'Power of Persuasion' by Jane Davitt and Wesleysgirl Part Two

[janedavitt]

Here is Part Two of this Giles/Ethan fic by wesleysgirl and me.

Thanks for the feedback!

Previous parts are here




Giles was distracted the next day. It felt as if his brain was working at half-speed, but he soldiered on with the translation job. He expected it to take another two or three days at most, and he'd promised it by the end of the week. So far, it didn't seem to be anything more than a protection spell, but there was no explaining the types of things people wanted translated, or why, and he rarely tried.

In the late afternoon, he thought he heard a sound in the hallway outside. He was up in a flash, throwing open the door before he'd even realised that he hoped to catch Ethan spying on him, but there was no one there. He felt foolish and he had to admit, angry with himself for being drawn into another one of Ethan's games.

He was still angry when he got home, and avoided turning on the computer for as long as possible. When he finally did turn it on, he was holding a glass of whisky that he'd already taken several swallows from.

To: rgiles@cow.co.uk
From: ethanrayne@hotmail.com

Of course I can't stay away from you. I never could, could I? Were you always aware of that? I wouldn't blame you for using it to your own advantage, you know.

And of course it's me. You don't need me to remind you of things past to reassure you. If I were to, I'd choose all sorts of things that would make you squirm to recall them, wouldn't I, and then you'd just end up angrier than you already are.

I know you that well, you see.

I'm tempted to suggest a meeting at one of our old haunts, but I know you wouldn't agree, and I wouldn't blame you for that either considering how our last such evening together ended. There, see? Feeling angry?

- E

To: ethanrayne@hotmail.com
From: rgiles@cow.co.uk

You didn't answer my questions. Any of them. Why? And – yes, I'd meet with you if that's what it takes to get those answers.

Promise you'll tell me what I want to know and I'll meet you.

But don't expect it to be as friends. I think we both know how impossible that is after what you did.

And yes, I'm still bloody angry. You tried to get me killed at the hands of my own Slayer. Nice one, Ethan.

R

To: rgiles@cow.co.uk
From: ethanrayne@hotmail.com

I'm sure you won't believe me when I say that it wasn't my intention to have your Slayer kill you. She is a feisty little thing though, isn't she? Or should that be 'wasn't she'?

I promise I'll tell you what you want to know. And I promise not to expect a hand extended in friendship, if that's what it takes.

I'll be at the Fox and Hounds in Victoria Street after 8, if you care to join me.

- E

To: ethanrayne@hotmail.com
From: rgiles@cow.co.uk

She still is, Ethan. We really do have a lot to catch up on, don't we?

Very well. It's probably foolish of me to expect your promises to be kept but I confess I'm curious – as you know, it's my besetting sin.

But I think I'll buy my own drinks this time.

R

Giles switched off the computer and stood up, wondering what the hell he was doing. It was already gone six and the pub Ethan had mentioned – was it wise to let him choose their meeting place? Probably not – was far enough away that he didn't have much time.

He'd eaten earlier, forcing down a frozen, microwaved dinner while his attention wandered towards the silently waiting computer. Now he showered and changed as quickly as possible, dressing in jeans and a shirt softened and faded by washing to a blue three shades lighter than its original colour.

Shrugging on a leather jacket, with inner pockets deep enough to conceal a stake – compared to Sunnydale, London was remarkably free of vampires, but they were still around – he left his flat.

He wanted to get there before Ethan. Wanted to watch him arrive. If he remembered correctly, there was an alley across from the pub's main entrance that would be ideal.

Of course, Ethan would know that too –

Giles bit his lip. God, it was like fighting himself, trying to out-guess, out-wit Ethan. Pointless, and doomed to failure.

Doomed to failure in more ways than one, he realised when he reached the Tube only to discover that the rolling blackouts had brought the trains to a grinding halt a short while before. It was past the evening commute, so there were fewer people standing about complaining than there might have been, although that might also have something to do with the fact that the power had been going out long enough that people had got used it. He did hear some muttered expressions of irritation, but at that point he was more concerned with how he was going to get halfway across London.

The first bus he found was full to what he expected was beyond capacity, the second one was either hopelessly late or just didn't exist at all, and he couldn't get a taxi despite his best efforts. By the time he finally got to the pub, he was more than an hour late, and considerably flustered.

The pub was crowded with people watching the mid-week football game, and it took Giles a good five minutes to ascertain that Ethan wasn't there. He didn't think there was much point, but he pushed his way to the bar and got the busy bartender's attention. "What can I get ya?" the man asked.

"I'm actually looking for someone," Giles said, raising his voice to be heard over the crowd. "Dark haired man, tall, thin, my age. He's an old friend. I was supposed to meet him here."

To his surprise, the bartender nodded and turned away, coming back a moment later with a folded up bit of paper that he pressed into Giles' hand. "He said if you came I was to give you this." There was a curious blankness to the man's eyes that vanished as soon as Giles took the note. The bartender shook himself and gave Giles a puzzled smile. "Sorry, mate, didn't catch that?"

A compulsion spell, Giles thought. Designed to make sure the note wasn't forgotten, thrown away, or read by anyone other than him. How like Ethan to use magic for something so trivial.

"It's fine. Changed my mind," he said, turning away from the bar.

"Suit yourself."

The note as Giles discovered when he read it in the back of a taxi – suddenly they seemed to be there for the having – said nothing but, 'Another time?'. Crumpling it up, he shoved it into his pocket and stared out at the busy streets, searching futilely for Ethan's face.

When he got back, he paid the driver and glanced up at the dark windows of his home. Perhaps a drink wasn't a bad idea, even if he would be drinking alone. He took three steps, heading for his local, and then froze. "I know you're there."

There was silence for a moment then he heard Ethan's familiar voice say, "Very perceptive." Giles turned, and Ethan stepped out of the shadows on the other side of his building. "You didn't turn up when you said you would," Ethan said, hands in the pockets of his jacket. "That's not like you."

"Thanks for the trusting faith in my reliability," Giles said a little sourly. "As you can see, I tried. These bloody power cuts – " He studied Ethan. "You know where I live and you still picked the Fox and Hounds to meet? You couldn't have found somewhere just a little closer?"

"It's one place I haven't been to recently," Ethan said as if that explained everything. He was standing quite still, watching Giles just as carefully as Giles was watching him.

"Well, it's getting late," Giles said. "But as you're here –" He frowned. "Why the sunglasses, Ethan? If they're supposed to make you look inconspicuous, I have to say that's less effective at night."

Ethan ignored the question and turned his head to look at Giles' building. "You aren't going in?"

Giles sighed, abandoning his plans to find a quiet corner in a quiet pub. "As keeping you out if you're determined is virtually impossible and I've plenty of whisky, you might as well come up, I suppose." Suspicion roughened his voice. "Or have you already been in?" He took a step towards Ethan. "If you've dared –"

Ethan took a quick, awkward step back, anxiety flaring from him as obviously as if Giles had been able to smell it, both hands held up in front of him. "I didn't. I swear it."

Giles took a slow breath. Ethan didn't actually lie all that well – not to him anyway, not directly. Half-truths and evasions – those he was better with. "I believe you," he said, feeling a little ashamed of himself. "Sorry," he added, a little grudgingly.

Ethan looked at him for a long moment. It was a bit disturbing not to be able to see Ethan's eyes, to read him that way, but then Ethan nodded and shrugged. "Is the offer still open then? Or should we call it a night before there are actual blows?" His tone was light but cautious.

"It's still open," Giles said, moving towards the entrance. He wasn't sure this was the best idea he'd ever had but his curiosity was rising, overcoming his caution. "And I think I can deal with you without it coming to that." He paused and gave a rueful laugh. "Although our track record isn't good, is it?"

"Not really, no." Ethan followed slowly and so carefully that Giles realised just then, for the first time, that he was keeping a distance between them.

He opened his mouth to comment, and then reconsidered. Time enough for that later, when they'd had a drink, achieved some semblance of cordiality.

By the time they'd reached his door, walking upstairs in a silence that was about as far from relaxed as it was possible to get, Giles had adjusted his ideas to contain an Ethan who wasn't talking in a smooth flow of insinuating chatter, an Ethan who was tense and wary.

"You're frightened of something, aren't you?" he said when the door had closed behind them, the revelation striking him with too much force for him to be tactful. "Is that what you meant by paying a price?"

"Did I say that?" Ethan asked wearily, making no motion to take off his jacket.

"Yes," Giles said bluntly. "Oh, sit down, Ethan. I'll get us a drink..." He walked over to the small collection of bottles he kept on top of a glass-fronted case and picked up the whisky, stooping to get two tumblers from the shelves underneath. "Yes, you did. I thought at the time you were being dramatic as usual but it's not hard to see you've –" He stood facing Ethan who was still standing. "Changed," he finished, holding out a glass.

"Set it down on the table," Ethan said, gesturing, and at Giles' look, "No, I'm not being dramatic." He waited until Giles had done as he'd asked then picked up the glass and took a swallow of the whisky as if he were grateful for it. "I'm... well, I suppose changed is a good way to put it." Slowly, he removed his sunglasses, tucking them into his jacket pocket and raising eyes that were filled with broken blood vessels to meet Giles'. There were dark circles underneath Ethan's eyes as if he hadn't been sleeping properly, and without the glasses the weight he'd clearly lost since Giles had seen him in Sunnydale was emphasised.

Giles did his best to keep the shock – worse yet pity – he felt from showing on his face. Taking a gulp of whisky, he stepped back, sitting down in a chair, far enough away that Ethan was out of reach, and gesturing to the couch. "I wish you'd sit down," he said quietly. "You're ill then? Have you been to a doctor?"

The thought that after all they'd been through Ethan might be brought low by something mundane seemed disturbing, even insulting, though that was foolish. They were human. They could hurt. They could bleed. For all Ethan's magic, and Giles' own knowledge, they could die.

It just didn't seem fitting, somehow. Lord knows, Giles didn't expect to die in bed of old age.

Ethan laughed, the sound awkward and artificial in the quiet flat. "Doctors can't help me," he said, moving over to the couch and sinking down onto it, sighing. "It's not that sort of illness."

Giles pursed his lips. "Well that narrows it down." Keeping his voice even, he gave Ethan a pointed stare, not looking away from the damaged eyes. "But not much. So what sort is it?"

"You were there," Ethan said, giving Giles a moment of confusion before he clarified, "The other day. At the intersection?"

It took Giles a moment to realise what Ethan meant. "When the lights malfunctioned? What about it?"

"I was there," Ethan said. "If I hadn't been, it wouldn't have happened. It was my fault, you see."

Giles felt his pity vanish. "You did that?" He leant forward, feeling a twinge in the shoulder he'd wrenched scrambling clear of the oncoming cars. "I thought you said you weren't trying to kill me! There were other people there, Ethan. A woman – her baby – God, I can't believe –" He shook his head. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

It wasn't entirely a rhetorical question.

Ethan set his glass down on the table with a click, standing up and turning toward the door. "In your eyes, everything, clearly... I'll go, shall I? Before you get down to the details of my shortcomings." Every line of his body screamed tension, making him look so unlike the Ethan that Giles knew that it was as if there were a complete stranger in the room.

"I don't think so," Giles said, getting up. He moved quickly around the back of the couch, putting himself between Ethan and the door. "Not before you tell me why you did that." He frowned. "I thought you didn't know I was back? Why were you so quick to attack me?"

"I didn't even know it was you, not for sure. Not until after, when you... I was so surprised, you see." Ethan spoke quietly, hands at his sides. He looked defeated. "It wasn't an attack. It was an accident."

"An accident?" Giles repeated. "You turn every light green by accident often, do you? Ethan, that doesn't make sense. You're reckless, but not uncontrolled, not with your magic. And –" He hesitated, unable to sustain his anger in the face of Ethan's subdued demeanour. "Ethan, are you sure it was even you? It could have been a coincidence; these bloody power cuts – it doesn't have to have been anyone's fault, although you can't blame me for leaping to conclusions."

"I might as well blame you," Ethan said, edging backward away from Giles. "It was because of you, after all. Because I was so startled. Not that it always happens that way; sometimes there's no explanation for it. But it's me. It's all me."

"What is?" Giles asked rubbing his hand across his forehead. He was starting to get a headache, and the quiet despair in Ethan's eyes was disturbing to say the least. "Would you please just tell me, so that I can help you?" he finished, his voice rising with his frustration.

"You can't help me, Ripper. No one can." Ethan wavered on his feet and acting without thought, Giles stretched out his hand to steady him. "No!" Ethan cried, jumping back away from Giles' hand and losing his balance, catching himself against the wall. The ceiling light overhead surged brightly, sending out a shower of sparks that floated down then dissipated. "Don't touch me."

Giles looked up at the light and then at Ethan, realisation dawning. "You... did you do that?"

Ethan gave him a look that made him feel stupid and then nodded. "Of course I did. But that's nothing, Rupert. Don't you watch the news? Your old friend's quite the celebrity these days." He straightened up, dusting himself down with unsteady hands. "I even made the lead story the day the power cut meant the Arsenal match got cancelled. Luckily no one knows it's me doing it, or I imagine I'd have been lynched by a crowd of football fans, and that's really not how I plan to leave this life."

"You?" Giles gaped at him. "You've been causing – no, that's ridiculous! They've been all over the place; Newcastle, Manchester, Oxford – "

"I've had to keep moving," Ethan said. Giles moved towards him and Ethan held up his hand, the momentary flash of his old self-assurance fading. "Promise you won't touch me. I can't take the chance; I don't know what would happen."

Giles set aside the question of how Ethan was causing nationwide chaos – although he'd certainly be returning to it – and concentrated on the more immediate problem.

"You don't know? Then why are you assuming anything would?" He pushed his hands into the pockets of his jeans in an attempt to reassure Ethan and gave him a rueful smile. "I'm not used to you being this concerned about my well-being." Or not wanting me to touch you.

"You saw what happened at that intersection," Ethan said. He seemed to have relaxed a bit, but he also looked utterly exhausted as if he were barely able to continue standing. "That wasn't the first time. I've... hurt people, Rupert." The implication that some of them had been more than just hurt hung heavy in the air.

"But it's not deliberate?" Giles asked, stressing the word and the distinction he was making. "You don't know why it's happening, apart from the obvious fact that it's related to your emotional state?" Before Ethan could answer, he nodded towards the couch. "Look, sit down again. I promise I won't do anything to make you feel – threatened."

He stepped to the side, moving slowly, casually, and walked back to his seat, leaving Ethan with a clear path to the door or the couch.

Ethan hesitated, swaying slightly then managed to make his way to the couch and collapse down onto it. "It's not always related to my emotional state as you call it." He leant back, letting the cushions support his weight. "Sometimes it just happens. Ever since I got out of that bloody place, it's been totally out of my control."

"That place? Where – oh. Oh, God." Giles reached out blindly for his drink on the table beside him, not looking away from Ethan, locating it more by luck than judgment. He raised it to his lips. The sting and burn as he swallowed the contents steadied him enough to continue. "The Initiative, you mean."

"Where else?" Ethan blinked slowly as if too weary to do anything at more than half speed. "They spent so much time mucking about with me... seeing how much power I could channel... how much they could pull out of me before I passed out. I suppose I should consider myself fortunate that they bothered to revive me the two times they killed me outright. I was still interesting then..." His voice trailed off.

Giles closed his eyes against the images Ethan's words evoked only to find them waiting for him in the darkness. Splintered pictures of what he'd seen when he'd gone inside the Sunnydale Initiative, and of what Buffy had told him of Oz's rescue, came together to form a whole, leaving him shaken and sickened. White walls and screams echoing off them...

"They weren't supposed to do that," Giles whispered. "Rehabilitate you – but it was just a word. I never expected them to do more than kick you out of the country."

Ethan shrugged. He looked small sitting there on the couch, small and broken. "I suppose they thought they'd have a bit of fun with me first." Glancing up, he met Giles' gaze. "Don't worry, Rupert. I don't blame you. I'd have done the same thing, in your place." He paused. "Well, no, I wouldn't have. But I still don't blame you."

Guilt made Giles snap back an angry retort. "You'd just tried to kill me! Can we try and remember that as practical jokes go, turning me into a demon on the Hellmouth with a Slayer and those soldiers after me is just a little more serious than a bloody whoopee cushion?" He bit his lip. "Sorry. I'm not doing a very good job of staying calm, am I?"

"You don't need to," Ethan pointed out, his words slurring the slightest bit. "Everything within a few hundred yards isn't likely to go up in sparks just because you get a bit emotional. Or for no particular reason at all. Is it." It struck Giles that this was one of the worst punishments possible for Ethan.

"So how I feel doesn't affect you?" Giles asked wryly. "You're not going to respond adversely to what I say or do if I lose my temper? Somehow I doubt that." He linked his hands together in his lap. "What do you think would happen if you touched me, or I you?"

Ethan perked up a bit at that, his eyes darting to Giles' as if to make sure that it was just a question. He swallowed and looked down. "Ever stuck a fork in an electrical outlet as a boy?"

"Being blessed with a self-preservation instinct stronger than my curiosity, no, but I get the picture." Giles gave Ethan a puzzled look. "That's quite a weapon. Was that their intent? I can well believe it of them." He added softly, "Even if the cost was leaving you so... isolated."

"No," Ethan said. "Actually, I don't think that was their intent at all. They just wanted to see what I could do. After they resuscitated me the second time, I think they decided they'd learned what they could from me. I doubt they expected me to last much longer. When coincidence worked in my favor and I shorted out half the complex in the middle of a shift change, I just... walked right out." His expression was strained. "For the first few weeks I kept expecting them to come after me, but I suppose they had more important fish to fry."

Giles smiled, feeling genuine amusement. "You're a stubborn bastard when you want to be." His smile faded. "Stubborn, and lucky. Ethan – I can see how your power might flare up if you were scared or startled, but surely if you were expecting – if it were me –?"

There was something deeply wrong about Ethan not being able to touch another person. Ethan, whose restless hands had stilled and slowed as they passed over Giles' body with a strange solemnity at times, a bemused wonder. Something so wrong that Giles refused to accept that it was so. He realised that he was edging forward in his seat and frowned, forcing himself to sit back.

Ethan was shaking his head. "We can't take the chance, can we? You're the only friend I have left – I'd hate to kill you by mistake." He looked up at Giles. "Or should I say 'former friend'?" There was something hopeful in his voice, but his expression was, Giles thought, carefully schooled to seem resigned.


"I'm not that fragile," Giles said. "And this isn't something physical; it's magical. It's coming from you, and despite the uses to which you put it, I've never known your magic to be something you couldn't control." He stared directly at Ethan, willing him to believe. "I'm – not your enemy, Ethan. I should be, but I'm not. And I meant it when I said I wanted to help you, but I can't do anything if you're locked up inside yourself like this."


"I don't feel locked up," Ethan said. "In fact, I feel as if I'm telling you rather more than I'd planned on sharing." He smiled wryly. "If I start to confess all my sins, do feel free to take extreme measures to shut me up, won't you? I can't imagine what's making me be so frank."

"You were planning on lying to me?" Giles asked him. He shook his head in resignation. "Why am I not surprised?"

"I'm not lying now," Ethan told him. "I'm warning you not to come closer. Not to risk yourself. Or, for that matter, me."

Every time Ethan told him to keep his distance, Giles felt like moving closer, which made absolutely no sense at all if he thought about it and all the sense in the world when he didn't.

It was one thing to feel guilty and outraged at the way Ethan had been treated; another to put himself at risk just for the sake of satisfying his curiosity. Giles bit down on the inside of his lip, letting the small throb of pain distract him from the increasingly urgent need to cross the room and go to Ethan.

It didn't help.

In the space between a breath drawn in and exhaled, Giles gave up struggling.

He met Ethan's gaze and said softly, "I'm going to come over to you and I'm going to touch you. Tip of my finger against the back of your hand. No more than that. And if anything happens, you've got full permission to blame me."

Giles stood up and began to move slowly towards Ethan.

Ethan's tension was palpable, but he remained where he was. Giles could see him trembling as he sat down beside him. "I can't control this," Ethan whispered. "If I could have, I would. Are you sure this is a good idea? Why are you doing this?"

"No," Giles said honestly. "I'm not sure. But I'm still going to do it." This close he could almost taste the tension, like static in the air on a frosty day. It occurred to him that it might not be entirely his imagination and he hesitated. "I can't explain it very well, but it feels... wrong not being able to touch you. I want to." At this proximity it was verging on a compulsion as if he were hungry and there was food in front of him, as if he were cold and only Ethan could warm him. He wasn't sure he could walk back to his chair without reaching out to touch Ethan just once.

"Is there any way of getting you to relax?" Giles asked. "Short of pouring the rest of that bottle down you, which I'd rather we didn't as I can't imagine your control would improve if you were blind drunk."

Swallowing, Ethan shook his head. "No, and it's just going to get worse the longer you put it off, so just do it if you're going to, and get it over with." He shut his eyes, taking a few slow, deep breaths. "Do it."

Giles found himself smiling again, filled with an odd exhilaration. It wasn't that he didn't think that this was dangerous – Ethan could, and had, hurt him in the past – it was just that he didn't care.

Without giving either of them time to reconsider, he gave the back of Ethan's hand the promised light touch and then, when he felt nothing more than cool skin against his own, he reached out impulsively and cupped Ethan's face, feeling the familiar contours of jaw and bone.

Ethan drew a startled, shuddering breath, his terribly bloodshot eyes opening and searching out Giles' for reassurance. "I don't want to hurt you," he whispered. "Don't let me."

Giles kept his hand where it was, absently rubbing his thumb across Ethan's hollow cheek in a gesture – a caress – culled from memory. The odd urgency had left him and he felt nothing but contentment. "Don't worry about it."

Still trembling, Ethan reached out and laid his hand against Giles' chest, so lightly that he was really only touching the fabric of his shirt.

Giving an encouraging, wordless murmur, Giles brought his free hand up and covered Ethan's, doing no more than that, allowing Ethan to take his time.

The tension between them was changing, the sense of danger slipping away to be replaced by something equally fraught. Giles was acutely aware of every breath Ethan drew, captivated by the slow drag of Ethan's tongue against his lip as he moistened it, the pulse beating in his throat.

Ethan had never seemed fragile before, but he did now. That stubborn quality was still there underneath, wrapped around and around like the tendrils of some particularly tenacious plant, but on the surface there was little sign of it. Ethan looked like what he was – an exhausted, desperate man who'd been alone too long and was clinging to the only hint of familiarity he could find. "Ripper..." It was hardly more than a whisper.

"Right here. Still not dead," Giles murmured. "Ethan –" He broke off, not sure that talking was such a good idea right now, and curled his fingers around Ethan's, letting his other hand slip around Ethan's shoulders, pulling him into a hug.

It had been so long since he'd done this and he wondered, with a faint chill, if, without realising it, he'd become as starved for contact as Ethan. He couldn't recall the last time he'd even shaken someone's hand. That made him tighten his hold around Ethan as though he, not the man he held, needed reassurance, needed help.

Leaning into the embrace, Ethan trembled in his arms. He smelled of leather and something faintly like ozone, and after a moment he shifted, clutching onto Giles tightly in relief. "I don't want to die."

"You will eventually," Giles said, feeling sleepy as if he'd done something more strenuous than he had. "So will I," he added, feeling the customary burst of surprise at the idea. "But I don't think it's imminent."

Settling them back against the cushions, with his hand still linked with Ethan's, he sighed and closed his eyes.

"Rupert?" Ethan sounded hesitant but worried, although he didn't move, continuing to let Giles hold him. "Are you all right?"

Giles gave that some consideration under the circumstances instead of answering with an automatic 'I'm fine'. "I feel a little tired," he admitted, aware of a deep weariness. "But it's been a stressful day. Running around London looking for you..." He made sure to keep his voice light, not wanting to disturb this truce or balance of sorts that they'd achieved. He was trying not to even think about it because if he did he was sure logic would point out a dozen reasons why he should still be in his chair, or shouting at Ethan, or at the very least, still questioning him.

But logic was weak in the face of the need to be this close to Ethan. And all he wanted to do was stay like this, with the light – too light – weight of Ethan resting against him as he allowed his eyes to close again.

"I'd suggest that I go, but that would be uncharacteristically unselfish of me, don't you think?" Ethan murmured after a moment. "And I really don't want to." His hand was still holding Giles' rather tightly.

Giles let himself relax completely. "Stay," he said through the weariness that was dragging him away from his surroundings and down into sleep. He turned his head, just a little, without opening his eyes, and felt the soft brush of Ethan's hair against his lips. "Stay."