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Impossibilities
by Jessica Harris
Rating: NC17, I guess... and it's Giles/Xander, so be warned if that squicks
you.
Notes: This one is for Te, who wanted Giles and Xander... it takes place in
a misty undefined period after Graduation and before anything else that
could interfere with my concept happened...
Disclaimer: The boys aren't mine
Feedback: Please! Lumpj@hotmail.com
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The hand with the ruined finger still aches sharply in damp weather, a fresh
pain throbbing in counterpart to all his older aches and twinges, the healed
wounds and worn parts his years as watcher have earned him.
It makes him short-tempered sometimes, snappish with Xander, barking at him
for no reason as he rattles around the apartment with all the restless
energy he'd forgotten young men had.
And sometimes Xander just snarks back at him. But other times he seems to
shrink several sizes right before Giles's eyes, gets this childlike wounded
look in his eyes, and goes to sit quietly as far away from Giles as the
apartment allows.
And those are the times that make Giles open the bar for his customary
early-evening cocktail hour a little earlier. And keep it open a little
later, drinks before dinner sliding seamlessly into drinks with dinner,
drinks after dinner, a drink before bed. And Xander never actually *says*
anything about it, but he oozes disapproval so palpably that Giles can feel
it like a heavy hand on the back of his neck.
And that, of course, in unacceptable, he's not about to let his life be run
by someone half his age, even if they have, somehow, taken up housekeeping
together. So he looks Xander in the eye and has another drink. And *that* is
all too likely to send Xander stomping out of the house altogether, off to
the Bronze, presumably, or some other Scoobie hangout, and he doesn't come
home until long after Giles has staggered up to bed.
And Giles *knows* how bad this must all look from the outside. How deeply
and entirely wrong. Xander is young enough to be his son, and that fact, he
knows, is not irrelevant to this. He'd driven Xander back to collect his
things from his parents' house when it became clear that this particular
stay would be stretching out indefinitely, and he'd seen the desperate look
in Xander's eyes as he'd come out the door with his sad box of odds and
ends. "They looked at me like they don't even remember who I am," he'd said
as he climbed back into the car. "Like I don't even exist anymore!" He's
told Giles all about their drinking and casual abuse, about things that
Giles thinks even the rest of the scoobies don't know, and he just thanks
his lucky stars that Xander has never called him 'Daddy' out loud.
Young enough to be his son... and there are times when Giles can feel the
worst of his own father coming out in him, the stinging words, the cold
judgemental silences. He doesn't mean to be a bully, but Xander's youth
makes Giles perilously aware of his own advancing age and all the things
he's lost to it, and sometimes he wants to *shake* the boy for being so
directionless, for letting this precious time just slip away. Giles was
never that kind of adolescent himself, his path had been laid out for him
right from the start, and it had shaped his rebellion just as surely as it
had shaped his obedience. He simply doesn't know what to do with the
*lostness* Xander gives off sometimes.
And even without the age, this is clearly an impossible situation. They
bicker endlessly. Xander sometimes seems like some strange living amalgam of
American pop-culture come to life, his mind a mass of trivia and references
that remind Giles that, common language or not, they come from two very
different cultures. They couldn't possibly have less in common. Giles feels
most at home with a book in his hand, and the last time he saw Xander pick
up a book was to prop open a window. The noise of Xander's constant
television watching had driven Giles to such distraction that he'd finally
gotten him earphones for it, and Xander wears them with a soulful, martyred
expression that Giles is beginning to find more irritating than the noise.
And he can tell that Xander is sometimes bored by this life, the confines of
what, monsters and apocalypse aside, is in many ways a settled, cozy,
middle-aged existence.
Giles thinks of all of this when he watches his own ageing hands touch
Xander's fresh young flesh, and sees it all through those outsider's eyes,
sees himself as a predator, unforgiveable.
They've been careful, and a pile of bedding still rests on the couch, though
Xander hasn't slept there since the third night he was here. But Giles knows
that Willow, at least, has guessed, and that it makes him lesser in her
eyes, that what she sees here is exploitation, betrayal.
And he's not sure he could debate that with much conviction. Though he'd
never planned this. That much at least he knows - he's no vile seducer. No
seducer of any stripe, really. It would have taken more work to keep Xander
*out* of his bed.
The whole gang was in and out of his apartment so casually that he hadn't
questioned it at first when Xander had shown up alone one afternoon with a
vague report of something possibly supernatural at the mall. He'd seemed a
little nervous and twitchy, but that was hardly unusual, and Giles hadn't
started to wonder if something was really wrong until Xander simply *stayed*
- took Giles up on his automatic offer of tea, then offered to help reshelve
some of the books that were lying around. Then talked Giles into ordering
pizza, and after they'd eaten plunked himself down on the couch and picked
up the TV guide with hands that Giles only then noticed were shaking
slightly. "So," he'd said brightly, "What are we watching tonight? There's
gotta be something educational on the librarian network, right?"
"Xander, shouldn't you be thinking about getting home?" he'd asked, as
gently as he could.
Xander's wide shoulders had hunched and he'd kept his gaze fixed on the TV
guide as he said, "Yeah, well, there's kind of a technical difficulty there,
in that I don't actually, you know, *have* a home anymore. They threw me
out."
"Oh dear," Giles had said inadequately, then sighed and gone to fetch
bedding for the couch. "None of my pajamas will fit you," he'd said as he
opened the linen cupboard, "but I've got some jogging pants that might," and
he'd turned around to see Xander furiously trying to wipe his face dry.
Giles had gone to him and put one arm awkwardly around his shoulder, and
Xander had turned and quite unexpectedly thrown himself at Giles in a sort
of desperate hug, and Giles had found himself with an armful of large, warm,
slightly sweaty young man, Xander's face wet and weirdly, suddenly intimate
against his neck.
It had been... disorienting. Embarrassing and awkward and almost unbearably
sad, to his mind, that Xander should feel he had no one to turn to but a
cranky, middle-aged Watcher who had never, Giles had to admit, been as kind
to him as he could have. But he'd held Xander until his constrained,
snuffling sobs had stopped, and he'd pulled away, red-faced and diffident.
"Sorry," he'd said.
Giles had hesitantly patted him on the shoulder, and said, "I'll get those
pants for you now. Should I - should I be asking you why they threw you
out?" Xander had looked even more shame-faced at that, so he'd shook his
head and said, "Never mind, we can talk about it in the morning." Then he'd
found him the pants and gone to bed himself, uneasily wondering what he'd
let himself in for.
He woke the next morning to an atrocious racket in the kitchen, and padded
downstairs to find Xander inexpertly scrambling eggs and the kettle
screaming on the stove. "I - I thought I could make you breakfast," said
Xander nervously, tugging at his now egg-stained shirt.
"Thank you," said Giles drily as he turned off the boiling kettle and
rescued the scorching eggs from Xander's clutches. "You can make tea. Two
bags in the brown tea-pot - No, no, *warm* the pot first, you always warm
the pot first!"
And eventually they'd sat down to breakfast. "Fit for a king!" Xander had
declared, enthusiastically chewing the rubbery eggs.
Giles had sighed, and said, "Now, honestly Xander, what's going on?"
Xander had stared down at the table-top and muttered something that sounded
like 'magazines'. "What?" said Giles.
"Magazines," he'd said more loudly, still not looking up. "My Mom was going
through my stuff and she found, found some magazines. In the closet."
Giles waited, and Xander slumped a little further, and added, "With, um,
guys in them. Guy magazines. I mean, not, you know, *guy* guy magazines
with, like, guns and trucks, but, um, magazines with, with guys..." he'd
looked up imploringly at Giles.
"I think I understand, Xander," Giles had said gently, and Xander had
dropped his eyes again.
"Yeah, well, she... flipped out. Totally wigged on me. Said ... said..." he
stopped, with a jerky little shrug, then looked up once more, meeting Giles'
gaze.
"And I - well, I kind of got the impression that, maybe, you and Ethan, back
when... I thought maybe you could help me."
Giles set his cup down with a thunk on the table, and stared at him. "Good
lord," he finally said, "was it that obvious?"
"Maybe it was just me," said Xander quickly, looking uncomfortable, "but - "
and then he grinned, a small ghost of his previous grins but a grin
nonetheless, and shook his head. "Actually, I'd have to say it was pretty
obvious. Like, Dorothy's ruby slippers on the head quarterback obvious."
Giles had smiled despite himself at that, then, abruptly self-conscious,
taken his glasses off and polished them busily. "But Xander, you all know
how well that relationship turned out. I'm not sure that I'm qualified to be
much of a, a role-model, or whatever it is you're looking for. I'll help
however I can, but I'm just not sure... do you want me to make some phone
calls?"
Xander shook his head, and got up from the table, prowling nervously around.
"I'm not asking you to be, you know, my Big Gay Mentor or anything... I
guess I just didn't want to have to *explain* everything... and I figured
you'd kind of understand. I keep... I keep telling myself I can do this. I
mean, it's not like I'm just a kid, I'm 18, lots of people leave home before
this and do OK... I'll figure something out. Get a job, work out somewhere
to live..." he looked a little wilted at the thought, and hurried on. "I
guess I just didn't know exactly where to start."
"Well, I suppose you can stay here for now, until you're a little more
sorted out," Giles heard himself saying, and firmly repressed all the
thoughts of what this would look like if people found out about it. Xander
stared at him, his eyes wide and blank as though he almost didn't dare to be
hopeful, and Giles hurried on. "We'll need to get your clothes. That shirt
is unspeakable, and my pants on you border on the obscene. Or maybe it would
be best, if you're going to start looking for a job, to get you some *new*
clothes..."
"No tweed! I'm warning you now, I'm not wearing tweed!" Xander had said,
smiling now, more like his usual self. As they cleared the dishes, though,
he touched Giles on the back of the shoulder and quietly said, "Thank you,"
and there was such naked gratitude in his eyes that Giles once again felt a
rush of sadness that *he* seemed to be this boy's best option.
"I'll try and find you something that you can at least venture outside in,"
he'd said hurriedly, and gone upstairs, hoping Xander hadn't noticed the
wetness in his eyes.
He took his time going through his drawers and closet. There was a sweater,
far too big for him, that he thought might fit, and he figured Xander could
live in his own slightly grubby khakis a day longer. Coming down the stairs
with the sweater in his hands, he found himself confronted with the sight of
Xander standing at the foot of the couch in nothing but his boxer shorts.
Giles stopped short, and couldn't keep himself from staring for a moment.
Stripped of his mis-matched layers of clothing, Xander seemed unexpectedly
substantial and adult. And almost disconcertingly *male* - solid and
muscular, his shoulders broad, chest hard and flat, thighs powerful. For a
moment their eyes had met, and then Xander had blushed, a blush which spread
rosily right down into his chest. Quickly he reached for the sweater.
"Thanks," he mumbled.
And out they'd gone.
He'd taken Xander shopping, attempting to steer him towards choices that
seemed less likely than his usual costumes to frighten away prospective
employers. It had made Giles feel like a terrible old queen. He'd been out
with all of the scoobies in the past, and never given much thought to it,
but now with this new knowledge in the air between them he felt strangely
exposed. "About you and Ethan," Xander had said suddenly as they went
through a rack of shirts, and Giles cringed, glancing around at the sales
staff to see if any were in hearing distance. "Was it just, you know, the
magic that broke you up? If it hadn't been for that, do you think..."
"Worshipping chaos and summoning homicidal demons is hardly to be dismissed
as 'just the magic'" he'd snapped, but Xander was still looking at him, a
question in his eyes, and Giles was suddenly ashamed at his own timidity,
his fears of what people would think. He sighed, and said, more gently this
time, "I did love him at the start, Xander. Quite... quite fiercely. He was
like no one I had ever met before. And if he had chosen a different path,
well, who knows... it's not out of the realm of possibility that we could
have lived happily ever after. I don't suppose it *had* to be doomed." And
Xander had nodded seriously, and, he thought, stood a little straighter.
After the clothes he'd taken him to get his hair cut. "I'll pay you back,"
Xander kept saying, and Giles just nodded and knew that even if Xander
tried, he wouldn't accept the money. This felt less like something he was
doing for Xander than some kind of karmic debt he was paying off, an
offering to the universe for the mistakes of his own lost youth and the hope
that Xander's was still salvageable.
And that night Giles's sleep had been disturbed by memories. Old ones, the
thoughts of Ethan that he'd never quite managed to suppress, and new ones
too, the sight of Xander that morning, the remembered feel of him in his
arms, large and warm. It had been years since he'd held a man in his arms,
and Ethan had been slender and narrow, a armful more of energy than of
flesh, so different from Xander's weight and substance. Sometimes they made
him strangely sad, these well-nourished American boys, with their broad
shoulders and good teeth and the thousand inarticulate longings that the men
they thought they had to be gave them no room to express. He'd had books to
lose himself in when he was Xander's age, and he wondered what resources
Xander had beyond his humour.
Down the stairs he could hear Xander tossing and turning restlessly on the
couch, no more able to sleep than Giles was.
And morning had brought more noise and another burnt breakfast and still
further questions from the boy, more about Giles's old life and Ethan,
always Ethan, how they'd met, what his friends had thought, if his parents
had known, things he hadn't thought of in years, on and on until Giles could
practically feel Ethan in the room with them. "Enough!" he'd finally said,
feeling strange and raw and far, far too aware of Xanders' physical presence
in the small room with him. And Xander had frozen for a moment, looking a
little shocked, then given a small nod and turned dutifully to the want ads
in the paper.
And that night he'd woken to find Xander standing beside his bed, and Giles
couldn't even deceive *himself* that he didn't know what he was there for.
"Xander, this would be a very very bad idea," he'd said.
"I know that," said Xander. And Giles didn't even *try* to stop him when he
crawled under the blankets with him.
When he'd slid Xander's boxer-shorts off Xander had started to tremble.
"Sorry!" he'd gasped, "I don't mean to be all girly about this. But I - I've
never actually *done* this before. I've just - just the magazines."
Bad and worse.
Impossible.
But still...
There are parts of this that no one on the outside could see. Xander is
looking taller these days, his shoulders straight, *present* in his body in
a way he hadn't been before, confident in the adult bulk that had previously
seemed hulking and clumsy. And he sleeps with sprawled abandon now, no
longer curling himself into the smallest corner of the bed he could manage.
And Giles has removed the three bottles of Xander's mother's sleeping pills
that he'd found rolled into a sock at the bottom of Xander's backpack, and
flushed them down the toilet. He's never mentioned it, and neither has
Xander, but every so often he snoops unapologetically through Xander's
stuff, and nothing has appeared to replace them.
And on those nights when Xander stays out late, Giles sometimes wakes up to
find himself wrapped so tightly in Xander's arms that it's almost
uncomfortable, and in the morning Xander brings him tea and toast in bed and
doesn't say a word about the night before or Giles' obvious hangover.
And even if Giles can't bring himself to apologise, exactly, or even to
clearly articulate what he should be apologising *for*, Giles is careful
always to thank Xander for the things he does, to recognise the attempts
he's making. He is truly moved by Xander's big-heartedness. The life he's
had could so easily have soured him, and while there is some bitterness in
him, and a deep-down reservoir of anger, he also has a certain oddly
innocent sweetness and generosity.
The morning of the fourth day Giles had woken to find Xander watching him,
with those anxious, hopeful eyes of his. Quelling all thoughts of just how
big a mistake this might have been, Giles did his best to smile reassuringly
at him, and got himself soundly beard-burned for his trouble.
"Good morning," he'd finally said, extricating himself. "Didn't we put a
razor and a toothbrush on our list the other day?"
Xander had looked so stricken at that that Giles had leaned over and kissed
him gently again before climbing out of the bed. "Age before beauty," he'd
said, "I get the bathroom first."
He'd been half-dressed when Xander finished showering and came out of the
bathroom again, still naked. "Oh," he'd said, with disappointment in his
voice when he saw Giles already in pants, and Giles had laughed at the
erection already bobbing eagerly in front of Xander, (another thing he'd
forgotten about young men), and slid the pants off his hips again. And the
way Xander gave and took pleasure, the way he opened himself up to touch and
tried to give back in turn made Giles lose himself in the experience more
than he had ever expected to.
And it wasn't just the sex. When Xander's endless questions led Giles to
stories whose sting had not quite faded with age, Xander listened carefully,
and when he was done he reached out and pulled Giles into his arms, and
stroked and patted his back as if Giles were the child here.
When Giles thought of Ethan - which he still did, which he suspected he
always would - it had always been with the vague feeling of something being
broken, of having been a different person afterwards than he'd been before,
with only the thinnest threads of continuity between the two, his life
snapped cleanly in half.
But with Xander, sometimes, he finds in the self he is now parts of his old
self that he thought were gone forever. One night, that first week, Xander
had suddenly and wordlessly turned over on his front and gathered his knees
up under him, offering up his ass with a rough little breath. Giles had run
his hands over his buttocks, stroking them, and said, "What do you want,
Xander?"
"Please..." said Xander.
"Please what?" said Giles, leaning over him, chest to back, and breathing
the words in his ear.
"Please... *please*," said Xander more roughly.
"Please *what*?" Giles had said again. "I'm not trying to make you beg, but
you've got to be able to say it out loud, you know."
"Pleasefuckme," Xander had gasped out in a rush.
And Giles... hadn't. Had slid down his back instead, and parted his buttocks
and dove in with his tongue.
Xander made an inarticulate guttural noise at the touch and jerked away, but
Giles caught him by the hips and said, "Come on, stay with me," before
sliding his thumbs down the crack of Xander's ass and parting his buttocks
again.
He'd swirled his tongue against the surface of his hole for a long time,
teasing Xander until his arms and legs were trembling. Then he'd worked his
tongue right inside. "Oh god," Xander had moaned at that, and his arms had
given out and he'd collapsed forward, face against the bed-clothes as Giles
started tongue-fucking him in earnest. "Oh god," he kept saying, with what
sounded like amazement, "oh god," his hips moving back against Giles' face,
and the feeling of being able to do this, make him move and cry out like
that, had moved through Giles' body with as much force as a physical touch.
And then Xander had given a sudden ragged shout and without either of them
even touching his cock he came, then fell flat on the bed.
Giles had reached for the water glass beside the bed and rinsed his mouth
out, spitting neatly into the wastepaper basket beside the bed, and had had
a sudden vivid flash of the last time he had done this. It had been whiskey
in a bottle beside Ethan's mattress on the floor then, and he'd spat it out
violently across Ethan's face and chest. And Ethan, always upping the ante,
had touched his finger to the wetness with a murmured charm and it had burst
into flame, flame dripping slowly down his cheek, sliding down his chest. It
had burnt for mere moments and then winked out, leaving Ethan's skin
reddened and smelling faintly of singed cinnamon. Ethan had laughed at the
look of horror on Giles's face, and pulled him down and kissed him, but the
marks had lingered for days and Giles hadn't been able to look at them
without feeling faintly dizzy and sickened.
But now there was no Ethan here, just Xander splayed on his belly on the
bed, Xander who turned to look at him with something like wonder and weakly
said, "I never imagined you doing that!"
And Giles had put all thought of Ethan out of his mind. "Well, now you don't
have to imagine, do you?" he said, and Xander had turned over and, with that
same sweet generosity, pulled Giles down on top of him, and they'd rolled
and moved together until Giles came messily over Xander's belly and they'd
gone back to sleep right in the middle of the unspeakable mess. And Giles
had forgotten that sex could be all of these things, that it could be
playful and messy and moving and *freeing*, that playing with power didn't
have to mean abuse.
The sneering outsider's commentary that he still sometimes imagines is
probably right about some things. There's no way that this will last
forever. He's noticed the glances that Xander has started to get when they
go out, and the glances he sometimes gives in return. He recognises that
some nights when Xander's been out he brings to bed a heat and an ardour
that has little or nothing to do with Giles himself. He knows that some day
Xander and his new clothes and new posture will be gone, off with some other
strong young american. And the thought saddens him, makes him lonely in
advance, now that he's gotten used to being touched again. But he recognises
the inevitability and yes, even the rightness of it.
And in the meantime they bicker, and he drinks too much, and Xander watches
too much television and sulks with a childishness he should by right have
long outgrown. And in spite of all the impossibility of it, in some strange
way it's the only possible thing, this flawed thing that's grown between
them, all the rightness and the wrongness tangled up and binding them here
together in what feels, if only for this moment, like what they've needed
all along.
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