Pretenders
by Livia
09/08/98
Important Disclaimer
Ragged clouds traced thin, trembling fingers over the moon's pallid face, creating a shifting theater of shadows in the foggy streets of London below. A door swung wide, spilling two figures and the wail and thud of cheap live music into an unlit alleyway.
First to stumble forward was a blond boy clad in jeans, T-shirt and surplus Army overcoat. Reaching back, he caught at the hand of a girl with close-cropped red hair in a low-cut frock of black lace. Pulling her close, the boy spun her against the wall, kissing her neck and face. Smiling, she tilted her head back after a moment, laughter bubbling from her throat. "Not so fast, lover... we've got all night."
"Why waste any of it?" One cold hand slid roughly up the girl's thigh; she took a sharp breath, and the boy pulled back with a grin. "You just need to relax, pet." he smiled, fumbling an engraved silver flask from the pocket of his coat. "Come on. It'll warm you up."
"I don't usually..." she said, taking it from his hand.
His pale eyes blinked at hers, momentarily aglow in the moonlight. "Aren't you thirsty?"
"Yes." she admitted with a sharp smile. Narrow, clear eyes fastened on the boy's, the girl put the flask to her lips, tilted her head back-- and screamed. The stench of burned flesh rose in the air, and the flask tumbled from the girl's hand to the street. A clear liquid spattered the asphalt. With a muffled, keening whine, the girl lashed out, knocking the boy back, then reeled, clutching her burned, smoking mouth.
The boy rolled to his feet, shifting forward like some predatory animal. Eyes passionless and cold, he placed one hand on the alley wall, then launched forward, tackling the girl. Her rasping shrieks redoubled as he forced her down into the spreading puddle from his flask, his knees planted firmly on either side of her torso. As he reached back behind his belt, she bucked and writhed underneath him, clawing at his thighs, his chest and face. Grunting in pain, the boy yanked a sawed-off, sharpened broomhandle from his belt. Lacing his fingers around it in a two-handed grip, he rammed the makeshift weapon down, through lace, flesh, cartilage. With a final, animalistic cry, the girl convulsed, blood-smeared fingers splaying in a trembling spasm--
--and her body exploded in a spray of grime.
The night was suddenly silent. Heart pounding like thunder, the boy pitched forward, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He concentrated hard, closing his eyes, and after a few moments, the rushing faded from his ears and he could hear the muffled music from inside the club again.
Leaning back on his heels, he wiped mucky holy water from his hands onto his jeans, then got to his feet, absently reaching up to brush sweat from his face. Blinking suddenly, the boy stared at his hand-- there was blood on it. Startled, he reached up, tracing the long, diagonal cut slanting down the left side of his forehead. "Bitch could have put my eye out!" the boy breathed in shock, and shakily brushed some excess dust from his white T-shirt.
Picking up his flask, he leaned against the alley wall and stripped off his shredded, bloody overcoat. With a sigh, he tossed it into a pile of cans and rubbish. Pulling a handkerchief from a pocket of his jeans, he dampened it with the remaining holy water, and tucked the flask into the waist of his jeans. As he he dabbed carefully at the cuts and scratches that decorated his body, he smirked, then laughed icily. "So, the Watcher hasn't the skill." he muttered. "Well, I suppose we've put that little myth to rest."
"What skill? You were damned lucky." a derisive voice cut through the night, and Rupert Giles looked up, startled, as second guitar from the band he'd joined last week stepped out into a shifting patch of light. He wore black jeans, a black T-shirt and matching leather jacket with dull, tarnished studs. Rupert stared at him, struggling to remember his name. "Rayne?"
"So this is what you do after dark, is it? Bait vampires?" The dark-eyed stranger laughed, moving closer. "I've been around, y'know." he smiled, studying Rupert's numerous bloody cuts and scratches. "I really thought I'd seen every stupid, dodgy way to have a little fun in London. But this- -"
"This isn't about fun." Rupert growled, eyes narrow, and turned to walk away.
"--is borderline suicidal!" the dark-eyed boy continued, grabbing Rupert's shoulder and wrestling him back, matching his furious gaze.
"Why the hell do you care?" Rupert snarled, knocking his hand away. "And how do you know about vampires?" he added, menace in his eyes.
He laughed disbelievingly. "Come on, mate. Give me credit for not being a complete moron, would you?"
"I'm so tired of people telling me what to do." Rupert breathed angrily.
"All right, then." The dark-eyed boy grinned, shrugging off his leather jacket.
Rupert balled his hands into tight fists-- but perplexingly, the other boy only held his jacket out, like an offering, or a lure.
"We can talk, but not here." he said firmly. "You got one, but you've got to know there's more around, and close. They'll smell the blood. Come on, Rupert." he said, his voice low and dominating. "Put it on."
Rupert closed his eyes for a long moment, then smiled, wearily and as if unaccustomed to it. "Thanks, Rayne." he said, accepting the jacket and pulling it over his shoulders.
"It's Ethan to my mates." smiled the dark-eyed boy, settling his arm across Rupert's shoulders as they made their way through the fog, out of the alleyway. "Come to think of it, we've really got to think of something better to call you..."
"What? Why?"
Ethan laughed. "Rupert? It's a name for a stodgy old librarian, not the dashing lead guitar who also happens to slaughter girls in alleyways... But then we can talk about that later."
Downstairs, the house looked and smelled like every other place Rupert had drunk and slept in for the past month-- boarded-up windows, empty beer cans on the floor, the stench of cigarettes and drugs. Avoiding the larger piles of rubbish, he followed Ethan through the darkened rooms, and up a large wooden staircase. Fitting a key to the locked door at the top, Ethan pushed it open. "Welcome to the lair," he said with a smile that was only half-joking, and ushered Rupert in.
Upstairs, the furniture was mismatched, but nice. The hardwood floor was covered with an overlapping sea of soft, colorful rugs, and there were several psychedelic posters for various bands taped over areas of water damage on the walls. The whole place still smelled faintly of pot, but overall, it felt like a home-- a place where someone lived. There were even a few bookshelves in one corner... Rupert took an unconscious step towards them, then stopped as Ethan waved him through another door.
Stepping into the bathroom, Rupert watched Ethan rummage through the medicine cabinet. "Sit." the other boy gestured, and Rupert perched uncertainly on the edge of the tub as Ethan wetted a washcloth and wrung it out in his hands. "Got you good, didn't she?" he observed, rubbing away the worst of the blood around the cut on Rupert's forehead. "Just like a bitch. They're all bloodsuckers anyway." he said, unscrewing the top of a bottle of iodine, and Rupert looked at him sharply. "Joking, mate." he smiled. "You see, I... well, I had a bit of a bad break not too long ago."
"Oh." Rupert said awkwardly, and flinched as Ethan began to apply the iodine. "Ouch. Sorry. Were you... Was it..."
"We were serious, yeah." Ethan put the heel of his left hand on Rupert's cheek to steady him, and Rupert closed his eyes, letting him work. "I'm just trying to put it behind me. The bridges are burned; nothing I do is going to bring that life back." Ethan said, his voice slightly leading. "I mean, it'd be stupid to get into the same kind of relationship again-- the same, well, the same lifestyle-- before I've tried any other... What?"
Rupert had stopped, eyes blinking open, nervously pulling away from Ethan's hands. "Um..."
Ethan looked at him, confused for a moment. Then looked down at his hands in sudden realization, holding back an incredulous grin. Drinking in the stunned look on Rupert's face, he leaned back against the sink, erupting into helpless laughter. "Moron!" he finally choked out. "I was trying to make a point about your goddamn vampire hangup!"
"Oh. Well... I-- I knew that." Rupert said, a slow burn heating his face.
Ethan just laughed. "Oh, sure you did, mate." Snorting derisively, he wiped away tears of laughter. "Sure you did." Purposefully, he ripped off a length of bandage-tape, and leaned back down. Deliberately cupping Rupert's face in his hand, Ethan pressed his thumb gently over the other boy's mouth to muffle further protests. Stretching the gauze over the cut and running his fingers down its length, he added a few strips of tape and leaned back.
"Not bad, if I do say so myself." he said, then cocked his head, looking over the bloody slashes on Rupert's chest and legs. "All right; now take off your clothes." he purred with a wicked smile.
"I can get the rest myself." Rupert said stiffly, embarrased.
"Right." Ethan snickered, and crossed out of the bathroom. Cursing his own awkwardness, Rupert pulled his shirt over his head disgustedly, and looked up, startled, as Ethan reappeared in the doorway. "For when you're done," he said, tossing Rupert a white T-shirt.
"Thanks." Rupert said, catching it out of the air.
"Bleeding Christ." Ethan said for the second time that night, his eyes drawn to the wounds on Rupert's chest and arms, new and old. Rupert looked away stoically, and Ethan sighed. "We're going to talk later, mate." he said intently. "But for now, I'm turning in. Guest room is down the hall to your left."
Rupert stared down at the white T-shirt in his hands, then looked back up, muttering "Um... thanks." But Ethan was gone. Rupert blinked at the empty doorway for a moment. Then he sighed, and reached for the iodine.
[end]