Easy
by Dr Squidlove
drsquidlove at virginqueen.com

Archive at No One Knows, please Sofy.

It's an English Christmas for the ex-Sunnydale crew, but Rupert and Xander aren't feeling the Christmas cheer.

This is my Drunken!Gilesathon fic for mireille719; requests are at the end.

Giles/Xander.
Rated PG for adult themes. No sex, no violence. A fat chunk of angst.
Post s7. Splits off after 'Chosen', ignores comics and Angel references.

Wordcount: 4620

Giles, Xander and all the crew are property of Joss and Mutant Enemy. The Drunken!Giles exchange is the brainchild of lostgirlslair.

I am left feeling quite like Giles, in how pathetic apologies are.This is embarrassingly, obnoxiously late for the exchange, and not what it could have been if I started this idea in the first place, instead of trying to do the other awful fic I attempted. I'm terribly sorry, Mireille. Also, I hope 'way depressing' isn't too far out of the realms of what you wanted.



Easy


"Nice place."

Willow hadn't seen the house yet. The last time she came to England, he and Xander had still been in the Kensington flat. "It's been quite a relief to unpack the books, at last."

"I'll bet. Wow, this place is perfect for the two of you. Xander Harris bookshelves full of Rupert Giles books."

"C'mon, Willow, I'll show you your room." Dawn grabbed her elbow and hauled her towards the stairs.

"I have a room?"

The rooms weren't theirs entirely, but it was only natural that Xander had set to fitting out the three guest rooms with three particular guests in mind. Various slayers and watchers might pass through, but their house would always first be a refuge for the Sunnydale originals. At least, so went the plan.

"Don't worry; I'll lug up your bags," Xander muttered.

"Thanks Xander!" they yelled down.

"Don't even look at me," Buffy said, before he could. "I've got my own stuff."

Rupert trailed after them all with Dawn's rucksack, quietly grateful for the explosion of cheerful energy in the house. He reached the top of the stairs, and Buffy popped her head out of her room to grin. "It's good to see you, Giles."

There was a part of him that was always at peace, as long as everything was right with Buffy, and his smile came easily. "You too. I want to say we don't do this often enough, but I'm not sure there is such a thing as often enough." He switched Dawn's bag to his other hand. "I, uh, like what you've done with your hair."

She ran her hands self-consciously through her short bob. "Yeah, well. Seemed like it's time for a grown-up haircut. Downhill slide to thirty, and all that."

"A positively ancient twenty-eight next month."

"Exactly."

"Go away and wash up."

He dropped Dawn's bag in her room and headed to his own to hang up his jacket. Xander was already there, digging through his suitcase. Rupert wished he'd just finish unpacking it, and be done with it. Get it out of the room, where he didn't have to see it.

"The girls look good."

"Yeah." Xander didn't look up.

"It's a shame we don't do this more often."

Xander found what he was looking for, a small white paper bag, and stood. "Yeah."

Rupert scratched his neck, afraid to ask, but... "You didn't tell them."

"Of course not."

"All right." It hadn't seemed like he planned to. Rupert wasn't about to ask why. There couldn't possibly be a reason that he wanted to hear. He ought to take his relief and run, but he wished Xander would say something more. "Is there anything you need?"

"You should probably start on dinner. Willow always crashes early after a flight."

"Good idea." Rupert started to leave, remembered his coat, and stuck around for as long as it took to hang it.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Rupert was just putting the pasta on to boil when Xander came downstairs and started pulling together salad ingredients. They worked in silence, stepping around each other to fetch utensils and bowls, muttering apologies and overly formal 'excuse me's until Xander dumped his knife on the chopping board and grabbed a towel to wipe his hands as he headed over to turn on the stereo. He raised the volume to cover the quiet. The music was vaguely familiar, a mournful female soloist, something from the Sunnydale days, perhaps. Rupert wanted to ask, but he turned back to his sauce instead, testing it and adding a little more thyme.

"Look at you!" Buffy exclaimed. "All coupley and domestic. You guys give me hope."

Rupert forced a smile, and resisted the urge to check what expression Xander had settled on.

"Dinner smells good."

"Pasta's on. We'll be serving up in five minutes or so."

"Can I help?"

"Help me set the table," Xander suggested a little too cheerfully, reaching up to pull plates. They started shuttling crockery out there, soon joined by Willow. It was rather impressive, how easily the three of them still fit together. Far from the world that formed them, bound them, but it was like the rhythms had never ceased.

Dawn blew in as the food reached the table. "Matching plates and bowls and cutlery? Martha Stewart gives this domestic partnership her big stamp of approval."

Dinner was a simple affair, as much as it could be for five people. There would be plenty of kitchen gymnastics to contend with over the next few days, puddings and roasts and the ham to bake.

The neighbours, had there been any, wouldn't have known it was only five people from the volume. And three of them doing the lion's share of the talking, at that. Dawn had just completed six months' study in Spain, Willow had spent three weeks in South East Asia, and Buffy was at battle in the dating scene of Los Angeles, and for once the three of them had as much catching up to do with each other as with the male contingent. That was likely why they never noticed that Rupert and Xander barely spoke.

In a rare lull, while everyone's mouths were full, Dawn gazed around the room. "Where are the crazy English decorations? We were expecting a traditional traditional Christmas. Singing, thieving orphans, and all that."

"That would be Oliver Twist." Rupert raised his glass. "At Christmas, we in England celebrate lame children from large families, and the conversion of miserly financiers to charitable benefactors."

"Whatever. Don't you celebrate it with tinsel and an indoor tree?"

"English tradition dictates that the guests do the decorating," Xander said smoothly, as though he'd prepared for the examination. "That's our project for tomorrow."

Well. An excuse and a plan in one. Thank god for Xander.

The feisty dinner came to a slump as the plates emptied. For the first time in recorded history, all three girls waved off dessert in favour of crawling up to bed. It was a plan that suited all concerned.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

They didn't speak as they undressed. Xander slid into his side of the bed, and Rupert took his own. He lay stiff and still until he could stand it no longer, and then kicked off the sheet and swung his legs over the side to sit up, digging his fingers into his temples.

"You too?" was whispered in the darkness.

"I'm sorry if I'm keeping you awake." Sorry. The word was worn out.

"No. I'm just awake." He sounded it, too, voice quiet but clear.

They'd gone to bed too early; the girls were exhausted from travel but they weren't. They'd only retired because neither of them saw any reason to stay up. "I'm glad you're here," Rupert said, and he shouldn't have, because Xander was tired of him saying it, but apologising would make it worse, so he didn't.

"I'm trying," Xander said softly.

The way he said it sounded like they might fail, and it made Rupert feel sick. If he could just pull Xander into his arms, it would be better. If he could touch him, it would be better. He rubbed his eyes. "You aren't..." No, wrong answer. It would irritate him. "Thank you," he said, instead.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Rupert woke far too early. The first light of day was slipping half-heartedly through the window, enough to see Xander spread out, as Xander always did. On his back, most of the sheets twisted around his legs, arms akimbo. His head was tipped towards Rupert, mouth wide, a tiny furrow in his brow. This was Xander in deepest sleep, and once upon a time Rupert had loved to kiss all his softest places, herd him gently toward good dreams and then a slow, pleasurable awakening.

He hadn't done that in a long time. He didn't know why he stopped. Lying here now, he wanted desperately to touch. Xander had put on a few pounds these last few years. Rupert had caught him in front of the mirror often enough, frowning at his love handles. He was never vain, particularly, but he hated getting older. Rupert had never thought much one way or the other, when it came to Xander - always young, always twenty-seven years behind - but he took his time now. The weight looked good on him. Rupert should tell him more often, how good he looked.

He ought to be doing more that that, but what, he had no idea. Trust couldn't be bought with gifts, or words, and Xander certainly didn't want intimacy.

Their relationship had always been surprisingly easy. Xander had kissed him for the first time only weeks after Sunnydale fell. They'd whiled away an evening at a sports bar, of all places, since Xander believed it was the one place they'd never be found by the girls, or - worse - Andrew. They'd pretended to forget that they were homeless and haunted, charged with the care of countless young girls, and instead they'd indulged in beer and scathing commentary on the various sports telecasts, and it had been the best few hours Rupert had spent in months.

When they got home that night, Xander had followed him to his room, and there was Xander Harris stripping off and tugging at Rupert's clothes, and it had been unexpected and wonderful and exactly what they both needed.

Days passed, and Xander's few saved possessions migrated to Rupert's room. Weeks passed, and it was obvious that Rupert would be returning to London to recover what was left of the Council, but Xander realised it would be useful to have a younger, friendlier face for the slayers while Rupert dealt with the old guard, and so it continued. Years passed, and Xander never left.

Everything with Xander had come so easily. Now Rupert had brought everything to a grinding halt, and he had no idea how to manage when it was hard.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Xander divided the tasks after breakfast. He had claimed the warm house, taking Willow and Dawn up to the attic to drag down the boxes of decorations, which left Rupert and Buffy to go out for the tree shopping.

Rupert wandered the dregs of the Christmas forest with a mittened, woolly-capped Buffy. She shivered, and glared accusingly. "Your Christmas is cold."

"Merely brisk."

"Cold. I vote next year we do this in Australia."

"How about that one?"

"Nope." She never even paused.

Ah. It was going to be like that. They might be here a while. "How is LA?"

She pondered that for a good few minutes, before settling on, "Weird?" She shrugged. "All those years I spent chasing all over the Europe, and I still haven't figured out what comes after."

"It isn't particularly easy to settle into a normal life."

She snorted. "Yeah, well, you're doing a remarkably impressive imitation of one. Perfect relationship, check. Perfect house, check."

Rupert swallowed. "How about this one?"

"Nup. And I want that stuff, the warm-blooded guy, the little white picket fence to call my own, but I don't know if it could make for happy-Buffy, you know?"

He did know.

If it had been anyone but her best friend, he would have confided in her. He ached to confess, seek her advice... It was difficult enough, without letting her down as well.

She caught her breath and spun around, spreading her arms wide to present a squat, lopsided tree. "This one! This is our Summers-Rosenberg-Harris-Giles tree." Her cheeks were rosy in the chill air, and her eyes were dancing, making her look just as young and twice as carefree as he'd ever known her.

He almost hugged her. The urge mostly subsided as soon as it arrived, sentimental and silly, and it left him adrift.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The downstairs looked only a tree short of a greeting card when Rupert and Buffy finally struggled home. They pair of them jammed in the door, staring around in wonder.

"I forgot just how crazy I went in the post-Christmas sales last year," Xander explained, still looking a little surprised, himself. "And we picked up a few extra things down the road."

Indeed. Tinsel was strung everywhere, baubles from the lights, stockings around the fireplace and seasonal knick knacks on every horizontal surface. It was almost a shock to look back outside, and not see snowfall. There was even mistletoe, hanging in the archway to the kitchen. He'd thought mistletoe existed only in films.

As his gaze drifted down from the mistletoe, it caught Xander, watching him. He could be sure that particular detail hadn't been Xander's idea.

"Check out the mistletoe, Giles!" Dawn bounced over, balancing a cup of... genuine eggnog, by the looks of it. Strong eggnog, by the smell of her. "Isn't everything perfect?"

It was exactly how he'd pictured their first Christmas in this house, and the very opposite of how he'd expected it would feel. It didn't feel like anything.

The Vienna Boys' Choir curled through the room, and Willow stood up at the stereo, lifting her own eggnog high. "Bring on the tree!"

They dragged it inside, and Xander pitched in, helping them to set it upright. It was more physical contact than they'd had since Xander came home two days ago, and Rupert declared that the end of his contribution and escaped into the kitchen, grateful for the mountain of cooking that awaited him. Let the rest of them decorate the damned thing.

He poured himself an eggnog and picked up the day-ahead recipes, shuffling through to find the mince pies.

Nothing was improving. He wanted to fix things, but he didn't know how, and he was even less sure of himself with the girls around. It was all too likely that the wrong move would send Xander out the door once more, and he didn't know if Xander would come back, a second time.

For two weeks, he hadn't even known where Xander was. Rupert had lain awake in the empty bed at night, muddled through days at work. He'd gone through the motions of cleaning the house and boiling the Christmas pudding because Buffy, Dawn and Willow had already booked their flights; it seemed better to hope that Xander would return and all would go as planned, than the alternative.

He'd almost given up, when Xander came through the door two days ago, suitcase clutched in front of him like a shield. Rupert still wasn't entirely sure whether Xander had come back for him, or simply to maintain appearances. If it was the latter, then Rupert had only five days to persuade Xander to save their relationship, and he hadn't yet begun.

There was a chorus of girlish laughter from the other room, Xander's deeper chuckle absent. Rupert took a drink of eggnog, and started pulling the ingredients from the pantry.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The girls took turns visiting the kitchen, to make him feel included, or perhaps merely to snack on the ingredients. He'd put the pies in the fridge and stuffed the turkey, alternating his second eggnog with sips from a glass of brandy. Might as well be seasonably maudlin. He slid the bird behind the pies and cleaned the bench to the mournful strains of 'I'll be home for Christmas.'

He had to talk to Xander. He had no idea what to say but he'd apologise again, even if it made Xander angry. Better anger than this simmering indifference.

In the weeks before he told Xander, he'd rehearsed the arguments and the speeches, prepared himself for every possible reaction. He hadn't been prepared for none at all. Xander had thrown a few changes of clothes in a bag and walked away. Not even worth fighting for. Rupert belted back the brandy, and poured another couple of fingers. He headed for the other room and ran straight into Xander.

They apologised in unison and stepped left, stepped right, like strangers shuffling on a dance floor.

"Mistletoe!" yelled Willow.

They both looked up. There it was. Mistletoe.

Xander looked panicked, and Rupert was torn whether to make excuses or simply give him a peck to get it over with.

Or perhaps this was his chance.

He cupped his hands around Xander's face to hold him there, and leaned in. Felt the shape of his lips, how soft they were, and then teased them apart, slowly. He remembered this. How Xander had loved to be persuaded, coaxed to open, just deep enough to taste and tease and promise. He used to melt against Rupert, when Rupert tugged him closer with a hand in his hair.

Xander's lips pressed shut, expelling him, then a moment later he stepped away, gaze down. There were childish 'Woooo's from the girls, and Xander suddenly remembered something he wanted from upstairs, and Rupert was left standing in the archway alone.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Willow twisted her neck to see around the room, and frowned. "Where's Xander?"

"He's been gone for aaages," came Dawn's voice, slow and syrupy, from the other side of the table. She sat up, suddenly. "He's been quiet, today."

It had been a while. Rupert looked into his cup. It was empty. Xander left an entire cup of eggnog ago. "I'll, um. I'll go see." He had to steady himself to stand, and then wait a few seconds - minutes? - for the world to slow down. Thank god for the stair rail. Even so, it took all his concentration to look like he was sober, as he stepped his way up. One step at a time. He had to find out what Xander was doing up here. Had he gone to bed early? The girls would wonder.

Finally the landing, and Rupert sauntered down the hall, making sure he was balanced well enough to fool Xander. Xander wouldn't like it, if he thought Rupert was drunk.

Xander was sitting on the bed, folding shirts.

Laundry? Now?

No. Two suitcases open, almost full. Xander was packing. Taking things he hadn't bothered with, two weeks ago. The photos from the pin board were gone.

Rupert gripped the doorjamb. It didn't seem to be the eggnog, that was making him want to sit down. "What are you doing?" It was the first honest thing either of them had said in two days.

He didn't look up. "I'm packing." They were on a roll of honesty.

"Now? The girls are downstairs." They'd been the anchor, the one assurance that Xander would stay long enough for Rupert to find another reason to keep him here. Xander couldn't just leave, with them downstairs. They'd got a tree. He hadn't run out of time. You didn't walk out, in the middle of Christmas.

Xander slid the shirt into the suitcase, and stripped the next off a hanger. His movements were too slow, too careful, like he was the one feigning sobriety. "I don't want to put on a performance." He tucked back the sleeves and folded it over. "I thought not telling them was okay, but I can't do that, lie to them like that..."

"Like what?"

Xander looked up, straight at him. "Kiss you."

It cut into him, sliced out something unnameable, and Rupert floundered, trying to put it all together, wishing like hell he could think faster, measure out what he said so he didn't- "Performance? That- You thought that was a performance? For them?"

"What else?"

What else? What... "I wanted to kiss you."

Xander's mouth opened, his expression scathing disbelief. "You haven't come near me since I came home, but Willow calls for a floor show and you suddenly discover PDA?"

That wasn't it at all. Rupert would rather have done it in private, anywhere, any way Xander would let him.

When he didn't get an answer, Xander dumped the clothes pile aside, and stood, angrily walking away and turning, like he was caged. "I'm trying."

"I know-"

"I came. I'm here. But it's not up to me to fix this."

"Do you think I don't know that?" Rupert had no right to be angry. No right, no reason, but he felt his voice rising. "I can't simply wave a magic wand. I'm sorry. I treated you terribly. I'll tell you I'm sorry twenty times a day, if you want to hear it, but it's not going to make it go away."

Xander stood his ground, arms folded tight across his chest. "I tried it, you know."

Rupert swayed. "I'm sorry?"

"There was someone... I kissed someone."

His stomach lurched, alcohol burning its way up his throat. "Oh."

"I wanted to do it to you. So I picked some guy and I kissed him, went for a grope up against the wall in the bar. He was good-looking. Younger than you - my age." Rupert pictured it easily in the pause, imagination running well ahead of the commentary, but Xander's bravado fizzled. "I couldn't go through with it. I may look at guys on the street and dig the George Clooney seasons of ER, but I haven't wanted anyone else since I left everyone behind to chase you to England. You're the one."

Relief crept in, thank god, there was hope. Except Xander was packing his bags. More bags than before.

Xander read his mind, and shook his head. "I love you more than you love me. Do you have any idea how that feels? Four years, and I've just realised I'm your Riley Finn."

Riley Finn. He wasn't. He wasn't any such thing, but Rupert was four eggnogs to the wind and he couldn't find words, let alone any sort of argument that might stop Xander from loading up his bags.

It felt inevitable. Some part of Rupert had always been waiting for Xander to move on.

He'd never seen their relationship as Xander chasing him anywhere. They'd clung to each other when they needed someone to cling to, and over time their feelings deepened, and that had to be how it was, because if Xander had come all this way just to be with Rupert, then he was right, and this had never been equal.

Until now.

"Don't leave." The best he could do.

Xander looked down at the carpet. "I'm going home. Somewhere near Will and Buffy, where there's sun, and real food, and asking for a soda doesn't make people look down their noses."

All the way to California. Rupert stepped closer, and remembered he was not entirely sober. He took a deep breath. "I'll chase you, this time. All the way to the South American jungle, if I must."

Xander looked at him for a long time, and then he smiled, just barely a lift of his lips. "No, you won't. You can't." He took in the room, the almost-packed bags. "I'm gonna sleep on the couch in the study, tonight."

He walked past, and downstairs, and Rupert heard the girls' voices rise as he rejoined them.

Rupert got to the bed, before his legs gave way. Xander was right. He couldn't follow him to America. His work here wasn't something he could simply drop like a summer job. Cream and alcohol churned in his stomach, and he stood up again and stumbled to the bathroom to wash his face and drink water from his cupped hands.

He stared into the mirror, shocked at how hollow he looked. Were they truly fooling the girls? At this moment, he didn't give a damn.

Nothing could be repaired over that sort of distance. Xander would be gone. Rupert couldn't bear all the damned Council bureaucracy, or the distance from Buffy, or the bloody English weather, if he wasn't going to have Xander to come home to at night. Had he really had so little idea, how much he needed him?

He wished that night had been something momentous, the result of a fight or grief or a near-death experience. At least then there would be an excuse, something he could blame. It was nothing like that.

He hadn't seen her in years, and he'd forgotten how witty she was, jokes coming thick and fast like a one-woman Oxford Revue. It had never been complicated with them, no strings, just laughter and great sex.

It seemed in those days that he and Xander only talked about the Slayers, and the Council, and what to cook for dinner, as though this house was just a wing on the office. Comfortable and convenient, not happy.

What he'd done was entirely wrong and entirely inexcusable, but it hadn't crashed out of the clear blue sky. They'd been stale for months, and it had never occurred to Rupert to fix the relationship because he never had before. It had always been Xander, taking care of them both. Good lord, he really had arranged his life and moved to England, to be with Rupert.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Rupert felt a great deal more sober by the time he followed Xander downstairs. The sneaked looks from the girls suggested they thought that was why he'd been gone so long, which was mildly embarrassing, but more tolerable than the alternative.

They were sprawled across each other and the couch, Dawn asleep on Buffy's shoulder, Willow's legs dangling over the end, watching Blackadder's Christmas Carol through heavy eyes, with the volume turned low. Xander was tucked in a corner of the armchair.

"I don't get your English humour," Dawn murmured. Not entirely asleep.

"It's better if you see the other ones first," Xander said. Nobody mentioned that he wasn't laughing, either.

Buffy squirmed, drowsy like her sister. "When do we see Hugh Laurie?"

"Look." Dawn pointed a finger in the general direction of the television. "Snowman."

Presumably they'd missed it, since the current scene was Blackadder mocking Baldrick indoors.

"Maybe next year it'll snow?" Willow asked, looking pleadingly to Rupert, like he had some say in the weather. He couldn't even control...

Yes. He could. Xander had.

"Xander and I are thinking of moving back to California."

Xander's head jerked around.

"Really?" the three girls cried in unison, suddenly well-awake.

"That would be so cool!" Dawn added.

"Near us?" Willow asked.

Buffy frowned. "What about the Council?"

"We'll... figure something out." Somehow. God knew how. "I'll telecommute, or teleport, or we'll just split the Council into divisions, or something." It was a ridiculous idea, and he didn't care in the least. Who said he had to be the one to run the Council, anyway?

"What about this place?"

Rupert crossed to sit on the arm of Xander's chair, determined to look like a united front. "Technically, it's Council property. There's no reason it shouldn't serve the same purpose, with different hosts." He loved this house, but not without Xander in it. To hell with the house.

"I can't believe you waited this long to tell us!" Willow squealed.

"Slayerettes ride again!"

"Who says the Council has to be based in England?"

"It should be in a whole bunch of countries. International, like us."

"It's our Council. We can drag it into the computer age."

The girls set upon the problem like it was a demonic apocalyptic ritual they were aiming to subvert, and by the time they all started yawning again, Rupert's sudden outburst was a plan, with tables and flow charts, and Xander had even made a couple of cautious suggestions of his own.

It was promising.

Willow and Buffy were still arguing about where LA offices could be located as they climbed the stairs, Dawn stumbling up behind them, and Rupert felt hopeful enough to slide his hand over Xander's. Not quite brave enough to attempt to meet his eye.

After a few seconds, Xander licked his lips. "I can't promise you anything," he said, quietly.

"That's fair." Rupert swallowed, wondering if he could ask one thing more. He had to ask. "Sleep upstairs tonight. In our bed."

Xander stiffened, but Rupert held on. However selfish, he needed, if not a promise, then at least an indication. A hope. He wanted to hear Xander breathing beside him.

Xander's hand turned in his, and squeezed his fingers for a moment before pulling away. "All right." He stood up, not looking back as he started clearing the glasses to the kitchen.

__________




Mireille asked for:
Three things wanted:
-Xander (Giles/Xander a plus, but not essential);
-a lack of holiday cheer (um. as a point in the story; this isn't me trying to sneak in a fourth thing I don't want!);
-lots of dialogue

Three things unwanted:
-Spike.
-Humiliation/embarrassment.
-Xander being drunk.


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