, and it was a chance.

It took hours, almost the full day.  He didn’t sleep—couldn’t—as he chased ideas and built the spell from scratch.  He followed the flow of energy within the blood, manipulating it ever so slightly and focussing his own will until he could do what he had to, all the while unsure if it would work at all.  He could merely have been pouring himself into a piece of stained paper, draining himself to no end at all or he could have been saving himself; he had no way to know.

He was thankful he’d spent so many days meditating as his watchers wouldn’t be at all curious about the fact that he was sitting so still for so long.  Ethan kept his eyes closed, all of his awareness turned inward as he worked, and all he could do was hope.

An hour and a few minutes past the time for his mid day meal his soldier came to him without backup and opened the cell door.  “Stand up.”

Carefully, stiffly, Ethan arose and waited.  The soldier’s eyes were clear, perfectly aware and that worried Ethan.  For the first time he looked at the man’s nametag.  “What’s going on, Marchbank?”  

“Moving you to a new cell.”  Marchbank took Ethan’s arm and led him into the hall.  

Ethan took a deep breath and went without resistance, taking only the slightest moment to weigh his options.  Slowly, carefully, he pushed with his mind and reached out with the connecting thread he’d created, following the life force he’d fuelled.  It took time, the minutes they’d walked the hallway to another and then another, neither speaking, but he kept trying, controlling the flow of his magic to avoid ruining his chances by forcing too much at once and shattering the connection before it was fully realised.

He connected with Marchbank’s mind with a nearly audible sound, both of them gasping and nearly falling over as they were joined.  “Let me out,” Ethan said softly.

Marchbank said nothing, but turned them around and pulled Ethan quickly down the hallway and through a doorway.  They rushed through halls with frightening speed, the entire time with Marchbank’s hand on Ethan’s elbow and his free hand on his sidearm.  

They had just turned into yet another hallway when they were confronted with three soldiers walking toward them.  “Where are you going?” the one in front demanded.

Ethan held his breath.

“Level two,” Marchbank said evenly.  “He’s going for processing.”

The soldiers nodded and walked past him without a glance.

It was too easy, and Ethan knew it.  “Which way is out?” he asked.

“Up two levels, to the east,” Marchbank said dully.  “Not far.”

A siren went off, red lights high on the wall flashing.

“I’ll make my way from here,” Ethan said, stepping away from the soldier.  “You better go now.”

Marchbank just stood there, looking at him with vacant eyes.

“Oh, bugger.”  Ethan rolled his eyes and considered the man in front of him.  “If you don’t go, I’ll have to keep you from following, you realise.”

Marchbank didn’t react.  

With a shrug Ethan reached out and took the pistol from the soldier’s holster.  “Shooting you will just make too much noise.  We can’t stir the nest too much, can we?”  He raised the gun and hit Marchbank on the side of the head, as hard as he could.  He was gratified with how neatly the man crumpled, but had little time to enjoy the view as the sirens were still screaming and the chances of him being found were extraordinarily high.  He turned and ran, hoping he was going in the right direction.

He wasn’t.  

He ran down the hallway and through a door, dodging into a thankfully empty room as he heard the sound of approaching soldiers, all of them running and calling out orders.

“Shoot on sight, he looks human but he’s a Hostile.  Don’t let him fool you, deadly force is sanctioned.”

Ethan closed his eyes and waited for them to pass, trying to get his bearings.  He was tired, scared to leave the room but knowing he had to.  There was nowhere to hide, nowhere he could run to escape the guns.  With luck he’d die quickly, but when had his luck ever held?  No, it was perfectly clear to Ethan that all he had to look forward to was recapture, torture, and never again having a chance to get out.

He sank to the floor, despair washing coolly over him.  On his knees he looked up at the florescent lights and prayed.  “All that I am, all that I will be, all is yours.  Just get me out of here!”

And then Chaos’s degenerate son was seared by blinding pain and knew no more.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

January, 2004
Paris

Giles followed Willow down the narrow street, trying to keep up as she wove through the other pedestrians in a single-minded mission to get to the warmth of the café.  They’d passed other places, but Willow was insistent they go to a certain place, saying that it had the best latte she’d had since they’d arrived there two weeks before.  Giles didn’t care if his coffee was good, he just wanted to get out of the cold for a few minutes.

“Willow, slow down,” he said as she pulled open the door and almost walked right into a couple just leaving.  “Head to the back,” he added as they stepped aside.

She rolled her eyes at him and he sighed, acknowledging that she didn’t need the suggestion as they always moved to the back of any public place.  It was easier to talk about the Potentials that way and share information they’d gathered from Xander or Buffy.  

They slipped into a booth at the back, a waiter appearing at the side of the table while they peeled off their layers of sweaters and coats.  Willow ordered easily, happy to show off her new grasp of Parisian French, and Giles settled back, letting the heat of the place restore him.

“So,” he said, closing his eyes as he relaxed.  “Did you talk to Buffy this morning, or Dawn?”

There was a long pause, too long, and Giles opened his eyes.  “Willow?”  She was looking to her left, out of the booth, her eyes wide.

“Um, Giles?” she said, not looking at him.  “Isn’t that…?”

He followed her gaze slowly, not really wanting to know what had made her look both resigned and angry.  There had been far too many surprises in their lives in the past year, and every time he thought he couldn’t take another one he was guaranteed to get a shock.  He turned his head, his breath stopping when he met the calm gaze of Ethan Rayne looking back at him from the opposite booth.

“Hello, Ethan,” he said softly.

Ethan smiled sadly at them, but didn’t answer.

“Um, why is he here?” Willow asked.  “And why isn’t he making with the smart talk?”  She looked at Ethan suspiciously.  “Something’s wrong.”

Giles ignored her, concentrating on Ethan’s face.  His colour was so off that it was almost non-existent, and his eyes were expressionless, looking back at Giles with disinterest.  “Yes,” Giles said as he stood up.  “Something is definitely wrong.”

He crossed the small space between their booths and sat down across from Ethan.  “What happened?” he asked quietly.

“You gave me to them, dear one.  Sent me to the desert to rot.”  Ethan’s voice was as expressionless as his eyes and Giles’ blood ran cold.  “Will you kill me now?  Please?  I’ve been waiting for so long, I thought you’d never come.”

“What?” Giles asked, shocked.  “No, of course not.  Ethan, listen to me.  I didn’t know what they were, I thought you’d get away with no trouble.  When we found out what they were doing, how bad it was… I tried to find you.  I thought that Riley was sending you to a military facility, that things weren’t so bad as they were in Sunnydale—“

“Bad.  Very bad,” Ethan whispered.  

Giles swallowed hard.  “I tried to find you.  Riley said he’d called, that things were going to hell in Nevada but that you were okay.  I didn’t believe him, but then Adam was loose, and Riley left after that—I had no way to find you, Ethan.”

Willow was standing at the side of the table, staring at them with wide eyes.  “You tried to find him?  Why?  I mean, yes, human, but—”

“Not now, Willow,” Giles said, throwing her a sharp look.  

“Too long gone, love,” Ethan said to the table top.  

Willow shook her head.  “We were a little busy. Adam, Glory-the-hell-god, Buffy died, then there was the thing with… well, things were bad.  Not to mention The First Evil and Sunnydale going bye-bye down a deep hole, and it all kind of adds up to not much time to hunt for the guy who tried to kill us a bunch of times, you know?”

Ethan didn’t even look up.  “Please, Ripper.  So long, too long.  Please, just kill me now, I’m ready.  I need you to.  It hurts so much.”

Giles didn’t even look at Willow, simply stepped around her and pulled Ethan from the booth.  “My coat, please, Willow.  We’re taking him back to our hotel.”

Ethan put on his own jacket when prompted, too thin for the cold of Paris in January, and waited while Giles got redressed.  Willow was dressing too, not asking questions out loud which earned her a grateful look.  She raised an eyebrow at Giles but smiled.  “Confusion is more or less a constant state.  I’ll pester you later.”

“I look forward to it,” Giles said dryly.  “Come along, Ethan, and we’ll have a long talk.”

They turned from the table just at the waiter arrived back, displeased to see them ready to go.  Willow tried to explain but the waiter would be satisfied with nothing less than them taking the coffee to go and leaving a nice tip for the time it took him to transfer the steaming fluid into paper cups.

Ethan waited patiently by the door, looking at either Giles or his own feet.  It was so unlike any version of Ethan that Giles had ever seen as to be an entirely different person, not even a pale reflection of Ethan Rayne.  He was more like a ghost, and a quickly fading one at that, as if the light had turned on just before the spirit could retreat to the Otherworld.

They walked to the hotel, a quiet five blocks without any of them speaking.  Giles was awash with emotions he couldn’t quite sort out, but at the fore was fear and concern for Ethan’s mental state.  He’d never seen Ethan like this, so devoid of life.  One of the things that had defined Ethan had been his passion, his endless well of energy and ideas.  To see him like this was frightening, and Giles found that he almost didn’t want to hear what had happened to bring Ethan to this state.

Silently, he led Ethan to his room, Willow walking just as quietly behind them until they were in the room.  Ethan stood inside the doorway, not even taking off his jacket until asked, sitting on the bed only when told.

Giles sat on the one chair, pulling it until he could lean forward and look into Ethan’s eyes.  Willow sat on the bed, far enough from Ethan to watch but not really be a part of them, watching intently.

“Ethan,” Giles said carefully.  “Will you tell me what happened?”

Ethan’s lips twitched in a mockery of a smile.  “I couldn’t get out.  For a long time, I couldn’t get out.  Finally, I had a chance and I took it, but I was going to get caught.  I couldn’t count on dying, and wouldn’t go back to more of their torture.”

“What did you do?” Giles asked, keeping his voice calm.  He had to soothe, had to coax.  It was easy to fall back into his protector role, he found.  It didn’t surprise him, really.  He’d been coaxing and soothing Potentials for six months, and protecting Ethan was something he’d spent the last three years wishing he’d have a chance to do.  When he’d realised where he’d sent the man he’d been stricken, and he’d spent long nights longing for one more chance to see if either of them had changed enough, could change enough, for some sort of chance at… well, he’d never quite dared to think of reconciliation.  Ethan was Ethan and he was still a Watcher.  

But now Ethan wasn’t Ethan, and it was terrifying.

“What did you do?” he asked again when Ethan didn’t answer.

Ethan’s eyes closed for a moment.  “I prayed,” he whispered.  “They were closing in on me, they were going to find me.  So I offered Chaos everything.  Anything.  I just wanted out.”

“And?”  Giles prompted.

“Chaos took.  I passed out, the pain was too much.  When I woke up I was half dead in the desert, all alone.  I walked for almost two days before I found a town.  Eventually I came to Europe, to wait.  I knew… well.  I hoped to die.”  He met Giles’ eyes, the pain and longing too great to be dismissed.  Ethan’s eyes filled and he blinked rapidly.  “Please, Ripper.  Rupert.  Love.  End this for me?  I can’t do it myself, I tried.  I’m too weak, too scared.  Kill me.”

Giles shook his head, unwilling to believe that Ethan really wanted to die, unwilling to consider that he could kill him, even when begged.  He remembered hitting Ethan, beating him up in Sunnnydale and holding a gun to Ethan’s head.  He wanted to run from the memories, shamed to his core by their intensity.

“What did Chaos take?” he asked, fearing he knew.

“Nothing much,” Ethan said, closing his eyes again and wincing.  “Just my magic.”

Out of the corner of his eye Giles saw Willow recoil, and he himself was shaking his head.  “Ethan—“

“It’s gone.  All of it, I can’t even light a match.  I’ve tried.  Spells, chants, trances…I can’t do anything.  I’m nothing, less than nothing.  I can’t live like this, Ripper.  Chaos took it all and discarded me.  I’ve been thrown away one too many times, love.  I can’t take this.”  And then Ethan wept, his face crumpling as he fell forward into Giles’ arms.

Giles held him, fighting his own tears.  The agony was palpable, Ethan shaking from his very bones as he let go.  Willow looked sympathetic, one hand almost reaching for Ethan’s back, but not quite touching him.  She met Giles look with sad and confused eyes.  “We’re going to help him?” she asked.

Giles nodded, his hand tight in Ethan’s hair.  “We’re going to try.”

Willow nodded slowly, then crawled over the bed and left the room without another word, the key clutched in her hand.

Giles held Ethan until he stopped shaking, then lay on the bed with him, neither of them talking; Giles was thinking, Ethan seemed too drained.  Finally Ethan fell asleep, clinging to Giles’ arm, his face still damp with tears.  Giles lay unmoving, not willing to let go and leave him to wake up alone.  

He was unsure how long they lay like that, he might have fallen asleep himself.  Ethan was restless, shifting in his arms and making small noises, not quite waking but certainly not resting well. The room had grown darker, although it wasn’t full night, and Giles was just thinking that he’d have to move and turn on a light when there was a light tap at the door and he heard the key in the lock.

Willow came in slowly, holding a book.  “How is he?” she asked softly.

“Sleeping.”

“I did some reading,” Willow said, moving to sit in the chair.  “And I got online too.  I managed to catch a few people in a chat room and asked some questions. I’m missing some books—hard to bring them all, you know that, even though between the two of us we’ve managed to haul most of them—“

“Willow.”

“Oh, sorry.”  She blinked at him and held up the book she’d brought in.  “I was thinking about what he said, about his magic being taken.  When you took me to Westbury I was taught that my magic is a part of me, that I couldn’t deny it or give it up.  We talked about that Giles.  You told me about locking yours away and how hard it was.  I… I had never learned control, you controlled too much and it wasn’t until you stopped me that we both started to heal.  But the big thing was that the magic was a part of me, and it couldn’t be taken out.  So I started thinking that Ethan’s magic can’t really be gone, not entirely.”

Giles nodded.  “Go on.  What did you find out?”

“Well, there’s a spell, and it’s pretty easy, really.  The three of us sort of connect and either you or I… kind of go looking for it.  It’s not really like that, but you’ll know it when it happens.  But do we want to go looking for it, Giles?  Do we really want to get Ethan Rayne to the point where he has his magic back?”

Giles tried not to glare at her, but suspected he failed to hide his annoyance.  “Yes, Willow, we do.  At the very least I have to help him come to terms with what has happened.  He’s human, and not only that, what’s happened him to him is more or less my fault.  I won’t let him suffer anymore than he has.”

“Buffy won’t be happy,” Willow pointed out.

“Buffy knows that sometimes things have to be done in faith, that there aren’t absolutes where people are concerned.  Both Angel and Spike taught her that.” Willow looked like she was about to argue the point, no doubt pointing out Buffy’s state of mind when she was with Spike and what an ally Spike had become, but instead she dropped the matter with a short nod.  Giles knew that the issue would be discussed again, and probably soon.  But for now, his decision was made and he knew Willow—she would help, at the very least to the extent of assisting with the spell.  

Willow dropped her eyes to the book.  “You’ve worked magic with him before, right?  You know what his magic feels like?”

“Yes, of course.”

Willow shrugged one shoulder.  “Then we shouldn’t have much trouble finding it.  It’s in there, I’m sure of it.  But I don’t know if he can use it again, or if he’ll ever have the power he did.”  She suddenly looked thoughtful, her eyes distant.  Giles let her follow her thoughts and held Ethan tighter to him.  He had the distinct impression that Ethan was awake but unwilling to show it yet.  

“What if…” Willow started slowly,  “what if Chaos didn’t actually didn’t take anything?  What if Ethan sort of did it himself?”

“Did what?  Stripped himself of the one thing he had?”  Giles asked angrily as Ethan’s hands tightened around his arm.  

“No, I mean what if Ethan got himself out, burning out at the same time?  I’ll buy that Chaos rejected him, but I can’t see the benefit in getting Ethan out of the building—it would have made more sense to take Ethan’s power and leave him to die.”

Giles shook his head.  “To you.  To me, to what we are.  To Chaos… Ethan’s suffering would be worth it.”

Ethan pulled away from him a little, rolling out of his embrace and sitting up.  “I’m told I suffer beautifully,” he remarked.  Then he sighed and shook his head.  “I have no magic, Ripper.  There is little point in going into my head to look for it, but you’re welcome to try if you want.  It’s a fool’s errand, I warn you, but you’re welcome to try.”

Giles looked at Willow who nodded and stood up.  “I’m going to go find some candles.  We don’t need much to do this, but candles are always a good thing.”

Ethan smiled at her, a wide false smile that made him look even more brittle.  “Of course, dear thing.  Go find the candles and we’ll have a lovely little Circle.  It’ll be fun.”

With one more uncertain look at Giles, Willow left.

Giles sat up, not reaching for Ethan no matter how much he wanted to comfort him.  “I won’t kill you,” he said conversationally.  “And you knew that.  It was ridiculous to ask.”

“I know,” Ethan agreed.  “But I tend towards the ridiculous, if you recall.”

“It got my attention,” Giles said, sliding to the edge of the bed and standing up. “You do realise that you’re stuck with me now, though?  That I’m not about to leave you in this state, and that even if your magic is beyond your reach I won’t allow you to do anything to harm yourself?”

Ethan laughed, the sound sharp and hysterical, over loud in the small room.  “You don’t have a say, dear one.  There is nothing you can do, really, unless you intend to chain me up.”

Giles waited until the laughter died off.  “I won’t have to chain you,” he said calmly.  “You’ve spent three years like this… you’d be dead by now if you really wanted it.  All you have to do now is let me help you.”

Ethan looked up at him, eyes speculative.  “And why would you want to do that?”

Giles knew better than to beginning citing his sins against Ethan.  They’d spent almost thirty years in opposition, had hurt each other in a variety ways, but the one thing that Ethan would not stand for was charity.  If Giles even once indicated that he’d help Ethan out of a sense of guilt he would wake up in the morning to find Ethan gone, most likely forever.  “Because I want to,” he said.  “Because getting drunk with you before you turned me into a Fyarl demon was the most fun I’d had in ages.  Because I liked the smell of you on my pillow for days after.”

Ethan smirked.  “You do know that we didn’t shag, yes?  You did me the great honour of passing out.  I was most annoyed.”

Giles frowned.  “Really?”

“Really.”

“Bugger.”

“Or not, as the case may be.”

Giles opened his mouth to speak, but held his tongue as Willow returned with a plastic bag, presumably full of candles.  She stopped just inside the door, looking at them both.  “What?” she asked suspiciously.

“Nothing,” Giles said briskly.  Ethan smiled, raising one eloquent eyebrow.

Willow looked uncertain for a moment but moved into the room.  “Can you push the bed against the wall so we have more room?”

For a few minutes the three of them arranged furniture and set out candles, Giles moving swiftly to lessen the amount of time that Ethan had to think.  Truthfully, he was surprised that Ethan was allowing them to do this at all, and although it might come to nothing, Giles wanted to try.  If there was anything left of Ethan’s magic they had to know about it, had to know the full extent of what they were dealing with.

There was no question in Giles’ mind that he was going to help Ethan, that as soon as he’d looked across the café he’d had no choice in the matter whatsoever.  It might be years before Ethan was healed, or it might be a lifetime while he made peace with his new limits… it didn’t matter. Giles had lost too much, seen too many things destroyed in the last few years to allow this to slip away from him.

He smiled to himself as they settled on the floor, the three of them making a triangle within a circle of candles.  If nothing else, battling with Ethan would keep him young.  He’d survived Buffy growing up, he would survive Ethan adapting to a new life.  

“You look optimistic,” Willow said with a grin.

Giles cleared his throat and tried very hard not to look at Ethan.  “Just making plans,” he said.  “Are we ready?”

Willow nodded and the three of them linked hands.  “When the power is raised I’ll give Giles a thread of magic, sort of a tether to me.  He’ll use his magic to feel for yours, Ethan.  We’ll start outside of you—it’s easier and there’s no point in going too deep if we don’t have to.”

Ethan nodded, looking distinctly unhappy.  He squeezed Giles’ fingers once and closed his eyes.  “Long time, Ripper.”

Giles squeezed back.  “Like riding a bike.  I know your taste, I’ll find it.”

Willow began to chant, her voice strong. Giles could feel her pulling in energy from all around them, from the air, the plant in the corner, reaching below them through the building to the ground.  He resisted the urge to follow her, waiting until she was grounded and ready for him to take what she offered.  Ethan’s fingers were tight around his, his longing to draw energy oppressive.

“Don’t try,” Giles whispered.

“It’s hard.”

“I know.  Wait.”

Ethan squeezed his fingers again, and they waited.

Giles was not used to practising magic.  He’d done it in recent years, first in England when the Devon coven had lent him their magic, and again as he helped her, once more in England.  But he’d held back since then, only expending energy with Willow as they tracked the Potentials.  This was going to be something from his past, his magic reaching to find Ethan’s.

He was stunned by how comfortable it felt, how easy it was to begin.  Tethered to Willow by a simple line of energy he reached out with his magic, a controlled stream of violet seeking the forest green he remembered.  As he touched Ethan’s face with it, a gentle caress, they both shuddered.

“Hello, Ethan,” he whispered.

“Ripper,” Ethan whispered back.  “Please.”

Giles ignored Willow, concentrated on Ethan alone as he sought what he somehow knew had to be there.  Willow was right, Ethan’s magic was tied to his life force, had to be.  It had to be there.  But it certainly wasn’t close to the surface.

He went deeper, his eyes closed as he carefully sank into the man’s consciousness, avoiding going too fast or too deep.  He didn’t want to tangle them together, didn’t want to hurt Ethan by staying too long.  He could feel Ethan’s longing for him, echoed within himself.

Willow fed him, kept him steady, and Ethan was unresisting, allowing the intrusion.  So much pain in him, so many hurts to soothe and ease away.  Giles made a silent promise to himself to make Ethan whole.  To make him feel loved, once more.

When he finally found the spot inside Ethan he almost missed it.  A tiny light, the green far dimmer than it should be, almost yellow.  But it was there, a spark hidden under a heavy blanket.  He knew he was smiling as he touched it carefully with his magic.

“Oh,” Ethan gasped.  “Oh God.”

Giles gasped as well, a swell of arousal flooding through him at even that tiny touch of Ethan’s power.  They were rocked by each other, meeting again after so long, their power mated even when they’d been apart.

“Indeed,” Giles replied, touching the spot once more, a slow, sultry caress.  He could feel himself stiffening, his body reacting quickly to even that slight touch.  

Ethan groaned and the candles flared and went out, Giles’ eyes snapping open at the slight push of Ethan’s power.  

“Don’t, love,” Giles said.  “You burned out, Willow was right about that.  And you’ve been trying to use it, so you’ve not recovered at all, even after three years.  It’ll take time.”  But he himself was unable to resist the lure, and he sent another touch to Ethan, his cock now hard and his hunger rising with it.

Willow made a noise and her fingers tightened around his.  “I so didn’t need to know this,” she said.

Giles looked at her, amused.  “You can’t tell me that you and Tara didn’t share magic, didn’t play with it when you were…alone.”

Willow’s eyes widened.  “But that was...we were…I loved her.”

Giles looked back at Ethan, his arousal not dimming.  “Willow, you might want to clear the air and—”

“Leave,” Ethan said, his eyes bright.  “Yes, you might want to leave.”

“Oh.  Oh my.  Right.  Clearing, leaving.  Just don’t…start.  Damn.”

“Damn?” Giles asked, letting go of her hand.  

“I owe Xander fifty dollars, thanks to you.”  She paused, reaching for the candles.  “But then, Buffy owes me twenty for the Ethan being gay, and if you want to tell me—”

Giles stared at her.  “You’ve been making wagers on my sex life?”

Willow had the good grace to blush.  “Well, no.  Ethan’s.  And yours I guess, sort of, so technically—”

“Leave.  Now.”

“Leaving.”

Giles was still holding Ethan’s hand and didn’t let go as Willow let the line between them go and released the energy she’d gathered, carefully sending it back to where she’d drawn it from.  In moments she had gathered the candles and was fleeing from the room.

Neither of the men bothered to wish her a goodnight, wholly absorbed in looking at each other.  The door had barely closed behind her when Giles leaned forward, drawing Ethan to him for a hungry kiss.

Ethan’s lips parted for him easily, the man almost crawling into his lap.  Giles moaned, holding Ethan’s head as he kissed him, both of them almost falling over as they tried to arrange themselves.

Ethan was trying to talk.

Giles was trying to kiss him and undo his shirt at the same time, not interested in discussing things.

Ethan, however, was stubborn and pushy and had no qualms about finally pulling away, although he did not leave Giles’ arms.  “I can’t bear it if this isn’t real,” he whispered, eyes dark and wide, his hands moving restlessly across Giles’ chest.

“It’s real,” Giles said, darting in to kiss his jaw.  “I’m not going anywhere.”

“But I’m broken.  Selfish and narcissistic.”

“And I’ll help you.  Keep you safe.  Keep you with me.”

Another kiss, and Ethan was beginning to writhe atop him.  “Where?”

“All over, actually.  We have a lot of travel in our future,” Giles said, his hand finally brushing over Ethan’s stomach as he pulled Ethan’s shirt free of his trousers.

Ethan shuddered, moved closer and back again, rubbing against Giles almost frantically as he gave in to the touch, if not the words.  “You can’t leave me,” he begged.  “Oh God, dearest.  Harder.”

Giles growled and rolled them over on the floor, giving up on the clothing.  “No, I can’t.  By my side and by my hand you’ll get better, Ethan.  I’ll take care of you.”

With a cry Ethan clutched at him, shaking as he came, and Giles met him, heart and soul, passion and power flaring as he climaxed.

“By your side,” Ethan whispered.

“By my hand,” Giles whispered, holding his lover tightly.

~end