Today was a good day
Feb. 6th, 2004 09:06 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
angelchickenI can't stop smiling. Every time I think that I no longer have to go back to the horrid place I just grin from ear to ear.
Today was fine. There was a bit of bitching, but Lord, I really didn't care. I did what I needed to do, said good-bye to the people I wanted to say good-bye to. Gave my info to the people I wanted to have it (including the Ex CEO/CFO of Harry Winstons. Along with a promise that he will be hearing from me).
Got the number of a client who wants to take me out for drinks or possibly to a sleazy motel where he can break his marriage vows. Whatever. I'm not a homewrecker, and I honestly don't think it's the second. I think he just likes me. Which is fine. And maybe we'll go out for drinks and I will just ask a lot of questions about his kids.
I got a lot of 'good luck's and 'we'll miss you's and with Dina and Melanie I left neither a bang nor a whimper. Just a bit of quiet dignity, I think. I just said thank you for the experience and I learned a lot. All the best.
And I kind of meant it.
Now that I don't have to deal with it any more, it is all so incredibly unimportant to me. I am tabula rasa-ing all the bad. Purging it from my life, maybe with the help of a pedicure. Or a massage. Possibly both.
Thank you to all of you for your support and absolute kindness and understanding with my bitching and raving over the past few months, and for your help when I was trying to figure out what to do. It meant so, so much to me.
*big hugs* to you all.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
And now for something completely different.
In honor of the WIP Amnesty I offer WIP. Possibly never to be finished.
And I am kind of thrilled because I love what I have.
The fandom is, surprisingly, Buffy (I know! Who woulda thunk?) And it's about Giles. I have had about six parts planned for the past nine-ish months and have really only written two. And the second part just sort of . . . ends.
Anyway, it's a character study about Rupert Giles.
A warning, though. Part two is a bit slashy (Giles/Ethan/OC). But the first part is not. So if you don't want to read Slashy!Giles, just don't read part two. And if it makes you feel any better, the fic isn't headed in a Gay!Giles direction, if I even complete it.
Anyway. Betaed by the beautiful and gracious![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sallyanne and edited ad nasueam by me. Rated R for the second part.
Bright
i. sunrise
Rupert Giles knows he is bright. Even if he didn’t hear it all the time-- Oh, my Rupert. He’s terribly bright. First in his class, you know-- he would know. At the age of eleven he speaks three languages fluently (English, Latin, Greek, the languages of scholars, or so his schoolmasters would have him believe) and has read more books than the rest of his class combined. Of course, discipline plays a bit of a role-- Four hours of languages a day, Rupert, that it how you learn. And I want to see the rest of your work before you go to bed. But overall, he knows his intelligence far surpasses most of his peers.
Oh, he doesn’t think himself better than the other boys his age- much. And he doesn’t study all the time. He loves playing footy with the boys after school, and he and Nigel Heathrow often get together on weekends and pretend that they are detectives, Rupert the brains, always solving the mysteries, and Nigel the brawn, using his superior size to intimidate the suspect. Even if said suspect is only Casper, the family dog.
Yes, Rupert knows he is bright. And he thinks of this as he sits on the main stairway of his family estate and watches his parents mingle, speaking in low tones to Father’s colleagues. They all came here after the service to pay respects, somber men and women dressed in mourning black and puffing almost compulsively on cigars and cigarettes or clutching their wine glasses with desperation. Like they need the crutch, the numbing qualities Rupert suspects come with alcohol. He can understand that. He wouldn’t mind being a bit numb.
Grandmother sits on the chaise in the drawing room, trying to look pleasant and failing miserably. She occasionally dabs at her eyes with a wrinkled handkerchief and when someone approaches her she struggles for a smile but always falls just short.
And Carolyn. Carolyn is dead.
“She was attacked,” Mother said. “Vicious muggers in a seedy part of town. Poor dear shouldn’t have been there. They tried to slit her throat. She was covered in bruises and dust. Like they-” she stopped and choked on a sob, then took a minute to compose herself and continued. “Like they tossed her around a bit. Couldn’t just kill her. Had to defile her as well. Poor dear.” The last words came out as a whisper, and Rupert wonders if his mother is telling him everything. Actually, Rupert wonders why his mother told him at all.
It isn’t that he doesn’t want to know. Grandmother’s charge was one of the true lights in his short life. Carolyn always had wonderful stories and would occasionally bring back candy or other small treats for him when she and Grandmother went into the City. She was beautiful and kind and seemed so free spirited. But Rupert could see that she had a hollowness about her that couldn’t be completely hidden. Sometimes her eyes would be so sad they would leave Rupert with an almost physical ache. And when his mother came to him yesterday morning and told him, something-- the tone of her voice maybe, or the way she didn’t look him directly in the eye-- made him think that things were being omitted from this story. Like where was Grandmother when Carolyn was attacked? Didn’t they do everything together when they went to the city? Carolyn made it sound like she was constantly policed, usually with a roll of her eyes and a small giggle. She knew that she was being watched, but she didn’t mind. Too much. And why would she be wandering about by herself in the seedy parts of London in the middle of the night? If Grandmother wasn’t there, wouldn’t she have some other sort of escort? He knew Father occasionally accompanied them into the city and was actually in London the night she was killed. Why wasn’t he there?
And Rupert knows- he knows- that he isn’t being told everything. Really, he wonders if he has actually been told anything. He sees the faces of the men and they look more resigned than sad. Like they expected this to happen, but hoped that it wouldn’t. The women seem more heart sick. Some cry openly, dignified or not, while others try for stoical grief. But they also have too much understanding in their eyes. They know something Rupert doesn’t.
Seeing those looks on these people-- did they even know her? -- enrages him. He wants to run downstairs and yell. Scream and kick and ask them. Ask if they knew Carolyn’s favorite color, or food. Ask if they knew that she wanted to travel when she was older. If they knew that she had a little brother who died when he was six because the ice on the lake wasn’t as solid as he thought. Or if they understood that, while she put on a brave face in the daylight-- laughing and making kind jokes at Father’s expense-- she would often cry herself to sleep at night.
But he doesn’t. Because Rupert is bright. He knows that there is much more to the story than he is being told and he suspects it has something to do with the Council where his Father and Grandmother work. That’s who all these people are, anyway. Council members. Why on earth would they gather after the funeral of a girl, just eighteen, who he guesses most of them didn’t even know, if they didn’t have something to do with her death? He knows that Carolyn and Grandmother were close, but why would Grandmother be in a state of near catatonia at this news? When his uncle Henry died two years ago she didn’t seem as upset, and he was her son. Something isn’t adding up and Rupert really doesn’t want to know why.
Except that he really does.
What is this organization that calls his father out in the middle of the night with emergencies that are so dire that they can’t wait until morning? What is a slayer, and why is this person-- thing? creature?-- discussed only in reverent tones when the adults think Rupert can’t hear? Father says that he is a doctor. A scientist and a historian. He says he usually spends his days up to his elbows in old, musty books with the occasional break for meetings with old, musty men. This always makes Rupert giggle, but he suspects that after tonight he won’t be laughing, because that is exactly what they are. Even the younger men and women have a weary, beaten down look about them. Like they know too much and grew up too fast.
But when Rupert hears them talking it doesn’t add up. How can a council that deals in fantasy-- and surely that’s what it is because who really believes in vampires and demons and things that go bump in the night-- cause such bone weariness? It makes no sense. But he doesn’t have time to dwell on it as he notices his father heading towards him, guiding an older gentleman with kind eyes that almost manage to hide a cold glare that Rupert suspects is always in reserve; a weapon ready to be drawn at a moments notice.
It gives him the chills.
But like a good boy he stands and descends the few steps to meet his father and this mysterious man.
“Rupert, you remember Mr. Collinsworth, the head of the Council that employs your grandmother and I.”
“Of course, sir,” he responds, perfect English boy dressed in his school uniform, which he thinks might be to impress these people. “How do you do?”
He offers his hand, like he has been taught, and Mr. Collinsworth starts at the formality, but then takes Rupert’s hand in his larger one and pumps it twice. His hand is calloused and cool, and his grip is strong. Rupert thinks that he could probably kill a man with those large rough hands, and then internally gapes at himself for the thought.
Collinsworth stares intently at Rupert who stares back, inquisitive, but not defiant. He’s used to being shown and by now this is all rote.
Except.
Except Collinsworth seems to be sizing him up. Father isn’t saying anything or intervening in any way and Rupert doesn’t know quite how to react to the scrutiny and just when the tension becomes almost unbearable Collinsworth speaks.
“Your father tells me you are quite the student.”
Ah. Familiar. Rupert knows these questions and could probably answer in his sleep.
“Yes, sir, top in my class. Teacher has even discussed advancing me a year.”
“Impressive. And your mother tells me you have an exceptional knack for languages,” is the next question, almost like clockwork.
“I do, sir. I speak Latin and Greek fluently and I am taking courses in both Spanish and French. Father says when I am a bit older and have mastered some of the modern languages he is going to school me in the really old words. Sanskrit and Ancient Babylonian among others.” He can’t keep the faintest hint of excitement out of his voice and he knows his eyes shine a bit more when offering this information. But the truth is, he loves knowledge. Reading different languages is almost like reading code and he wants to be able to read and decipher every book he ever comes across. Languages are his gift, one that he continually gains pleasure from. Until he hears Collinsworth say softly to his Father:
“You’re preparing him.”
His father nods, but doesn’t speak and doesn’t take his eyes off Rupert. He can feel his smile become fixed and knows that he just learned something. Something important. Something that may change his life. And he doesn’t think he likes it. But before he can so much as think of a protest Collinsworth turns back to him, his kindcruel eyes catching and holding his gaze.
“You be sure to keep up with those languages.” The way he says it makes Rupert want to forget every word he has ever learned, English included. “You never know when you will need them. It was a pleasure to meet you, young man. Giles,” his father tears his eyes from Rupert and responds to Collinsworth with a silent query. “Thank you for introducing me to your extraordinary son. I look forward to working with him some day. I think that Celeste and I must take our leave now. Please offer your mother our condolences. Carolyn was an exceptional girl. She served us well.”
The words make Rupert feel like he is going to be sick and he shoots his eyes to his father who is now very diligently not looking at him.
The two men leave Rupert standing alone at the bottom of the stairs wishing he heard wrong and knowing that he didn’t.
Slowly, he looks around the room again. Studies the faces of the people his father calls peers. A few faces look like they might hide a sense of humor. One man catches his eye and winks, giving him a small smile. Rupert doesn’t smile back, just holds his gaze for a beat and moves on. He sees these men and women and can almost imagine hearing their thoughts, their fears and dreams. And he knows.
At the age of eleven. In his parent’s estate during a gathering for a girl who died too young, Rupert understands and his stomach turns.
Rupert Giles knows he is bright. He has a gift, or so he thought. He has loving parents who nurture his intellect and challenge him to be the best he can possibly be. Or so he thought. He spends hours deep in the pages of books and he devours the words and information because when his father praises his grades, when his mother boasts to her friends about his accomplishments, it is his greatest joy. And now he knows.
And he vows to himself, on the soul of a dead girl who was somehow involved in this suddenly terrifying institution, that he will never become like these empty men. Because Rupert Giles is bright and he knows that he can stop it.
*****
ii. mid-morn
Rupert Giles knows he is bright.
Fuck that.
Bright is for dull, ordinary men leading dull, ordinary lives. Bright is the nine-to-fivers who might score a dime for the weekend, but only because it’s the “in” thing to do. Bright is for people who “jam” to Cream because they are smart enough to recognize the genius of Clapton’s music but too bloody thick to recognize the subtle nuances and deeper meanings in “Tales of Brave Ulysses” and “White Room” when it’s plain as day:
I’ll wait in this place where the sun never shines;
Wait in this place where the shadows run from themselves.
It really is apparent that Clapton is talking directly to Rupert-- no Ripper. Much better, that-- and anyone who can’t make such an obvious connection must be a complete berk, not to mention out of their stonkin’ minds.
Rupert isn’t bright.
He’s fucking luminous.
He’s the sun. He’s the stars. He’s the Aurora bleedin’ Borealis.
He can see it-- the light-- and it pours off him. He’s brilliant. He’s radieux. He’s splendens, brillante, fucking glänzend! Fuck you, Da. The radiance shoots from his fingers, his toes, his dick, and weave intricate patterns against the wall of the house where he is currently dossing. It pours from his eyes and his ears, makes his tat glow like the fluorescent lights in the tube and when he speaks, his words float out, resplendent and magical.
It is so bloody incredible, he is so bloody incredible, that he has to share. He can’t keep all of this to himself. He is certainly not selfish and if any of his comrades can get even the tiniest glimpse of the magnificence that is Ripper Giles, how can he deny them that pleasure?
He takes another drag off the pipe and holds the warm smoke in his lungs for as long as he possibly can, then he shotguns the glorious Ripper/smoke cocktail into Ethan’s waiting mouth, crushing his lips to the other man and creating a seal so that none of the mixture escapes into the vacuum of the room. He feels Ethan’s tongue in his mouth, no doubt searching for more of Rupe’s incredible essence, and he is so, so happy to bestow this gift on his best mate.
When he pulls away he sees Ethan grinning and it almost brings him to tears, this joy that he caused. And when Ethan exhales Rupert can see the light, not a bright as his own, naturally, since he is the light, but there all the same.
He feels hands on his zipper and looks away from Ethan to see Annette, beautiful, sweet Annette, freeing his erection from the worn denim. And Oh! How clever she is! She can bring in not only his essence, but an actual part of him. Solid and sweet and full of the shine that fills his every molecule. And he is so happy to oblige her. Thinks maybe after she’s finished he should offer himself to the rest of his mates so that they too can keep a piece of him.
As her mouth works beautiful magic on his cock he turns back to Ethan and captures his mouth in a brutal kiss. The combination of Ethan tongue fucking his mouth and Annette sucking his dick make fireworks explode behind his eyes-- he’s that brilliant-- and he knows that nothing else matters. Not his parents. Not his poncy education Oh, my Rupert is terribly bright. He may graduate a year early with a first from Oxford. Not his fucking job his destiny. Sod that. Sod it and fuck it to hell. He’s here and this is where he is meant to be. He will create his own destiny, and anyone who says otherwise can take it up the arse.
He can travel, if he wants. With his exceptional knowledge of languages he can seduce a woman in almost every country on the continent. He and Ethan can go to Paris and debauch the French youth. They can take Annette, incredible little cocksucker that she is, and maybe Philip, who is pretty much a daft git but has a talent for seeking out the best pills and tabs.
He knows he’s a good looking bloke-- hell, he knows he’s sexy. He sees it in the eyes of the women he takes to his bed and feels it in the hands that caress his muscled stomach, arms and back (Must keep in shape, Rupert. Your health is important. And I when I tell you I expect success in all of your endeavors, that includes athletics). Can get any bird with a smirk and a quirk of his brow. Hell, he could get any fellow. He’s that sexy. Of course, he is usually a bit more choosey with the men. Very few can say they buggered ol’ Ripper, and he knows that it’s a cause for envy. He knows that, like Annette, any person in this room will happily get on their knees for him, just to get a taste of his brilliance.
He thinks about this as he reaches down to free Ethan’s erection from his constraining denims and brings it to his lips. Lucky bloke, getting a suck off from Ripper. But this is his gift to a dear friend. And in all honesty the combined feeling of a hot mouth on his dick and a hot dick in his mouth is an incredible turn on. He knows that Ethan is close, can sometimes get off just by watching Rupert get pleasured, but he wants them to come together. He slows his assault on Ethan’s cock until he is just barely mouthing him. He hears a whimper and smiles around his mouthful of dick.
Annette seems to be getting off on his foot. She’s rubbing herself frantically against him as she continues to take him deep into her throat and he is so happy that she is finding pleasure as well. The connection between the three of them is more than physical, more than touching and shared orgasms. He has blessed them. They are connected spiritually now. They are the physical manifestation of radiance.
Annette moves her hand to cup and tug at Ripper’s balls and he feels his orgasm fast approaching. He needs to feel Ethan come with him so he stops toying with him and engulfs him completely, right to the root. He takes one of his hands and slides it to that spot, right behind his balls, which he know will make Ethan completely lose control. The moaned response is all Ripper needs to finish and he comes almost violently into Annette’s eager mouth.
His finger moving a bit further back is all it takes for Ethan to spend and Rupert takes it all in. Sucks hard and long, not wanting to spill a drop. Not wanting to give up any of the light he has bestowed on his mate. He quickly glances to Annette who has finished making use of his foot and is now lying dazed and sated on the floor. She has a dim smile on her face and her left hand has found one of her breasts and is currently plucking and pinching at the exposed areola. Her right hand seems to be slowly traveling towards the waistband of her tight jeans.
He is about to get up and help remove the obstacle for her when his head is yanked back and Ethan’s mouth is once again ravaging his. Annette sees this and crawls up onto Ripper’s lap to join in, and when Ripper opens his eyes he sees a maelstrom of color swirling around them.
Damn right he’s luminous.
*****
Later, as the first light starts to glow around the edges of the boarded up windows in the decrepit house, Rupert lies and thinks about what he is doing there. Oh, he knows specifically what he is doing. Specifically, he is part of a tangle of limbs on a slightly rank mattress in the middle of the floor. He is pretty sure Ethan and Annette are a part of the tangle and he sees a feminine hand with shockingly red nail polish that he thinks might belong to Deirdre. He isn’t positive, but he thinks that the knot of people made their way to the mattress after the wonderful threesome and he vaguely remembers Ethan calling Deirdre to join them so Annette wouldn’t get lonely. So thoughtful, Ethan. What a mate.
But despite the occasionally giddy thought that is most likely the last of the drugs popping up to make their presence known, Rupert feels incredibly subdued. He isn’t in a peaceful post-coitel bliss like the rest of the group seem to be, nor is he completely sacked, which is odd, but what isn’t these days?
Now that the drugs are mostly worn through (something he will have to remedy soon) and his
hangover is still a few hours away from becoming too painful, he lies amongst sweatystickysexy bodies and thinks. There are a lot of things running through his head, but the most prominent is why on earth is he here? He could be in some cushy flat with a prestigious position at the Council, meeting nice girls and helping to save the world from the fantasy monsters of his youth that are apparently pretty damn real.
It’s something he has wondered for a while. Why he chose to give his father the ultimate toss off by leaving and becoming a derelict. Is it his bloody pride that keeps him here? Not that here is such a terrible place. He has food, usually, and they are never in short supply of weed or ale. He has several warm bodies to cuddle up to and in to at night. And in the morning. And afternoon, if he so chooses. He’s got his own fucked up corner in this fucked up world.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
There you have it. A bit o' Giles History from the Chicken POV. Like? Don't like? This I should continue? Or maybe burn the computer, just to make full sure that it is no longer in existance? Let me know!
Today was fine. There was a bit of bitching, but Lord, I really didn't care. I did what I needed to do, said good-bye to the people I wanted to say good-bye to. Gave my info to the people I wanted to have it (including the Ex CEO/CFO of Harry Winstons. Along with a promise that he will be hearing from me).
Got the number of a client who wants to take me out for drinks or possibly to a sleazy motel where he can break his marriage vows. Whatever. I'm not a homewrecker, and I honestly don't think it's the second. I think he just likes me. Which is fine. And maybe we'll go out for drinks and I will just ask a lot of questions about his kids.
I got a lot of 'good luck's and 'we'll miss you's and with Dina and Melanie I left neither a bang nor a whimper. Just a bit of quiet dignity, I think. I just said thank you for the experience and I learned a lot. All the best.
And I kind of meant it.
Now that I don't have to deal with it any more, it is all so incredibly unimportant to me. I am tabula rasa-ing all the bad. Purging it from my life, maybe with the help of a pedicure. Or a massage. Possibly both.
Thank you to all of you for your support and absolute kindness and understanding with my bitching and raving over the past few months, and for your help when I was trying to figure out what to do. It meant so, so much to me.
*big hugs* to you all.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
And now for something completely different.
In honor of the WIP Amnesty I offer WIP. Possibly never to be finished.
And I am kind of thrilled because I love what I have.
The fandom is, surprisingly, Buffy (I know! Who woulda thunk?) And it's about Giles. I have had about six parts planned for the past nine-ish months and have really only written two. And the second part just sort of . . . ends.
Anyway, it's a character study about Rupert Giles.
A warning, though. Part two is a bit slashy (Giles/Ethan/OC). But the first part is not. So if you don't want to read Slashy!Giles, just don't read part two. And if it makes you feel any better, the fic isn't headed in a Gay!Giles direction, if I even complete it.
Anyway. Betaed by the beautiful and gracious
sallyanne and edited ad nasueam by me. Rated R for the second part.Bright
i. sunrise
Rupert Giles knows he is bright. Even if he didn’t hear it all the time-- Oh, my Rupert. He’s terribly bright. First in his class, you know-- he would know. At the age of eleven he speaks three languages fluently (English, Latin, Greek, the languages of scholars, or so his schoolmasters would have him believe) and has read more books than the rest of his class combined. Of course, discipline plays a bit of a role-- Four hours of languages a day, Rupert, that it how you learn. And I want to see the rest of your work before you go to bed. But overall, he knows his intelligence far surpasses most of his peers.
Oh, he doesn’t think himself better than the other boys his age- much. And he doesn’t study all the time. He loves playing footy with the boys after school, and he and Nigel Heathrow often get together on weekends and pretend that they are detectives, Rupert the brains, always solving the mysteries, and Nigel the brawn, using his superior size to intimidate the suspect. Even if said suspect is only Casper, the family dog.
Yes, Rupert knows he is bright. And he thinks of this as he sits on the main stairway of his family estate and watches his parents mingle, speaking in low tones to Father’s colleagues. They all came here after the service to pay respects, somber men and women dressed in mourning black and puffing almost compulsively on cigars and cigarettes or clutching their wine glasses with desperation. Like they need the crutch, the numbing qualities Rupert suspects come with alcohol. He can understand that. He wouldn’t mind being a bit numb.
Grandmother sits on the chaise in the drawing room, trying to look pleasant and failing miserably. She occasionally dabs at her eyes with a wrinkled handkerchief and when someone approaches her she struggles for a smile but always falls just short.
And Carolyn. Carolyn is dead.
“She was attacked,” Mother said. “Vicious muggers in a seedy part of town. Poor dear shouldn’t have been there. They tried to slit her throat. She was covered in bruises and dust. Like they-” she stopped and choked on a sob, then took a minute to compose herself and continued. “Like they tossed her around a bit. Couldn’t just kill her. Had to defile her as well. Poor dear.” The last words came out as a whisper, and Rupert wonders if his mother is telling him everything. Actually, Rupert wonders why his mother told him at all.
It isn’t that he doesn’t want to know. Grandmother’s charge was one of the true lights in his short life. Carolyn always had wonderful stories and would occasionally bring back candy or other small treats for him when she and Grandmother went into the City. She was beautiful and kind and seemed so free spirited. But Rupert could see that she had a hollowness about her that couldn’t be completely hidden. Sometimes her eyes would be so sad they would leave Rupert with an almost physical ache. And when his mother came to him yesterday morning and told him, something-- the tone of her voice maybe, or the way she didn’t look him directly in the eye-- made him think that things were being omitted from this story. Like where was Grandmother when Carolyn was attacked? Didn’t they do everything together when they went to the city? Carolyn made it sound like she was constantly policed, usually with a roll of her eyes and a small giggle. She knew that she was being watched, but she didn’t mind. Too much. And why would she be wandering about by herself in the seedy parts of London in the middle of the night? If Grandmother wasn’t there, wouldn’t she have some other sort of escort? He knew Father occasionally accompanied them into the city and was actually in London the night she was killed. Why wasn’t he there?
And Rupert knows- he knows- that he isn’t being told everything. Really, he wonders if he has actually been told anything. He sees the faces of the men and they look more resigned than sad. Like they expected this to happen, but hoped that it wouldn’t. The women seem more heart sick. Some cry openly, dignified or not, while others try for stoical grief. But they also have too much understanding in their eyes. They know something Rupert doesn’t.
Seeing those looks on these people-- did they even know her? -- enrages him. He wants to run downstairs and yell. Scream and kick and ask them. Ask if they knew Carolyn’s favorite color, or food. Ask if they knew that she wanted to travel when she was older. If they knew that she had a little brother who died when he was six because the ice on the lake wasn’t as solid as he thought. Or if they understood that, while she put on a brave face in the daylight-- laughing and making kind jokes at Father’s expense-- she would often cry herself to sleep at night.
But he doesn’t. Because Rupert is bright. He knows that there is much more to the story than he is being told and he suspects it has something to do with the Council where his Father and Grandmother work. That’s who all these people are, anyway. Council members. Why on earth would they gather after the funeral of a girl, just eighteen, who he guesses most of them didn’t even know, if they didn’t have something to do with her death? He knows that Carolyn and Grandmother were close, but why would Grandmother be in a state of near catatonia at this news? When his uncle Henry died two years ago she didn’t seem as upset, and he was her son. Something isn’t adding up and Rupert really doesn’t want to know why.
Except that he really does.
What is this organization that calls his father out in the middle of the night with emergencies that are so dire that they can’t wait until morning? What is a slayer, and why is this person-- thing? creature?-- discussed only in reverent tones when the adults think Rupert can’t hear? Father says that he is a doctor. A scientist and a historian. He says he usually spends his days up to his elbows in old, musty books with the occasional break for meetings with old, musty men. This always makes Rupert giggle, but he suspects that after tonight he won’t be laughing, because that is exactly what they are. Even the younger men and women have a weary, beaten down look about them. Like they know too much and grew up too fast.
But when Rupert hears them talking it doesn’t add up. How can a council that deals in fantasy-- and surely that’s what it is because who really believes in vampires and demons and things that go bump in the night-- cause such bone weariness? It makes no sense. But he doesn’t have time to dwell on it as he notices his father heading towards him, guiding an older gentleman with kind eyes that almost manage to hide a cold glare that Rupert suspects is always in reserve; a weapon ready to be drawn at a moments notice.
It gives him the chills.
But like a good boy he stands and descends the few steps to meet his father and this mysterious man.
“Rupert, you remember Mr. Collinsworth, the head of the Council that employs your grandmother and I.”
“Of course, sir,” he responds, perfect English boy dressed in his school uniform, which he thinks might be to impress these people. “How do you do?”
He offers his hand, like he has been taught, and Mr. Collinsworth starts at the formality, but then takes Rupert’s hand in his larger one and pumps it twice. His hand is calloused and cool, and his grip is strong. Rupert thinks that he could probably kill a man with those large rough hands, and then internally gapes at himself for the thought.
Collinsworth stares intently at Rupert who stares back, inquisitive, but not defiant. He’s used to being shown and by now this is all rote.
Except.
Except Collinsworth seems to be sizing him up. Father isn’t saying anything or intervening in any way and Rupert doesn’t know quite how to react to the scrutiny and just when the tension becomes almost unbearable Collinsworth speaks.
“Your father tells me you are quite the student.”
Ah. Familiar. Rupert knows these questions and could probably answer in his sleep.
“Yes, sir, top in my class. Teacher has even discussed advancing me a year.”
“Impressive. And your mother tells me you have an exceptional knack for languages,” is the next question, almost like clockwork.
“I do, sir. I speak Latin and Greek fluently and I am taking courses in both Spanish and French. Father says when I am a bit older and have mastered some of the modern languages he is going to school me in the really old words. Sanskrit and Ancient Babylonian among others.” He can’t keep the faintest hint of excitement out of his voice and he knows his eyes shine a bit more when offering this information. But the truth is, he loves knowledge. Reading different languages is almost like reading code and he wants to be able to read and decipher every book he ever comes across. Languages are his gift, one that he continually gains pleasure from. Until he hears Collinsworth say softly to his Father:
“You’re preparing him.”
His father nods, but doesn’t speak and doesn’t take his eyes off Rupert. He can feel his smile become fixed and knows that he just learned something. Something important. Something that may change his life. And he doesn’t think he likes it. But before he can so much as think of a protest Collinsworth turns back to him, his kindcruel eyes catching and holding his gaze.
“You be sure to keep up with those languages.” The way he says it makes Rupert want to forget every word he has ever learned, English included. “You never know when you will need them. It was a pleasure to meet you, young man. Giles,” his father tears his eyes from Rupert and responds to Collinsworth with a silent query. “Thank you for introducing me to your extraordinary son. I look forward to working with him some day. I think that Celeste and I must take our leave now. Please offer your mother our condolences. Carolyn was an exceptional girl. She served us well.”
The words make Rupert feel like he is going to be sick and he shoots his eyes to his father who is now very diligently not looking at him.
The two men leave Rupert standing alone at the bottom of the stairs wishing he heard wrong and knowing that he didn’t.
Slowly, he looks around the room again. Studies the faces of the people his father calls peers. A few faces look like they might hide a sense of humor. One man catches his eye and winks, giving him a small smile. Rupert doesn’t smile back, just holds his gaze for a beat and moves on. He sees these men and women and can almost imagine hearing their thoughts, their fears and dreams. And he knows.
At the age of eleven. In his parent’s estate during a gathering for a girl who died too young, Rupert understands and his stomach turns.
Rupert Giles knows he is bright. He has a gift, or so he thought. He has loving parents who nurture his intellect and challenge him to be the best he can possibly be. Or so he thought. He spends hours deep in the pages of books and he devours the words and information because when his father praises his grades, when his mother boasts to her friends about his accomplishments, it is his greatest joy. And now he knows.
And he vows to himself, on the soul of a dead girl who was somehow involved in this suddenly terrifying institution, that he will never become like these empty men. Because Rupert Giles is bright and he knows that he can stop it.
*****
ii. mid-morn
Rupert Giles knows he is bright.
Fuck that.
Bright is for dull, ordinary men leading dull, ordinary lives. Bright is the nine-to-fivers who might score a dime for the weekend, but only because it’s the “in” thing to do. Bright is for people who “jam” to Cream because they are smart enough to recognize the genius of Clapton’s music but too bloody thick to recognize the subtle nuances and deeper meanings in “Tales of Brave Ulysses” and “White Room” when it’s plain as day:
I’ll wait in this place where the sun never shines;
Wait in this place where the shadows run from themselves.
It really is apparent that Clapton is talking directly to Rupert-- no Ripper. Much better, that-- and anyone who can’t make such an obvious connection must be a complete berk, not to mention out of their stonkin’ minds.
Rupert isn’t bright.
He’s fucking luminous.
He’s the sun. He’s the stars. He’s the Aurora bleedin’ Borealis.
He can see it-- the light-- and it pours off him. He’s brilliant. He’s radieux. He’s splendens, brillante, fucking glänzend! Fuck you, Da. The radiance shoots from his fingers, his toes, his dick, and weave intricate patterns against the wall of the house where he is currently dossing. It pours from his eyes and his ears, makes his tat glow like the fluorescent lights in the tube and when he speaks, his words float out, resplendent and magical.
It is so bloody incredible, he is so bloody incredible, that he has to share. He can’t keep all of this to himself. He is certainly not selfish and if any of his comrades can get even the tiniest glimpse of the magnificence that is Ripper Giles, how can he deny them that pleasure?
He takes another drag off the pipe and holds the warm smoke in his lungs for as long as he possibly can, then he shotguns the glorious Ripper/smoke cocktail into Ethan’s waiting mouth, crushing his lips to the other man and creating a seal so that none of the mixture escapes into the vacuum of the room. He feels Ethan’s tongue in his mouth, no doubt searching for more of Rupe’s incredible essence, and he is so, so happy to bestow this gift on his best mate.
When he pulls away he sees Ethan grinning and it almost brings him to tears, this joy that he caused. And when Ethan exhales Rupert can see the light, not a bright as his own, naturally, since he is the light, but there all the same.
He feels hands on his zipper and looks away from Ethan to see Annette, beautiful, sweet Annette, freeing his erection from the worn denim. And Oh! How clever she is! She can bring in not only his essence, but an actual part of him. Solid and sweet and full of the shine that fills his every molecule. And he is so happy to oblige her. Thinks maybe after she’s finished he should offer himself to the rest of his mates so that they too can keep a piece of him.
As her mouth works beautiful magic on his cock he turns back to Ethan and captures his mouth in a brutal kiss. The combination of Ethan tongue fucking his mouth and Annette sucking his dick make fireworks explode behind his eyes-- he’s that brilliant-- and he knows that nothing else matters. Not his parents. Not his poncy education Oh, my Rupert is terribly bright. He may graduate a year early with a first from Oxford. Not his fucking job his destiny. Sod that. Sod it and fuck it to hell. He’s here and this is where he is meant to be. He will create his own destiny, and anyone who says otherwise can take it up the arse.
He can travel, if he wants. With his exceptional knowledge of languages he can seduce a woman in almost every country on the continent. He and Ethan can go to Paris and debauch the French youth. They can take Annette, incredible little cocksucker that she is, and maybe Philip, who is pretty much a daft git but has a talent for seeking out the best pills and tabs.
He knows he’s a good looking bloke-- hell, he knows he’s sexy. He sees it in the eyes of the women he takes to his bed and feels it in the hands that caress his muscled stomach, arms and back (Must keep in shape, Rupert. Your health is important. And I when I tell you I expect success in all of your endeavors, that includes athletics). Can get any bird with a smirk and a quirk of his brow. Hell, he could get any fellow. He’s that sexy. Of course, he is usually a bit more choosey with the men. Very few can say they buggered ol’ Ripper, and he knows that it’s a cause for envy. He knows that, like Annette, any person in this room will happily get on their knees for him, just to get a taste of his brilliance.
He thinks about this as he reaches down to free Ethan’s erection from his constraining denims and brings it to his lips. Lucky bloke, getting a suck off from Ripper. But this is his gift to a dear friend. And in all honesty the combined feeling of a hot mouth on his dick and a hot dick in his mouth is an incredible turn on. He knows that Ethan is close, can sometimes get off just by watching Rupert get pleasured, but he wants them to come together. He slows his assault on Ethan’s cock until he is just barely mouthing him. He hears a whimper and smiles around his mouthful of dick.
Annette seems to be getting off on his foot. She’s rubbing herself frantically against him as she continues to take him deep into her throat and he is so happy that she is finding pleasure as well. The connection between the three of them is more than physical, more than touching and shared orgasms. He has blessed them. They are connected spiritually now. They are the physical manifestation of radiance.
Annette moves her hand to cup and tug at Ripper’s balls and he feels his orgasm fast approaching. He needs to feel Ethan come with him so he stops toying with him and engulfs him completely, right to the root. He takes one of his hands and slides it to that spot, right behind his balls, which he know will make Ethan completely lose control. The moaned response is all Ripper needs to finish and he comes almost violently into Annette’s eager mouth.
His finger moving a bit further back is all it takes for Ethan to spend and Rupert takes it all in. Sucks hard and long, not wanting to spill a drop. Not wanting to give up any of the light he has bestowed on his mate. He quickly glances to Annette who has finished making use of his foot and is now lying dazed and sated on the floor. She has a dim smile on her face and her left hand has found one of her breasts and is currently plucking and pinching at the exposed areola. Her right hand seems to be slowly traveling towards the waistband of her tight jeans.
He is about to get up and help remove the obstacle for her when his head is yanked back and Ethan’s mouth is once again ravaging his. Annette sees this and crawls up onto Ripper’s lap to join in, and when Ripper opens his eyes he sees a maelstrom of color swirling around them.
Damn right he’s luminous.
*****
Later, as the first light starts to glow around the edges of the boarded up windows in the decrepit house, Rupert lies and thinks about what he is doing there. Oh, he knows specifically what he is doing. Specifically, he is part of a tangle of limbs on a slightly rank mattress in the middle of the floor. He is pretty sure Ethan and Annette are a part of the tangle and he sees a feminine hand with shockingly red nail polish that he thinks might belong to Deirdre. He isn’t positive, but he thinks that the knot of people made their way to the mattress after the wonderful threesome and he vaguely remembers Ethan calling Deirdre to join them so Annette wouldn’t get lonely. So thoughtful, Ethan. What a mate.
But despite the occasionally giddy thought that is most likely the last of the drugs popping up to make their presence known, Rupert feels incredibly subdued. He isn’t in a peaceful post-coitel bliss like the rest of the group seem to be, nor is he completely sacked, which is odd, but what isn’t these days?
Now that the drugs are mostly worn through (something he will have to remedy soon) and his
hangover is still a few hours away from becoming too painful, he lies amongst sweatystickysexy bodies and thinks. There are a lot of things running through his head, but the most prominent is why on earth is he here? He could be in some cushy flat with a prestigious position at the Council, meeting nice girls and helping to save the world from the fantasy monsters of his youth that are apparently pretty damn real.
It’s something he has wondered for a while. Why he chose to give his father the ultimate toss off by leaving and becoming a derelict. Is it his bloody pride that keeps him here? Not that here is such a terrible place. He has food, usually, and they are never in short supply of weed or ale. He has several warm bodies to cuddle up to and in to at night. And in the morning. And afternoon, if he so chooses. He’s got his own fucked up corner in this fucked up world.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
There you have it. A bit o' Giles History from the Chicken POV. Like? Don't like? This I should continue? Or maybe burn the computer, just to make full sure that it is no longer in existance? Let me know!
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no subject
Date: 2004-02-06 07:10 pm (UTC)Awesome.
Re:
Date: 2004-02-06 07:13 pm (UTC)The problem with me writing is that I get all of my good ideas when I am walking to and from work, and then, when I actually sit down to write, I forget them.
Must work on that.
no subject
Date: 2004-02-06 11:59 pm (UTC)