Part two of the coda. Nearly done.
Slowly he went to the bedroom where he'd left Giles. A knock on the door brought no answer, and he peeked in cautiously. Clothes lay on the floor in a trail leading to the bathroom, where the shower was running. Ethan went to the closed door of the bathroom and listened. Beneath the sound of water, he thought he heard crying.
Damned proper upbringing, mustn't show your pain where anyone can see it. No, have to hide in corners, disguise the tears under something else. Ethan wondered if those children in Sunnydale had ever been allowed to see the tears. As many battles as they'd fought, he imagined they had. But he wasn't allowed to see them anymore. He was no longer worthy. And so his oldest ... friend huddled in the shower and suffered alone.
"Bugger that," he muttered, and he yanked his shirt over his head.
He knocked on the bathroom door briefly, in warning, then slipped inside. The room was full of steam. Behind the shower door, Giles was straightening from leaning against the wall, his back to Ethan.
"Yes?" he said, his voice thick.
Ethan didn't bother answering, just pulled open the shower door and stepped in.
Giles stared at him, shocked. "I beg your pardon!"
"Rupert, hush." Ethan closed the shower, then just looked at Giles a moment before resting a careful hand on his face.
Without his glasses, Giles' eyes had no defenses. The outrage faded quickly, showing the shock and pain. He tried to hold on to the bluster, but he only got halfway through a babbled command for Ethan to leave before his voice cracked and he had to drop his eyes. Blindly he reached out, and Ethan pulled him into his arms.
Being skin to skin brought out the honesty in each other. There had been lies and prevarications between them since the day they'd met, but at times like this they'd allowed truth to show. It was no different now they were older, allegedly wiser, and much, much better at telling lies.
The falling water from the shower allowed the fiction that the drops on Giles' face were not mostly tears. He let Ethan hold him up for now, abandoning his duty, his mission, his heritage. For now.
"I knew them," he whispered, staring at the shower wall with his head on Ethan's shoulder.
"I am sorry," Ethan said softly, stroking his hair.
"I didn't like most of them. I bloody hated a lot of them. But ..."
"But they were people you knew, people you'd worked with, people doing the same job you are."
Now he could dare show his fear, as well. "It's taken out the Watchers, Ethan. I don't know what to do now. I know I was trying to stay out of their way, but I'd always expected that I'd have them as a resource if I truly needed it. The First has destroyed the only organized defense the world has."
Ethan managed an honest chuckle. "Which only means it's time for the disorganized defense. Which is better than no defense at all."
Giles nearly laughed, then the reality of it hit again, making him sob. "Gone. They're all gone." Ethan tightened his hold and said nothing for quite a long time.
Finally, damnedable practicality made a few points clear to Ethan. "We're losing the hot water, Rupert. And my joints are too old to appreciate cold water. And you should probably get a little rest before we do anything else. And some food."
"For a chaos worshipper, you have a disturbing grasp of sensible matters." Giles slowly pulled himself upright, but he didn't let go of Ethan's arms.
"All the best chaos has a touch of order to it."
Giles nodded, but his attention was on Ethan's left arm, specifically the scar where he'd burned away the Eyghon tattoo. "Why did you do it, Ethan?" he asked quietly.
"What, this? You know very well why, to put Eyghon off my trail."
"Not just this. Why--" He blamed shock for the tangents his mind was taking, and he had always wondered. "The costumes. You were hired for the band candy prank, you tosser, but I've never understood why you came to Sunnydale to play your trick with the costumes. Did you need the Hellmouth to power it?"
Were they still in the trusting place where truth was allowed? Ethan decided to risk it. "I did it in the first place as, well, an offering to Janus. I did it in Sunnydale because you were there. No one else in the entire country would have appreciated it the way you did."
"Appreciate it? I kicked your arse and smashed your shrine."
"Well, yes," Ethan grinned, "but I can't say I wasn't expecting that."
Giles stared at him for several moments. "You could have just rung me up and said hello. I wouldn't have hung up on you."
"Oh, where's the fun in that?" Ethan lost his smile. "The man you were then had put everything behind him. You'd had that very nice museum job, which you obediently gave up when you were assigned to Sunnydale. You were being such a good boy, I wasn't sure how you'd react to seeing one of your wicked old playmates again."
"And you cared that much about how I'd react?" Giles asked softly, meeting his eyes.
"Yes."
Giles studied Ethan, and his memories. After Eyghon, he had denounced all his old ways, turned his back on the passion of magic--and on the magic of passion. Until he'd been called to Sunnydale, and the real world reminded him that blindness could get you killed. He reclaimed his magic, his passion, and even his music. He'd thought he'd even reclaimed something with Ethan, until that evening of reminiscence and booze had turned into adventures in demon form. Pillock.
"Why did you turn me into a Fyarl, anyway?"
"Revenge," Ethan shrugged. "And green really is your color."
Giles blinked, then burst into laughter. He rested his forehead against Ethan's and lost himself in giggles as Ethan draped his arms around his shoulders. Finally he caught his breath,
Giles blinked, then burst into laughter. He rested his forehead against Ethan's and lost himself in giggles as Ethan draped his arms around his shoulders. Finally he caught his breath, and the two of them just looked at each other for a while.
"You should get some rest," Ethan said eventually. "I can feel you shaking." He reached over and turned off the water, long since gone to tepid.
"And the girls are probably wondering what we're doing. Don't grin like that."
Chuckling, Ethan shoved open the shower stall door and grabbed the nearest dry towel. Giles actually had his hand out to accept the towel before he remembered who he was with. The second towel, though, was handed to him as Ethan dried his own hair.
He was in the middle of drying off his legs when it all hit him again and he had to lean against the wall.
Ethan took his arm. "What is it?"
"Sorry. I just--saw it all again."
"Remembered everything."
"Yes. God. Fifteen centuries. We predated Charlemagne. When the Black Death decimated Europe and the monsters roamed at will, we fought the tide. The Watchers themselves went out to battle, there were so many vampires and demons about." He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. "So many times humanity could have gone under to darkness, but the Watchers held on. And now it's over. It's done."
"No, it's not."
Giles opened his eyes and looked at Ethan, who was looking disarmingly serious again.
"It's not over," Ethan added. "Because you're still here."
"But I'm the last."
"Only till the next one shows up." He patted Giles on the shoulder. "Get dry and get dressed. I'm going to order an embarrassing amount of food from room service. Shall I see if they have curry?"
"Oh, god, if they have a decent masala, I shall love you forever."
"For that I might just go out and see if that little restaurant we liked in Wembley is still there."
"But not that one in Neasden."
Ethan shuddered. "Dear god, no. If ever a place deserved to have a Rakshasa show up and wreck everything, it was that one."
"What Rakshasa?" Giles frowned.
Ethan did a fair job of looking innocent, then he grinned his normal wicked grin and left the bathroom. Giles leaned against the wall a while longer, his heart and mind aching, but his soul being very glad he wasn't doing this by himself.
And while I'm here, this is the fic Anne and I spent yesterday afternoon pinging each other about. M*A*S*H fan fiction, with my normal slashy edge. Implied (well, specified) Hawkeye/Trapper. A series of drafts for a letter Hawkeye sent to Trapper, having missed him by ten minutes at the airport when he left for home.
I think I've cracked the problem I was having with it.
Various Versions
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Sheet One
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This sheet is struck through with a savage cross—tearing the paper in a couple of places—and has the words “Too honest” scrawled across it. Like the others, it is written on plain white paper—probably standard army issue—with the M*A*S*H 4077 APO handwritten at the top.
This, like the next two, was gathered from Hawkeye’s waste paper basket. The letters are therefore ordered for readability rather than the unknown order in which he wrote them.
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Dear Trapper,
Father Mulcahy tells me that honesty is the best policy, so I’m going to be totally honest with you.
I missed you by ten minutes at the airport. Ten lousy minutes! I keep going over in my mind everything I could have done quicker, even though I know that ifI had arrived in time, you still would have gotten on that plane. Perhaps it’s better this way: watching you leave would have torn me apart.
It’s been tough out here—hell, it still is—but you made it a little easier. You’ve been my best friend, and more. I know the ‘more’ never came to much of anything beyond a few nights of drunken sex when neither of us had managed to pick up a nurse of the totally opposite sex (and that one time when we just wanted to shock Frank). I just thought you should know it did actually mean something—a lot—to me, even if you’d prefer to forget it.
Oh, I know I say that to all of them—you’ve heard me often enough—but for once I actually mean it. Trapper, I’ve loved you over and above the call of friendship, and I’m sorry I never had the guts to tell you in person.
Goodbye, my friend, and good luck.
Yours,
Hawkeye.
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Sheet Two
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The whole is struck through by a cross, as before, and seems to have been abandoned before it was completed (see below).
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Dear John,
No, this isn’t the classic “dear-John-I’m running-off-with-another-guy” letter—somewhat the opposite in fact. The new bunkmate is a wimp, and I miss you already. I miss you in the surgery, helping me deal with Frank; I miss your wit and your laugh; and I miss…
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Beyond that point the writing is illegible: the next two words are probably ‘your’ and then ‘body’; although it has to be said that ‘baby’ or ‘bust’ are equally likely. There’s then a gap, and something that carries the intent if not the exact meaning of ‘oh, damn this’.
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Sheet Three
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The writing on this sheet is considerably more controlled than on the others; while still clearly Hawkeye’s, every letter is firm and clear, and especially the letters with tall stems (d, b, t, h, and in particular the k in his signature) are precise and upright, where normally they have a slight forward slope.
Again, the whole is struck through, and the words “Lying won’t work” have been scrawled across the top in a very much freer hand (although a close inspection of the tail of the ‘y’ reveals it to be Hawkeye’s—these letters haven’t been edited by anyone else).
--- ---
Dear John,
I hope all’s well stateside. The war is nice and deadly, and is missing your presence already. Can you send some more Adam’s Ribs with your next letter? I’ve found a nurse who likes them too—a few would go a long way there.
Klinger says to tell you that the blue skirt with the pink flowers you helped him choose has been a big success.
Sorry this is so short—I have an appointment with a very dry witted martini.
Yours,
Hawkeye.
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Sheet Four
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This letter was in excellent condition barring a couple of thumb marks (having been kept in the original envelope) and was generously donated by Dr. McIntyre’s grandson.
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Dear Trapper,
I’ll miss you.
Hawkeye.
