WARNING AND/OR POSSIBLE SELLING POINT: creepy and disturbing

Disclaimer:  "The characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant
Enemy, Kuzui Productions, 20th Century Fox, WB Network, and whoever else
may have a hold on them.  The situation is totally mine, and I do not
mean to infringe upon any copyrights."  What she said.
Feedback: please?
Archive: yes, please
Website: http://avalon.net/~nonie/spike/spindex.htm
Notes 'n thanks: Ethan Rayne is a very bad man.  He broke into my head one night and left this story.  Many thanks to Laura S. for most excellent beta, to Hal for sharp points, to various other likable folks for comments and support, and to Te for early audiencing and Montgomery and the zoo which isn't here but will be somewhere, soon.  Promise. <g>

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"Divine Possession"
by The Spike
8/99

First night back at the Hellmouth and Ethan's... cruising.  Well, driving around.  It's late, after midnight and he'll get a hotel eventually, it's just that after all his time away he needs to... and all he can think of is a dog, rubbing itself on a dead horse carcass to get the stink of it on him.  Boca del Infierno.  It's lovely to be back.

Which is, while completely true, also rubbish.  Here is the real reason why he's back -- and he swings the car around a corner and he's there.  The lights are off in Rupert's apartment, but the familiar old Citroen is there by the curb.  Good enough.  He parks across the street but doesn't get out of his car.  Doesn't go knock on the door.  Not up to being beaten bloody by young Ripper again quite yet.  Which is not to say he won't be in, say... a week.  A day.  An hour...

//The course of true love...// he thinks, wryly.

Or, no.  The wryness is a lie.  Ethan, liar that he is, is by necessity acutely aware of the truth and the truth is, the wryness is only to allow him the illusion of distance.  The truth is he *does* love Rupert -- and Rupert.  Oh, Rupert most certainly, has a... passion... for him.  And he smiles, thinking about it.  Remembering.  Not a nice smile, really.  He's not a nice man.  Has never claimed to be, or wanted to be.  Never even pretended to be for anyone except the marks and that doesn't count as lying.  Lying is what Rupert does, pretending to be a nice man with those who think they know him.  Pretending because he wants it to be true, Ethan speculates, but even so.

And even so, he doesn't leave.  Sits there thinking about how it will be to see Rupert again.  Still shaking his head at his own... whatever it is.  Audacity, perhaps?  No, nothing so noble as that.  Just simple need.  He can't stay away from Rupert.  Never could.  Even though it's going to get him killed one day.  And even the thought of Rupert killing him feels like connection.  Reaffirms the *rightness* of his return.

Makes him hard.

And he taps his fingers on the steering wheel of the full-size American-made car he's rented and wonders what to do.  Beating off over Rupert simply isn't good enough.  He'd rather suffer his untapped arousal, let it build, use it in his art.  Except -- he's just too tired for that tonight.  What he really wants is to find some young, useable boy who looks enough like Rupert not to interfere with the fantasy, and rape his mouth.  He sighs.

One of the many drawbacks of Sunnydale -- no pretty young hustlers out on the streets after midnight.  No human ones at any rate and while he's certainly in the mood for self-abuse he's not particularly looking to get his prick bitten off.  Which is why he is so utterly surprised and... delighted when the boy shows up.

Human boy.  *Familiar* looking boy.  One of the Slayer's little friends, Ethan realizes -- Sander...?  Zander...?  Something anachronistic for the Buffy/Tiffany/Jason world of Southern California.  Or maybe, sudden flash of insight -- *probably* -- it's 'Xander, from Alexander which is... cute.  Tiresome.  American.  And at the same time, makes his balls tighten a little because... well, because innocence never really loses its savor.

And what a lovely, Hellmouth-y coincidence *this* is...

Or not.  Rupert is the *Watcher* after all and at his Slayer's beck and call all hours of the day and night.  Not hard to imagine this is some Hellmouth-related summons.  And yet the boy has none of the frantic world-about-to-end look to him.   He looks, if anything, tired.  Defeated.  Slightly underdressed for the chilly night in polyester thrift-shop shirt and un-stylishly baggy chinos.  Head down, hands in his pockets, shoulders slumped.  Not a happy young man by any stretch although his steps have a kind of weary determination.  At least until he reaches the foot of Rupert's walkway.

There he stops.  Looks furtively left and right and then just... stands there, rubbing the back of his neck.  From the tilt of his head it's clear he's looking up at the same dark windows Ethan's been watching.

It goes on for a while, the boy watching the windows, Ethan watching the boy.  Everything quiet, the night settling around them like black water.  And then the boy sighs, rubs his neck again, but more vigorously as if he's angry.  Turns back the way he came.  And walks.

Misses by perhaps a half-second what Ethan's sharp eyes catch: the minute flicker of a curtain falling back into place in the darkened window up above.

Well, well... Ethan thinks.  Well, well, well...

//And how often has this little scenario been enacted here,// he wonders.

//Have you ever gotten as far as knocking on his door?  Does he even know what it is you want from him? Do you?

//I reckon not...

//Perhaps it's something *I* can give you...?//

Ethan allows the rush to build again, strokes himself once lightly through the cool silk of his slacks because... oh, because like innocence the thrill of being wicked never palls either.   And almost as though his wicked thoughts are a lure the boy stops again.  Turns back.  The anguish of that look... oh, yes...

Ripe for it.

And if Ethan has learned anything in his dealings with things dark and dangerous it's that  while it's always wise to look a gift horse in the mouth to see if the demon inside needs honey or blood, the one thing you must never, ever do is turn it down.  Not twice.  Not when it's so clearly a gift of Chaos...

So as the boy passes by a second time, Ethan rolls down his window, leans out...

"He's gone to bed, I think."  The boy squeaks, does a lovely scramble in the air but comes down with a sharp wooden stake in hand, ready to fight.  Doesn't put the stake away when he sees who's called him.

//Smart boy...//

"You..." Young Xander says, accusingly.

"Me, indeed."  Ethan pulls up a smile.  "And you.  Rather late for a social call..."

"It's not--" and Xander stops himself.

"Not social," Ethan goes on, musing.  Pretending to muse.  "Not Slayer business either though.  Perhaps... trouble at home?"

"Strangely I'm thinking: none of your business."  Angry, yes.  Embarrassed.  He can almost feel the heat of the boy's high flush.

"Suit yourself," Ethan says.  "Although I think it's rather selfish of you."

Ethan can almost see him take the hook.  Xander stops in the middle of the dead and empty street.  Looking up at the dark windows of Rupert Giles' apartment.  He turns back slowly.  Looks like he's going to say something.  Instead, to Ethan's surprise, he simply starts walking again.  Not back the way he came.

And well, well, well again.

//Is that a decision,// he wonders, //or is it simply flight?//  No matter.

Ethan starts the car.  Not more than a minute later he is cruising along beside Xander,  walking speed.

"Come on, I'll give you a lift."

 Twist of lips that isn't a smile: "Thanks...I'll pass."  Xander keeps on walking -- eyes front.  Oh yes...

"You're not... you're not afraid me, are you?  Xander?  It is 'Xander', isn't it?"

Which earns him an almost epithet and a *look*.

"Oh. You *are* afraid of me.  Considering the venue, that's... rather flattering."  And that gets him the stop he wants.

"I'm not afraid of you," Xander says.  "I just don't like you.  You probably get that a lot."

"From young, good-looking, homophobic American boys who barely know me?  Oh yes, all the time."

"Hey, I'm not--"  Ethan's turn to give the look.  "-- that young.  Why are you doing this?"  And oh, he's liking this boy more and more...

"Why am I... stalking you?  Taunting you?  Trying to get you into my car?"

"Yeah..." Hesitant.  Hand moving restlessly to touch the reassuring bulge of the stake in his front pocket.  "That."

"Why do you think?"

"You're a dirty old man?"

"You have a high opinion of your charms.   Maybe I'm concerned about your safety.  Maybe I thought to offer you the sympathetic ear you came to Rupert for.  Maybe it's just that I've *been* a young man out alone on dangerous streets at night and my wicked old heart just... went out to you..."  The boy's jaw works a little and the play of feeling across his features is fascinating.  Ethan gives thanks again to legions of neglectful parents, uninterested teachers, heedless friends -- all those whose work goes into rendering young girls and boys so needful...

"That isn't why..." Xander says, but there's as much plea in it as cynicism.

"Is it more plausible if I say I'd also like to suck your cock?"  Which gets him such delightfully perfect speechlessness he can almost hear the points racking up on some invisible scoreboard so he leans over, unlatches the passenger door -- pushes it open.

Peers up at Xander, doing his best harmless wicked old queen, and he can't resist saying:

"Boo!"  And Xander... laughs.  Self-deprecating.  Rolls his eyes.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," he says.  But he yanks the door open anyway, slides into the passenger seat.  Ethan has to laugh too.  It's all so perfect.

"Don't blame yourself," Ethan says.  "The suck-your-cock line's magic.  Never failed me yet."

They drive in silence for a while.   Xander alternates staring at the dashboard with fidgeting.  Ethan allows himself to enjoy the view.  Rather a pretty view.  Xander has long legs, deceptively broad shoulders, a long throat.  His face is angular but... soft. That odd unfinished metamorphosis of boy to man that is sometimes shocking to look at.  Which is, of course, what he likes best.

Mostly he's taking the time to get a handle on things.  He's still feeling the clinging remnants of his earlier arousal, the desire to simply pounce.  Take what he wants.  Easy enough to manage -- pick them up some lagers, drive to some deserted spot -- there's Rohypnal in the glove compartment.  The temptation is surprisingly strong.  And yet...

 Not that he's suddenly encountered scruples -- visions of easing a slightly groggy, giggling Xander to his knees and feeding him his cock have Ethan fighting not to close his eyes and *groan* -- but what he's got in his car now -- this...  well, this theodoron.  Gift of the gods.  This particular boy who has a quality infinitely more desirable than a passing resemblance to the man he loves.

It would be the only kind of sin he knows to waste so much potential on simple self-gratification...

What he needs is inspiration.

"You and Rupert have a special friendship?" he asks.  Surprises the boy, who looks away.  Blushes visibly even in the dashboard darkness of the car.

//Thinking of that blow-job, are you, luv? Or a different blow-job?//  But when the boy turns back he's frowning.

"Don't," Xander says.  "Don't twist it, okay?  He doesn't even know I..." trailing off too late.  "...come there."

"I see."

"It's not... "

"Of course it's not," Ethan says, wondering for the first time just how much it *is*, and...

//Oh Ripper...//

Inspiration feels very much like the touch of the divine.

 There would be details to work out, of course.  Like a diamond cutter he would have to get to know his material -- every weakness, every flaw -- the beautiful shape of the creature coiled beneath the flesh.  And that will take some time, as all finely crafted things must.  Time and effort and... sacrifice.  Yes, definitely that.  Whether he succeeds or fails, certainly he will never have another chance with Rupert.

But isn't that the point?  Isn't this what he keeps coming back for after all?  The opportunity to touch Rupert once and for all, intimately and to the core?

And he looks over at Xander -- at all that sprawled innocence and aching need -- everything Rupert could ever hate himself for wanting kept safely out of temptation's reach behind a tapping, ticking miasma of unfocussed sexuality, knee-jerk wisecracks, low self-esteem. But definitely *there* -- waiting and ready for some skilled hand to tease it forth.  Make it shine.

Ethan's hands are very skilled.

//Ripper, I'll remake him just for you...//

And Ethan smiles, imagining the look on Rupert's face when he opens the door and finds his gift, his perfect object of desire -- a boy with a Rupert Giles-shaped hole inside, whose love he can neither accept nor deny.

There'll be no need to attach a card.

"You know I'm kind of not liking the way you're looking at me," Xander says.

"Aren't you?" Ethan asks, grinning very not-nicely at all.  "Does it have that bad-touch feel?"

"Has that gonna-eat-me-alive feel."

"And you're quite sure you wouldn't like that?" says Ethan Rayne.  And when Xander looks away and says nothing at all, it's all the answer Ethan needs.

=creepyend=