a day behind already...
Dec. 8th, 2005 08:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
anotherusedpageWarnings for hott men in bed together, and reference to (canon) non-con.
He was the last person I’d expected to see when I went to answer the doorbell. For a moment, despite the trench coat, the air of mystery and the trade-mark cocky grin, I don’t believe it’s him. I stand in the doorway, the door only half open, and stare at him stupidly.
‘You came back!’ I hear myself saying. ‘I… I wasn’t sure you would, you know.’
I reach out and touch his shoulder. He clasps my hand with a broad smile.
‘Are you going to let me in, then?’
Just for a moment, I’m scared that something’s gone badly wrong, that he’s having to ask to be invited in. But I quickly realise that I’m blocking the doorway.
‘Of course, John. Sorry. I don’t seem to be very with it today.’
I step aside, and he walks calmly into my house, and back into my life, just as if he hasn’t been gone all these months.
But… I’m still sure there’s something wrong. He looks terrible. There are dark shadows under his eyes, as though he hasn’t slept in months, and his eyes are darting with fear, or guilt, or, knowing Constantine, possibly both.
‘You look rough. Is everything all right?’
He laughs slightly.
‘I’m fine, would you believe? Not in any trouble at all. I just… I thought I’d drop by for some company.’ He shrugs.
‘Oh. Well. Good.’ I say, wincing at my sudden inarticulateness. ‘Sit down, John. Do you want some tea?’
‘God, Giles, do you have proper English tea?’ I nod, and he sighs with satisfaction. ‘I think I love you!’
I still know how he takes his tea. Stupid really, but it’s so easy to remember the little things…
… Like the quirk of his mouth when he laughs arrogantly at his own daring. Like the desperation shining in his bright blue eyes when he can’t bare to face his own vulnerability…
Yes, it’s the little things I notice most.
‘What have you been doing with yourself, then?’ I ask him, sitting down opposite him and putting the tea on the table.
‘What, since I last saw you? I spent a few months in a federal jail charged with first-degree murder. But they let me out,’ he shrugs with feigned nonchalance. I raise an eyebrow, but don’t bother asking. If he’s not going to tell me more, I’m probably better off knowing. ‘Then I met up with an old flame… which is never a good idea…’ I wince and look down, but I don’t think he’s noticed. ‘Now, well, I’m on my way back to England. I thought I’d drop in on you before I left this miserable little country.’
‘America may be many things, John, but little it is not.’
‘Then you agree it’s miserable?’ he says with a slightly smug grin. I sigh.
‘Pretty miserable, sometimes.’ I admit quietly. ‘To tell you the truth, I’ve been thinking of going back to London myself.’
He looks up.
‘Really?’ he asks – and is that hope in his eyes? ‘What about your slayer?’
‘She’s not my slayer, John. Buffy’s growing up. She needs her independence…’
‘Oh dear, Giles,’ he says with mock seriousness. ‘We are getting old.’
I look him up and down. He does look older. There’s even a hint of grey in his wild blond hair.
‘I like your hair short, by the way,’ I say before I can stop myself. ‘I don’t think I told you that when you were here before.’ It’s my turn for an ironic smile. ‘Other things on my mind.’
He grins. ‘I don’t think anyone’s ever said that before,’ he says, unconsciously running his hands through his hair. ‘And I’ve had it short since the early nineteen-seventies…’
I smile. He smiles back, and then suddenly looks away.
‘Giles?’ he says hesitantly.
‘What is it, John?’
There’s a long pause. Then he suddenly bursts out with: ‘Have I ever told you how much I hate your name?’ I stare at him. ‘Well, Rupert’s such a silly name,’ he continues, ‘But I hate calling you by your last name! It’s too bloody formal! And Ripper… well, Ripper’s long gone,’ he trails off.
‘Everyone calls me Giles, now,’ I say. ‘It’s not formal, it’s just… it’s just a name, John.’ He stares at his tea. There’s a long, awkward silence.
‘That wasn’t really what you were trying to say, was it?’ I prompt. He sighs.
‘No, you’re right, as bloody usual. What I was actually trying to say was…’ he takes a deep breath. ‘I need to talk to you about something Ethan said,’ he says very quickly and quietly.
‘Why? What’s that bloody fool been up to now?’
‘Not something he said recently, Giles. Something he said in Oxford.’
I don’t know what to say. I really wonder where this is leading… and I have to admit I’m not sure I want to know. Oxford was a long time ago, and most of the time, especially the parts with John in, I try not to remember
‘Look, I don’t…’
‘Were you sleeping with him?’ Constantine interrupts suddenly, bluntly.
I look away. I really don’t want to be having this conversation. What there was between me and Ethan… well, it isn’t exactly something I’m proud of. And I really don’t know why John’s dragging it up again after all this time… although I suspect he has his reasons.
‘Yeah. On and off,’ I say awkwardly. He smiles a grim smile.
‘I’ve always suspected, you know. Even at the time, I wondered about you two.’ Cocky as always. I can’t meet his eyes.
‘Look, Giles, he said… at the time… he said…’
And suddenly I know what he’s going to say. I catch my breath.
‘Hell, why am I so bad at this?’ Constantine says with a slightly strained laugh. Then he looks up. ‘He said, or at least he implied, that you… you wanted me.’
I look up at him. I don’t want to meet his eyes, but can’t stop myself. And… I can’t read him. His face is blank. But he’s watching me carefully. And I’ve got this god-awful suspicion that everything I’ve ever thought or felt is written all over my face.
Well. There’s no point denying anything, then. And anyway… I trust him. It’s stupid, everything about him screams of untrustworthiness. And he’s let me down badly before. But still. I trust him. And there’s no point in denying it anymore.
‘I… I did, John. I think… I think I loved you,’ I say.
‘Loved me,’ he echoes. There’s silence. I can’t look at him.
‘Which, of course, changes everything,’ I say bitterly. He shakes his head slowly.
‘Some things never change.’ He stares at the floor. ‘You loved me. Fuck. You loved me. And… it changes nothing.’ He stares at his fingers. I stare at the floor. ‘I still let you down,’ he finishes softly. His eyes flicker, and his mouth is taut with unsaid words, but he doesn’t look up.
‘Look, where’s all this leading?’ I burst out after another long, awkward moment. ‘What do you want me to say, John? What do you want from me? Why… why now, John? Why after all these years?’ If I were the angry, confused young man I once was, I’d be yelling at him by now. As it is, I take off my glasses, pass a hand in front of my eyes. John looks up at me, looks away quickly, closes his eyes.
‘Look, Giles,’ he mutters. He opens his eyes, looks up, looks me squarely in the eyes. I want to turn away but somehow I can’t. ‘Giles… something happened to me recently…’ he goes on, ‘And I had to… well, ask myself some questions.’
He’s finding it hard to put himself into words, and suddenly I can’t be angry and I can’t be upset. All I can be is concerned.
‘Have you been having a rough time of it, then?’ I ask gently. He sighs.
‘Always,’ he says. He closes his eyes, and then frowns slightly. ‘Don’t try to change the subject on me. I’m finding this hard enough as it is.’
‘Sorry, John.’
He’s suddenly very interested in his tea.
I really wish I was sitting closer to him. Sitting opposite him like this means that he can read every flicker of emotion that passes across my face. He’s jumpy. I want to touch his shoulder before he works himself up to be too awkward to let me.
I pick up my half finished cup of tea and carry it out to the kitchen. He almost stands up and follows me out, but then changes his mind.
‘Want anything?’ I call.
‘I’m all right,’ he answers. ‘You don’t mind if I smoke?’
‘Course not. Go ahead.’
I come back through into the main room, and sit down on the sofa next to him. He’s a little surprised, but he quickly relaxes. If he’s uncomfortable with the closeness, he’s got enough sense to realise that it’s less awkward than the forced eye-contact.
‘You had some questions for me?’ I ask him, suddenly feeling like I’m talking to Buffy. It’s a strange feeling when people think you know what you’re talking about. Makes me feel both powerful and also a little intimidated. And it’s bad enough when it’s Buffy, but with John… it’s stranger than I’m comfortable with. He always seems to know more than me about everything. And he’s far more powerful than I ever could be. But he still comes to me for advice. I suppose I should be honoured, really. But I’m not. What I am is… confused.
‘Do you think it’s possible to love both men and women?’ he asks suddenly. I look up at him slightly strangely.
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Look, I know you don’t want to be having this conversation much, but there’s some stuff I need to get sorted in my head. You can tell me to stop bugging you if you want.’
I laugh.
‘You’re not bugging me yet, John. It’s just… well, it’s a while since anyone made me talk about my feelings. I didn’t think you were the type.’
‘Neither did I,’ he says with a half laugh. Then he looks away.
‘I’ve loved both men and women, John,’ I tell him. He nods silently, and then looks up at me. He doesn’t know what to ask next. The words are half-choking him, and he shakes his head, furious with himself.
‘It’s all right, John,’ I say. ‘Come here…’ He moves a little closer, still awkward, and then suddenly he gives in and leans his head on my shoulder. His fists are clenched and his eyes screwed closed, but he’s not crying. Thank god, because I’m not sure I’d have been able to cope with it. Not Constantine. It would be just… wrong. I wrap my arms around him, bring up a hand to stroke his hair, and gradually he relaxes. His fists unclench, and he leans his head against my shoulder.
‘Sorry,’ he says after a moment. I know how much he hates going to pieces like that. It scares him. I
touch his face gently.
‘Don’t, John. There’s nothing to be sorry for.’ He looks up, and suddenly he’s gazing straight into my eyes. Neither of us can bear to be the first to look away, and it’s… intense. I can feel him getting uncomfortable again.
And then, suddenly, he seems to have made up his mind.
‘Damn it!’ he says, sick of the awkwardness, and, always a man of actions, he leans towards me. Just at the last instant he hesitates, still unsure, but I’ve already leaned in to meet the kiss, and our lips touch.
It’s brief, and bittersweet. He pulls away, and his breathing is out of control.
‘Does that answer your question?’ I manage.
‘Fuck, yes.’ His voice is thick.
We swap the tea for whiskey. Our hands keep touching, sparks of magic passing between us, crackling
through the air like static electricity, but different. We talk, about nothing of consequence. There’s tension in the air, but we both try to ignore it. He chain-smokes until he’s out of cigarettes, and after that we can both pretend that it’s the lack of nicotine making his hands shake.
When the whiskey is gone he follows me upstairs to the bedroom. We both know where this is going. My heart is pounding, and somewhere at the back of my head, I wonder if this is a good idea. But I know I will go through with it, good idea or no. After all these years, how could I not?
It’s endearing how nervous he is.
‘Relax, John,’ I say with a smile. He leans his head against my arm and smiles slightly, but he hardly relaxes at all.
‘Sorry…’ he murmurs.
‘Don’t. It’s fine.’ I touch his face, and he leans into my hand. ‘You’ve never done this before, right?’ I ask, giving him permission for his nervousness. He grits his teeth and looks away, and I curse silently, worried I’ve said the wrong thing.
But no, it’s something more than that. He won’t meet my eyes, but I get the distinct impression he’s trying to screw up the courage to tell me something. His eyes are full of self-loathing and fear.
‘I’ve… I’ve never been with another man before… willingly…’ he chokes out eventually.
‘God, John, no!’ And suddenly in my mind, there’s a picture of him as a teenager, long haired, wide eyed, bloody well innocent. I always knew he hadn’t been innocent for long. I’d assumed he’d thrown it all away, the wide-eyed smiling boy I’ve seen in photographs, or occasionally when he’s asleep... but… god.
Suddenly he’s shaking. He wraps his arms around himself and turns away. I reach out hesitantly and touch his shoulder.
‘What… what happened? I mean… if you don’t want to tell me…’
‘No,’ he says through gritted teeth. ‘I do want to tell you. But…’
But once again, he can’t find the words. After a moment, he gives up and leans his head back against my shoulder. I wrap my arms around him, and he closes his eyes.
‘Giles, I…’
And suddenly it hits me. Not the long haired teenager after all. This is something else. This is where all the questioning has come from.
This is why he’s sought me out now. I catch my breath. He can’t even speak, and he shudders under my touch.
‘It was recently, yes?’ I prompt gently. He nods wearily.
‘Yeah. A… an old friend of mine. Two, in fact. They… they drugged me.’ He buries his face in his hands. ‘I was pretty out of it. But… it was videoed.’
For a moment, he looks like he’s about to be sick. He closes his eyes and swallows hard. ‘I’ve… I’ve seen the tape…’ he says eventually, his voice carefully blank.
‘Oh Jesus Christ, John!’
He shrugs.
‘It… it could have been a lot worse,’ he says tonelessly. ‘They didn’t hurt me too badly…’
He trails off with a grimace. Then he looks straight up at me.
‘I had him killed,’ he says, his face unreadable.
‘He bloody deserved it!’ I snarl. He shakes his head dully.
‘I’m not so sure any more. I was… I dunno. My judgement was shot to pieces. I think I made some bad mistakes.’ He falls silent for a moment, and then looks away. ‘But the thing is… the thing that really made me think… was that afterwards, they kept claiming that I’d enjoyed it.’ He looks up at me. ‘I didn’t!’ he insists.
‘Of course you didn’t!’ I burst out, horrified.
‘Let me finish,’ he says. ‘You see, the thing is… the thing is…’ he breaks off, still struggling to find the words. ‘I started to think… what if… what if that was someone I trusted? What if it was someone I cared about?’
Suddenly he reaches out and touches my face, gently, almost tenderly. It shocks me.
‘And I started thinking about what Ethan had said…’ he continues. ‘And I realised…’ he swallows hard again. ‘I realised that I wanted…’ He shuts his eyes, and shakes his head, smiling slightly. ‘I never was very good with words,’ he says.
And then he leans in and kisses me.
And suddenly it’s easy. The tension’s gone. He relaxes in my arms, buries his face against my chest, and I lean down and kiss the top of his head, and he’s clinging to me, closer than he’s ever been before. I can feel rough stubble and soft blond hair against my bare skin, and hot breath, and I fling my arm across his chest.
‘I want this,’ he says, almost to himself. ‘I want you. Giles, I… I think I love you…’
It’s not often that you get a lifelong fantasy come true. When I was a teenager, I used to imagine him saying those words, and burying his face in my chest like this and being so close. Vulnerable, that’s the way he always was in my dreams. Not grinning his trade-mark cocky grin, but clinging to me, unsure, hesitant. In my mind’s eye, this scene has happened a thousand times before. There are differences, of course. Maybe the most obvious one is age. In the fantasy, he never had the sprinkling of grey hair, of course, or the lines of guilt and worry etched into his forehead.
I always wanted him vulnerable, unsure. But now I can’t bare it. He’s aged, but more than that, he seems… broken, almost. Defeated. No one could defeat John, could they? He’s always bounced back. I hold him against my chest and wonder why I’m not surprised that the dream-come-true is bittersweet.
And I haven’t said it back. I can’t. It’s… it’s too complicated. I loved him. I know I loved him. And being here like this… I feel eighteen again. I want him. I want the danger and the power, and the lack of responsibility. But I can’t have it. I’m not sure I can have any of it.
I think I love you… So hesitant. So unsure. And I… I think I love him too. Or… no, maybe that’s the problem. I don’t think. I feel. I feel I love him. I feel it so strongly that I want to let him bury his face in my chest and never let go.
But I’m not a teenager anymore. I should think. I have to think. Glasses and library books… I’m not a man ruled by the heart. Even if I once was, I’m not now. I think of Jenny and my throat closes. Then I think of Ethan, and I almost pull away. The heart betrays you.
I can’t say it. I think I love you. I feel I love you. I love you. The words are too complicated. Too simple. Black and white. Right and wrong. Love and hate. John always blurred the edges.
This is what I’ve always wanted. But I don’t know if I should. I don’t know if I can….
‘Ripper?’ he says, then shakes his head, corrects himself. ‘Rupert? Giles?’
‘Sorry, John,’ I murmur, holding him close against my chest. ‘I…’ The words stick. I can’t say it. I’m not even sure I can think it. I touch the side of his face and pull him into a gentle kiss. I feel rather than see him smile, and he responds, deepening the kiss, intensifying it. He may be unsure, but here he’s on familiar ground. He’s a ladies’ man, and it shows; the kiss is more possessive, more controlling, more… masculine than almost any other I’ve shared with a man. He tastes of silk-cut and whisky and magic, of course.
Perhaps he’s expecting me to back down, to let him feel in control, but my automatic reaction is to fight fire with fire. I stop playing gentle, and my hands come up to tangle in his hair. After a while he gasps and pulls away.
‘Wow,’ he murmurs.
‘I love you, John Constantine.’ The words are torn from me. I can’t hold them back. And as soon as they’re out, they have power, like words of binding in a summoning spell. I love you, John Constantine. So mote it be.
***
Fandoms: Hellblazer and Buffy. Set immediately pre 'Once More With Feeling' in the Buffy-verse, and after 'Good Intentions' but before the Big Gay Hellblazer that I suddenly can't remember the title of.
Disclaimer: Giles belongs to Joss and people. Constantine belongs to Vertigo.
AN: This one was also written... years ago, as a sequel to In Over My Head, the first piece of fanfic I ever posted; it was the beginning of an epic that was going to involve Constantine doing inappropriate magic with Willow and getting into large amounts of trouble...
He was the last person I’d expected to see when I went to answer the doorbell. For a moment, despite the trench coat, the air of mystery and the trade-mark cocky grin, I don’t believe it’s him. I stand in the doorway, the door only half open, and stare at him stupidly.
‘You came back!’ I hear myself saying. ‘I… I wasn’t sure you would, you know.’
I reach out and touch his shoulder. He clasps my hand with a broad smile.
‘Are you going to let me in, then?’
Just for a moment, I’m scared that something’s gone badly wrong, that he’s having to ask to be invited in. But I quickly realise that I’m blocking the doorway.
‘Of course, John. Sorry. I don’t seem to be very with it today.’
I step aside, and he walks calmly into my house, and back into my life, just as if he hasn’t been gone all these months.
But… I’m still sure there’s something wrong. He looks terrible. There are dark shadows under his eyes, as though he hasn’t slept in months, and his eyes are darting with fear, or guilt, or, knowing Constantine, possibly both.
‘You look rough. Is everything all right?’
He laughs slightly.
‘I’m fine, would you believe? Not in any trouble at all. I just… I thought I’d drop by for some company.’ He shrugs.
‘Oh. Well. Good.’ I say, wincing at my sudden inarticulateness. ‘Sit down, John. Do you want some tea?’
‘God, Giles, do you have proper English tea?’ I nod, and he sighs with satisfaction. ‘I think I love you!’
I still know how he takes his tea. Stupid really, but it’s so easy to remember the little things…
… Like the quirk of his mouth when he laughs arrogantly at his own daring. Like the desperation shining in his bright blue eyes when he can’t bare to face his own vulnerability…
Yes, it’s the little things I notice most.
‘What have you been doing with yourself, then?’ I ask him, sitting down opposite him and putting the tea on the table.
‘What, since I last saw you? I spent a few months in a federal jail charged with first-degree murder. But they let me out,’ he shrugs with feigned nonchalance. I raise an eyebrow, but don’t bother asking. If he’s not going to tell me more, I’m probably better off knowing. ‘Then I met up with an old flame… which is never a good idea…’ I wince and look down, but I don’t think he’s noticed. ‘Now, well, I’m on my way back to England. I thought I’d drop in on you before I left this miserable little country.’
‘America may be many things, John, but little it is not.’
‘Then you agree it’s miserable?’ he says with a slightly smug grin. I sigh.
‘Pretty miserable, sometimes.’ I admit quietly. ‘To tell you the truth, I’ve been thinking of going back to London myself.’
He looks up.
‘Really?’ he asks – and is that hope in his eyes? ‘What about your slayer?’
‘She’s not my slayer, John. Buffy’s growing up. She needs her independence…’
‘Oh dear, Giles,’ he says with mock seriousness. ‘We are getting old.’
I look him up and down. He does look older. There’s even a hint of grey in his wild blond hair.
‘I like your hair short, by the way,’ I say before I can stop myself. ‘I don’t think I told you that when you were here before.’ It’s my turn for an ironic smile. ‘Other things on my mind.’
He grins. ‘I don’t think anyone’s ever said that before,’ he says, unconsciously running his hands through his hair. ‘And I’ve had it short since the early nineteen-seventies…’
I smile. He smiles back, and then suddenly looks away.
‘Giles?’ he says hesitantly.
‘What is it, John?’
There’s a long pause. Then he suddenly bursts out with: ‘Have I ever told you how much I hate your name?’ I stare at him. ‘Well, Rupert’s such a silly name,’ he continues, ‘But I hate calling you by your last name! It’s too bloody formal! And Ripper… well, Ripper’s long gone,’ he trails off.
‘Everyone calls me Giles, now,’ I say. ‘It’s not formal, it’s just… it’s just a name, John.’ He stares at his tea. There’s a long, awkward silence.
‘That wasn’t really what you were trying to say, was it?’ I prompt. He sighs.
‘No, you’re right, as bloody usual. What I was actually trying to say was…’ he takes a deep breath. ‘I need to talk to you about something Ethan said,’ he says very quickly and quietly.
‘Why? What’s that bloody fool been up to now?’
‘Not something he said recently, Giles. Something he said in Oxford.’
I don’t know what to say. I really wonder where this is leading… and I have to admit I’m not sure I want to know. Oxford was a long time ago, and most of the time, especially the parts with John in, I try not to remember
‘Look, I don’t…’
‘Were you sleeping with him?’ Constantine interrupts suddenly, bluntly.
I look away. I really don’t want to be having this conversation. What there was between me and Ethan… well, it isn’t exactly something I’m proud of. And I really don’t know why John’s dragging it up again after all this time… although I suspect he has his reasons.
‘Yeah. On and off,’ I say awkwardly. He smiles a grim smile.
‘I’ve always suspected, you know. Even at the time, I wondered about you two.’ Cocky as always. I can’t meet his eyes.
‘Look, Giles, he said… at the time… he said…’
And suddenly I know what he’s going to say. I catch my breath.
‘Hell, why am I so bad at this?’ Constantine says with a slightly strained laugh. Then he looks up. ‘He said, or at least he implied, that you… you wanted me.’
I look up at him. I don’t want to meet his eyes, but can’t stop myself. And… I can’t read him. His face is blank. But he’s watching me carefully. And I’ve got this god-awful suspicion that everything I’ve ever thought or felt is written all over my face.
Well. There’s no point denying anything, then. And anyway… I trust him. It’s stupid, everything about him screams of untrustworthiness. And he’s let me down badly before. But still. I trust him. And there’s no point in denying it anymore.
‘I… I did, John. I think… I think I loved you,’ I say.
‘Loved me,’ he echoes. There’s silence. I can’t look at him.
‘Which, of course, changes everything,’ I say bitterly. He shakes his head slowly.
‘Some things never change.’ He stares at the floor. ‘You loved me. Fuck. You loved me. And… it changes nothing.’ He stares at his fingers. I stare at the floor. ‘I still let you down,’ he finishes softly. His eyes flicker, and his mouth is taut with unsaid words, but he doesn’t look up.
‘Look, where’s all this leading?’ I burst out after another long, awkward moment. ‘What do you want me to say, John? What do you want from me? Why… why now, John? Why after all these years?’ If I were the angry, confused young man I once was, I’d be yelling at him by now. As it is, I take off my glasses, pass a hand in front of my eyes. John looks up at me, looks away quickly, closes his eyes.
‘Look, Giles,’ he mutters. He opens his eyes, looks up, looks me squarely in the eyes. I want to turn away but somehow I can’t. ‘Giles… something happened to me recently…’ he goes on, ‘And I had to… well, ask myself some questions.’
He’s finding it hard to put himself into words, and suddenly I can’t be angry and I can’t be upset. All I can be is concerned.
‘Have you been having a rough time of it, then?’ I ask gently. He sighs.
‘Always,’ he says. He closes his eyes, and then frowns slightly. ‘Don’t try to change the subject on me. I’m finding this hard enough as it is.’
‘Sorry, John.’
He’s suddenly very interested in his tea.
I really wish I was sitting closer to him. Sitting opposite him like this means that he can read every flicker of emotion that passes across my face. He’s jumpy. I want to touch his shoulder before he works himself up to be too awkward to let me.
I pick up my half finished cup of tea and carry it out to the kitchen. He almost stands up and follows me out, but then changes his mind.
‘Want anything?’ I call.
‘I’m all right,’ he answers. ‘You don’t mind if I smoke?’
‘Course not. Go ahead.’
I come back through into the main room, and sit down on the sofa next to him. He’s a little surprised, but he quickly relaxes. If he’s uncomfortable with the closeness, he’s got enough sense to realise that it’s less awkward than the forced eye-contact.
‘You had some questions for me?’ I ask him, suddenly feeling like I’m talking to Buffy. It’s a strange feeling when people think you know what you’re talking about. Makes me feel both powerful and also a little intimidated. And it’s bad enough when it’s Buffy, but with John… it’s stranger than I’m comfortable with. He always seems to know more than me about everything. And he’s far more powerful than I ever could be. But he still comes to me for advice. I suppose I should be honoured, really. But I’m not. What I am is… confused.
‘Do you think it’s possible to love both men and women?’ he asks suddenly. I look up at him slightly strangely.
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Look, I know you don’t want to be having this conversation much, but there’s some stuff I need to get sorted in my head. You can tell me to stop bugging you if you want.’
I laugh.
‘You’re not bugging me yet, John. It’s just… well, it’s a while since anyone made me talk about my feelings. I didn’t think you were the type.’
‘Neither did I,’ he says with a half laugh. Then he looks away.
‘I’ve loved both men and women, John,’ I tell him. He nods silently, and then looks up at me. He doesn’t know what to ask next. The words are half-choking him, and he shakes his head, furious with himself.
‘It’s all right, John,’ I say. ‘Come here…’ He moves a little closer, still awkward, and then suddenly he gives in and leans his head on my shoulder. His fists are clenched and his eyes screwed closed, but he’s not crying. Thank god, because I’m not sure I’d have been able to cope with it. Not Constantine. It would be just… wrong. I wrap my arms around him, bring up a hand to stroke his hair, and gradually he relaxes. His fists unclench, and he leans his head against my shoulder.
‘Sorry,’ he says after a moment. I know how much he hates going to pieces like that. It scares him. I
touch his face gently.
‘Don’t, John. There’s nothing to be sorry for.’ He looks up, and suddenly he’s gazing straight into my eyes. Neither of us can bear to be the first to look away, and it’s… intense. I can feel him getting uncomfortable again.
And then, suddenly, he seems to have made up his mind.
‘Damn it!’ he says, sick of the awkwardness, and, always a man of actions, he leans towards me. Just at the last instant he hesitates, still unsure, but I’ve already leaned in to meet the kiss, and our lips touch.
It’s brief, and bittersweet. He pulls away, and his breathing is out of control.
‘Does that answer your question?’ I manage.
‘Fuck, yes.’ His voice is thick.
We swap the tea for whiskey. Our hands keep touching, sparks of magic passing between us, crackling
through the air like static electricity, but different. We talk, about nothing of consequence. There’s tension in the air, but we both try to ignore it. He chain-smokes until he’s out of cigarettes, and after that we can both pretend that it’s the lack of nicotine making his hands shake.
When the whiskey is gone he follows me upstairs to the bedroom. We both know where this is going. My heart is pounding, and somewhere at the back of my head, I wonder if this is a good idea. But I know I will go through with it, good idea or no. After all these years, how could I not?
It’s endearing how nervous he is.
‘Relax, John,’ I say with a smile. He leans his head against my arm and smiles slightly, but he hardly relaxes at all.
‘Sorry…’ he murmurs.
‘Don’t. It’s fine.’ I touch his face, and he leans into my hand. ‘You’ve never done this before, right?’ I ask, giving him permission for his nervousness. He grits his teeth and looks away, and I curse silently, worried I’ve said the wrong thing.
But no, it’s something more than that. He won’t meet my eyes, but I get the distinct impression he’s trying to screw up the courage to tell me something. His eyes are full of self-loathing and fear.
‘I’ve… I’ve never been with another man before… willingly…’ he chokes out eventually.
‘God, John, no!’ And suddenly in my mind, there’s a picture of him as a teenager, long haired, wide eyed, bloody well innocent. I always knew he hadn’t been innocent for long. I’d assumed he’d thrown it all away, the wide-eyed smiling boy I’ve seen in photographs, or occasionally when he’s asleep... but… god.
Suddenly he’s shaking. He wraps his arms around himself and turns away. I reach out hesitantly and touch his shoulder.
‘What… what happened? I mean… if you don’t want to tell me…’
‘No,’ he says through gritted teeth. ‘I do want to tell you. But…’
But once again, he can’t find the words. After a moment, he gives up and leans his head back against my shoulder. I wrap my arms around him, and he closes his eyes.
‘Giles, I…’
And suddenly it hits me. Not the long haired teenager after all. This is something else. This is where all the questioning has come from.
This is why he’s sought me out now. I catch my breath. He can’t even speak, and he shudders under my touch.
‘It was recently, yes?’ I prompt gently. He nods wearily.
‘Yeah. A… an old friend of mine. Two, in fact. They… they drugged me.’ He buries his face in his hands. ‘I was pretty out of it. But… it was videoed.’
For a moment, he looks like he’s about to be sick. He closes his eyes and swallows hard. ‘I’ve… I’ve seen the tape…’ he says eventually, his voice carefully blank.
‘Oh Jesus Christ, John!’
He shrugs.
‘It… it could have been a lot worse,’ he says tonelessly. ‘They didn’t hurt me too badly…’
He trails off with a grimace. Then he looks straight up at me.
‘I had him killed,’ he says, his face unreadable.
‘He bloody deserved it!’ I snarl. He shakes his head dully.
‘I’m not so sure any more. I was… I dunno. My judgement was shot to pieces. I think I made some bad mistakes.’ He falls silent for a moment, and then looks away. ‘But the thing is… the thing that really made me think… was that afterwards, they kept claiming that I’d enjoyed it.’ He looks up at me. ‘I didn’t!’ he insists.
‘Of course you didn’t!’ I burst out, horrified.
‘Let me finish,’ he says. ‘You see, the thing is… the thing is…’ he breaks off, still struggling to find the words. ‘I started to think… what if… what if that was someone I trusted? What if it was someone I cared about?’
Suddenly he reaches out and touches my face, gently, almost tenderly. It shocks me.
‘And I started thinking about what Ethan had said…’ he continues. ‘And I realised…’ he swallows hard again. ‘I realised that I wanted…’ He shuts his eyes, and shakes his head, smiling slightly. ‘I never was very good with words,’ he says.
And then he leans in and kisses me.
And suddenly it’s easy. The tension’s gone. He relaxes in my arms, buries his face against my chest, and I lean down and kiss the top of his head, and he’s clinging to me, closer than he’s ever been before. I can feel rough stubble and soft blond hair against my bare skin, and hot breath, and I fling my arm across his chest.
‘I want this,’ he says, almost to himself. ‘I want you. Giles, I… I think I love you…’
It’s not often that you get a lifelong fantasy come true. When I was a teenager, I used to imagine him saying those words, and burying his face in my chest like this and being so close. Vulnerable, that’s the way he always was in my dreams. Not grinning his trade-mark cocky grin, but clinging to me, unsure, hesitant. In my mind’s eye, this scene has happened a thousand times before. There are differences, of course. Maybe the most obvious one is age. In the fantasy, he never had the sprinkling of grey hair, of course, or the lines of guilt and worry etched into his forehead.
I always wanted him vulnerable, unsure. But now I can’t bare it. He’s aged, but more than that, he seems… broken, almost. Defeated. No one could defeat John, could they? He’s always bounced back. I hold him against my chest and wonder why I’m not surprised that the dream-come-true is bittersweet.
And I haven’t said it back. I can’t. It’s… it’s too complicated. I loved him. I know I loved him. And being here like this… I feel eighteen again. I want him. I want the danger and the power, and the lack of responsibility. But I can’t have it. I’m not sure I can have any of it.
I think I love you… So hesitant. So unsure. And I… I think I love him too. Or… no, maybe that’s the problem. I don’t think. I feel. I feel I love him. I feel it so strongly that I want to let him bury his face in my chest and never let go.
But I’m not a teenager anymore. I should think. I have to think. Glasses and library books… I’m not a man ruled by the heart. Even if I once was, I’m not now. I think of Jenny and my throat closes. Then I think of Ethan, and I almost pull away. The heart betrays you.
I can’t say it. I think I love you. I feel I love you. I love you. The words are too complicated. Too simple. Black and white. Right and wrong. Love and hate. John always blurred the edges.
This is what I’ve always wanted. But I don’t know if I should. I don’t know if I can….
‘Ripper?’ he says, then shakes his head, corrects himself. ‘Rupert? Giles?’
‘Sorry, John,’ I murmur, holding him close against my chest. ‘I…’ The words stick. I can’t say it. I’m not even sure I can think it. I touch the side of his face and pull him into a gentle kiss. I feel rather than see him smile, and he responds, deepening the kiss, intensifying it. He may be unsure, but here he’s on familiar ground. He’s a ladies’ man, and it shows; the kiss is more possessive, more controlling, more… masculine than almost any other I’ve shared with a man. He tastes of silk-cut and whisky and magic, of course.
Perhaps he’s expecting me to back down, to let him feel in control, but my automatic reaction is to fight fire with fire. I stop playing gentle, and my hands come up to tangle in his hair. After a while he gasps and pulls away.
‘Wow,’ he murmurs.
‘I love you, John Constantine.’ The words are torn from me. I can’t hold them back. And as soon as they’re out, they have power, like words of binding in a summoning spell. I love you, John Constantine. So mote it be.
***
Fandoms: Hellblazer and Buffy. Set immediately pre 'Once More With Feeling' in the Buffy-verse, and after 'Good Intentions' but before the Big Gay Hellblazer that I suddenly can't remember the title of.
Disclaimer: Giles belongs to Joss and people. Constantine belongs to Vertigo.
AN: This one was also written... years ago, as a sequel to In Over My Head, the first piece of fanfic I ever posted; it was the beginning of an epic that was going to involve Constantine doing inappropriate magic with Willow and getting into large amounts of trouble...
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Date: 2005-12-09 11:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-12-09 11:53 pm (UTC)