The Night Before (Giles/OMC, R)
Title The Night Before
Author Brutti ma buoni
Rating R (Giles/OMC, not very explicit)
Words 1200
Prompt For the Drunken Giles-athon: Pre Series. A dead demon, a mild concussion, and a... love-bite? Giles' first night in Sunnydale is memorable for a number of reasons. He just wishes he knew what they were...
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a Watcher upon taking up his first live field posting, must be in want of a drink.
Or, an it be told, several.
Rupert Giles was sitting in a godforsaken American bar, drinking what appeared to be lightly-tinted tap water. He was feeling somewhat nervous about his first day at work and his first meeting with the Slayer. He was trying to become used to thinking of himself as Mr Giles. No more self; be a Watcher now.
He drank some more. He felt marginally better.
Someone spoke to him. There was conversation. More beer was consumed, and it appeared to taste better than the previous glasses.
Then time passed.
Then Giles woke up.
*
There were positives: he was alive.
All right, there was one positive.
There were, however, a certain number of negatives. He appeared to have sustained some mild head trauma (an occupational hazard - he recognized the feel of a slight concussion all too well). He was naked, and there was no sign of his clothes. There were some signs that someone else had helped him to become naked (chief among them, the very substantial love-bite on his thigh. High on the thigh, he was dismayed to notice. As though something nearer the knee would have been more respectable.). And… well, there was a dead man in his bed.
Correction: in the bed. It wasn't Giles's bed. He had no idea where he was.
Further correction: dead demon. The glutinous liquid oozing from the corpse was silvery-brown. Not blood.
Giles mentally compared the demon's features - size of teeth, in particular - to the bite on his thigh. Broadly comparable. Not much conclusion to be drawn from that. He'd have liked to believe he was immune to demon wiles, but attractive men could get a long way with a drunken version of Rupert Giles, and he knew that all too well.
He could, in fact, remember the demon, now that he tried. He'd assumed it was a man, at the time. Whatever it was (some kind of bodysnatcher, probably), it did a good line in humanity. Attractive humanity, with a slightly wicked edge. A younger, well-hidden, version of Rupert Giles had stirred then. Not a good start to his Watcher's role, letting lust overtake his better judgment.
Ah.
Yes, not entirely lust. He could remember some tutting, in the bar. California it might be, but also a smallish town. He'd had a momentary impulse of show these bloody colonials how a liberal lives his life, the sort of incautious rant that only strikes after alcohol. The first kiss (yes, there had been kisses) had been ostentatious. And, he rather feared, his doing.
Not that the demon (had his name been Matt? Probably not, though it might have been the alias he gave Giles. Go with Matt for now, though)- Not that Matt had objected.
Rather the contrary. Giles, searching his patchy memories, recalled buying drinks, exchanging smiles, getting increasingly handy with each other. More kissing, with intent to enjoy rather than to make a point.
Oh.
It was just possible that Giles had been enchanted by this Matt-demon. Just possible. But what he could piece together seemed regrettably like most of the evenings he'd spent in his late twenties: after the mess with Randall, before he achieved full Watcher status. Rootless, pointless… over-sexed. Hmm. Not the most stellar qualities for his new role, guiding an unprepared Slayer through her first tremulous steps- Though, no. Not quite; she'd killed off one Watcher already. But still. Responsible adulthood was called for.
It wouldn't happen again.
Well, not with Matt, at least.
Giles reluctantly opened his eyes once more, and contemplated his almost-lover's corpse. He should probably be more perturbed to be so close to a dead body. But he'd done his time in disposals. Sometimes, demons died.
Sometimes demons died even though one might or might not have had sex with them. There was no point in sentimentality.
Giles's head was ringing horribly as he forced himself to move. Up from the bed. Over to the wardrobe, which provided some ill-fitting but barely viable clothing to cover his nudity. He felt better once he had some underpants.
Exactly what had happened to his clothes was a question without an answer. He had fairly clear memories of stumbling through the streets with Matt. However, they were also fairly clear about him having been fully clothed at the time. Shedding clothes once inside seemed plausible - but there was no sign of them in this room. Was there more to the apartment?
Giles cautiously tried a couple of doors. A bathroom. A really repellent kitchenette. And- ah, a shared hallway. Not quite ready for the outside world yet, he retreated to the studio apartment, with its waiting corpse. Hmm. Not an ideal swap, was it?
He sank down onto the bed next to Matt's body. There was no chance of passing this off as natural death. So Giles began the familiar rite: laying out the dead. Then saying the words of dispatch, and hoping this was one of those demons that would obligingly dissolve in mystic flame. It was.
Giles watched Matt burn.
He could remember some of the night, in patches. The smile on Matt's face as he knelt by the bed, waiting, as Giles stripped. Appreciative observation. (Still no clue where those clothes had gone - surely he hadn't thrown them out of the window? No other explanation presented itself.) Matt'd sucked that love-bite into Giles's thigh, while Giles begged him to move an inch to the left and fucking well suck, please. Unsubtle, Giles now felt. But it had been heartfelt at the time. The moment of relief when Matt did just that, followed by the horror as Giles looked down at the bobbing head, and saw the spines breaking through the nape of the neck, as Matt's demon lost focus on illusion.
The rest was confused. A memory of recoil, of groping for a weapon, of Matt's face collapsing into horrors, of smashing and smashing and being thrown against the wall (ah, that would explain the concussion), and Matt clattering him with the beside lamp (so might that, actually, it was heavy enough), and Giles groping for his jacket weaponry, and Matt (ahhhh, yessss, that explained it) grabbing all that he could of Giles's clothing and indeed throwing it out of the window, whimpering with fear at the single silvered blade Giles had managed to drag free, and then-
As Matt burned, as Giles watched, the silver blade in his heart began to melt. It had been a good strike, effective and true. A proper blow from a proper Watcher.
Damned improper, truth be told. Giles couldn’t tell whether it was the silver that had killed him, or the fact that relatively few creatures survived major cardiac attacks of any kind, correct metal or otherwise. Proper Watchers would know. Proper Watchers wouldn't half-fuck a demon in drunken fear. Proper Watchers wouldn't be sorry as their lovers burned.
He had to be a proper Watcher now. This was the last time. All tweed and respectability, from tomorrow.
*
This entry was originally posted at http://bruttimabuoni.dreamwidth.org/267646.html. You can comment here or there as you please!
Author Brutti ma buoni
Rating R (Giles/OMC, not very explicit)
Words 1200
Prompt For the Drunken Giles-athon: Pre Series. A dead demon, a mild concussion, and a... love-bite? Giles' first night in Sunnydale is memorable for a number of reasons. He just wishes he knew what they were...
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a Watcher upon taking up his first live field posting, must be in want of a drink.
Or, an it be told, several.
Rupert Giles was sitting in a godforsaken American bar, drinking what appeared to be lightly-tinted tap water. He was feeling somewhat nervous about his first day at work and his first meeting with the Slayer. He was trying to become used to thinking of himself as Mr Giles. No more self; be a Watcher now.
He drank some more. He felt marginally better.
Someone spoke to him. There was conversation. More beer was consumed, and it appeared to taste better than the previous glasses.
Then time passed.
Then Giles woke up.
*
There were positives: he was alive.
All right, there was one positive.
There were, however, a certain number of negatives. He appeared to have sustained some mild head trauma (an occupational hazard - he recognized the feel of a slight concussion all too well). He was naked, and there was no sign of his clothes. There were some signs that someone else had helped him to become naked (chief among them, the very substantial love-bite on his thigh. High on the thigh, he was dismayed to notice. As though something nearer the knee would have been more respectable.). And… well, there was a dead man in his bed.
Correction: in the bed. It wasn't Giles's bed. He had no idea where he was.
Further correction: dead demon. The glutinous liquid oozing from the corpse was silvery-brown. Not blood.
Giles mentally compared the demon's features - size of teeth, in particular - to the bite on his thigh. Broadly comparable. Not much conclusion to be drawn from that. He'd have liked to believe he was immune to demon wiles, but attractive men could get a long way with a drunken version of Rupert Giles, and he knew that all too well.
He could, in fact, remember the demon, now that he tried. He'd assumed it was a man, at the time. Whatever it was (some kind of bodysnatcher, probably), it did a good line in humanity. Attractive humanity, with a slightly wicked edge. A younger, well-hidden, version of Rupert Giles had stirred then. Not a good start to his Watcher's role, letting lust overtake his better judgment.
Ah.
Yes, not entirely lust. He could remember some tutting, in the bar. California it might be, but also a smallish town. He'd had a momentary impulse of show these bloody colonials how a liberal lives his life, the sort of incautious rant that only strikes after alcohol. The first kiss (yes, there had been kisses) had been ostentatious. And, he rather feared, his doing.
Not that the demon (had his name been Matt? Probably not, though it might have been the alias he gave Giles. Go with Matt for now, though)- Not that Matt had objected.
Rather the contrary. Giles, searching his patchy memories, recalled buying drinks, exchanging smiles, getting increasingly handy with each other. More kissing, with intent to enjoy rather than to make a point.
Oh.
It was just possible that Giles had been enchanted by this Matt-demon. Just possible. But what he could piece together seemed regrettably like most of the evenings he'd spent in his late twenties: after the mess with Randall, before he achieved full Watcher status. Rootless, pointless… over-sexed. Hmm. Not the most stellar qualities for his new role, guiding an unprepared Slayer through her first tremulous steps- Though, no. Not quite; she'd killed off one Watcher already. But still. Responsible adulthood was called for.
It wouldn't happen again.
Well, not with Matt, at least.
Giles reluctantly opened his eyes once more, and contemplated his almost-lover's corpse. He should probably be more perturbed to be so close to a dead body. But he'd done his time in disposals. Sometimes, demons died.
Sometimes demons died even though one might or might not have had sex with them. There was no point in sentimentality.
Giles's head was ringing horribly as he forced himself to move. Up from the bed. Over to the wardrobe, which provided some ill-fitting but barely viable clothing to cover his nudity. He felt better once he had some underpants.
Exactly what had happened to his clothes was a question without an answer. He had fairly clear memories of stumbling through the streets with Matt. However, they were also fairly clear about him having been fully clothed at the time. Shedding clothes once inside seemed plausible - but there was no sign of them in this room. Was there more to the apartment?
Giles cautiously tried a couple of doors. A bathroom. A really repellent kitchenette. And- ah, a shared hallway. Not quite ready for the outside world yet, he retreated to the studio apartment, with its waiting corpse. Hmm. Not an ideal swap, was it?
He sank down onto the bed next to Matt's body. There was no chance of passing this off as natural death. So Giles began the familiar rite: laying out the dead. Then saying the words of dispatch, and hoping this was one of those demons that would obligingly dissolve in mystic flame. It was.
Giles watched Matt burn.
He could remember some of the night, in patches. The smile on Matt's face as he knelt by the bed, waiting, as Giles stripped. Appreciative observation. (Still no clue where those clothes had gone - surely he hadn't thrown them out of the window? No other explanation presented itself.) Matt'd sucked that love-bite into Giles's thigh, while Giles begged him to move an inch to the left and fucking well suck, please. Unsubtle, Giles now felt. But it had been heartfelt at the time. The moment of relief when Matt did just that, followed by the horror as Giles looked down at the bobbing head, and saw the spines breaking through the nape of the neck, as Matt's demon lost focus on illusion.
The rest was confused. A memory of recoil, of groping for a weapon, of Matt's face collapsing into horrors, of smashing and smashing and being thrown against the wall (ah, that would explain the concussion), and Matt clattering him with the beside lamp (so might that, actually, it was heavy enough), and Giles groping for his jacket weaponry, and Matt (ahhhh, yessss, that explained it) grabbing all that he could of Giles's clothing and indeed throwing it out of the window, whimpering with fear at the single silvered blade Giles had managed to drag free, and then-
As Matt burned, as Giles watched, the silver blade in his heart began to melt. It had been a good strike, effective and true. A proper blow from a proper Watcher.
Damned improper, truth be told. Giles couldn’t tell whether it was the silver that had killed him, or the fact that relatively few creatures survived major cardiac attacks of any kind, correct metal or otherwise. Proper Watchers would know. Proper Watchers wouldn't half-fuck a demon in drunken fear. Proper Watchers wouldn't be sorry as their lovers burned.
He had to be a proper Watcher now. This was the last time. All tweed and respectability, from tomorrow.
*
This entry was originally posted at http://bruttimabuoni.dreamwidth.org/267646.html. You can comment here or there as you please!