Title: Lacking in Romance
Author: Trekker (trkkr47)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Giles/Ethan
Warnings: Some D/s
Length: 1,775 words
A/N: For davechicken, who wanted "Ethan's idea of a Valentine." This went and got a bit long on me... not sure if 1770 words quite still qualifies as a snippet. More like a ficlet, I think. Possibly even a fic. It's also very, very porny... Um. I stayed at the office late to finish this. Heh. ETA: Yes, I went ahead and promoted this to an Actual Fic. With a title and everything, omg.

Summary: Ethan has a Valentine's Day tradition.

***
In that day's mail there's a bill, a flyer advertising pizza, a booklet of coupons, a check from the Watcher's Council, and a rectangular envelope. The envelope is red, marked with nothing but his address, written in a blocky, spikey hand that is as intimately familiar to him as the sharp, musky cologne that lingers on the paper. There's a lump inside, that slides from one side of the envelope to the other when he tilts it.
 
He walks to his apartment slowly, examining the envelope, as though he may find some hidden message in the sharply rendered angles of his name and address. "Giles," it reads. Just his last name. Not "Ripper" like it used to be. He can almost see the sneer etched in simple ballpoint pen.
 
He unlocks his door and heads into his apartment, finally looking up. He shuts the door behind him, but leaves it unlocked. The rest of the mail he sets on the kitchen counter. The red envelope he carries with him to the living room. He sits down on the couch and sets the envelope on the coffee table. Then he looks at it, the way he might face off with a living enemy.
 
He wasn't expecting it, but he's not entirely surprised. He hasn't received one of these in years. He was thirty-four the last time. When he was thirty-five, he'd wondered if Ethan was dead. He hadn't checked. He'd told himself he didn't care. In truth, he hadn't wanted to know.
 
He hadn't spared a thought to this during the day. He'd spent too much time worrying over what horrible significance Angelus may find in the holiday to remember that there was someone else out there who took a perverse pleasure in marking this day dedicated to romance. He can't open it, of course. He shouldn't. There is still a very good chance Angelus will make some move tonight, and he'll need to be--alert.
 
He stands up and goes to the kitchen. He picks up the tea kettle. Then he sets it down. Instead, he pours a glass of red wine, and returns to the couch.
 
The envelope, of course, is still on the table. The lump in it strains against the paper. It makes him think of an erection, tenting the fabric of a pair of tight trousers. He feels his groin tighten at the thought, and his back teeth grind together for a moment and he shifts in his seat. He tries not to think like that, these days. That was a long time ago. He isn't like that anymore.
 
He takes a swallow of the wine and feels the alcohol suffuse through him.
 
Abruptly, he leans forward.
 
His hand stops only centimeters from the envelope. He should lock the door.
 
He prepares to stand, then stops. No. He shouldn't.
 
Angelus is out there. Buffy is out there. Far better he be humiliated than he step outside the next day to find her dead and drained on his doorstep.
 
He finishes his wine in two swallows. He feels sweat prickle across his skin and heat gather in his groin and his armpits and across his cheeks. He sets the glass aside and picks up the envelope, flipping it over and peeling it open.
 
He pulls out the card. It's nothing special. It's covered in glitter and hearts, obviously grabbed off the first rack of the nearest Hallmark. The front of it reads "Thinking of You" in pink, shiny letters. Inside, in a bold, red, serif font it says "Happy Valentine's Day." It is signed only with a simple "- E" The card is meaningless, nothing but window dressing. He sets it aside and turns the envelope over, catching the small object that falls from it.
 
It's a foil-wrapped choclate heart. Like the card, it is unremarkable, packaged in cliche'd pink and red. He holds it cupped in one palm. He can smell the chocolate.
 
He isn't sure if this counts as being unfaithful to Jenny. He isn't even sure, given the state of their relationship now, if it's possible to be unfaithful to Jenny. He's never been sure, though, what this means. What this *is*. Still, it is with shame that he remembers slipping out of bed when he was twenty-nine and opening a card much like this one down the hall in the still of the middle of the night, holding back his cries to keep his lover from waking.
 
But he doesn't even know if it's real.
 
He flips the candy over with his thumb, and peels open the wrapper, which he crushes in his fist and casts aside. He looks at it one more time, impressed again with how unimpressive it is, then takes his glasses off and sets them out of the way, and places the chocolate on his tongue.
 
It's smooth and sweet, but touched with the counterpoint bitterness of good, dark chocolate. The taste floods his mouth as the confection melts over his tongue, sticking to the insides of his teeth. His closes his eyes and he settles back to wait.
 
It always takes time, and every year, he would wonder if this was the year he'd been duped. If this was the year Ethan was out there, somewhere, picturing him like this and chuckling at his futile anticipation. He's already hard.
 
He waits.
 
It becomes so still and quiet, the clocks ticking seems loud, marking out the moments. He wonders if this is the year. The year he's simply been had.
 
Then the first touch is so light he thinks he imagined it. The hair at his temple ruffles, just slightly. He draws in a breath, and goes tense, waiting, wondering if it was only an illusory breeze.
 
Then fingers, long and calloused at the tips, trace a curve around his jaw and across his lips. He exhales, long and slow. Lips follow the trail the fingers blazed, then he opens his mouth beneath another mouth, hot and wet, and a tongue, strong and seeking. The taste of Ethan blows away the taste of chocolate and as he sucks in air through flared nostrils he can smell him--that cologne and the smell of his hair. He moans deeply as the kiss grows aggressive, pinning him to the cushions, forcing his head back, his mouth wide open. He can feel sharp teeth cutting his lip, fingers digging into his hair, pulling at his scalp, a knee shoved between his thighs, pressing dizzyingly against his balls. He doesn't open his eyes--he knows he will see only the opposite wall--and he doesn't raise his hands--he knows he will feel nothing but air. He pants for breath when the sensation moves away. The hands soften in his hair, slide down to cup the curve of the back of his skull. He feels a trace of breath not his own touching his wet lips. He shifts his hips, rocking his cock against the delicious pressure.
 
A small sound of protest escapes him when the pause goes on too long, and he blushes in humiliation, horrified by the need he felt, but moreso that he's let it show.
 
Lips brush his temple, so softly it seems almost an apology, but then all gentleness is gone. The hands go hard again, releasing his hair and grabbing his shirt, pulling him up from the couch, pushing him. For a moment, he feels the full press of a body against him, a flicker of a hot, hard cock brushing against his thigh. The force is like a wave, dragging him up and slamming him down, and when he rediscovers which way is up, he's on his knees on the floor, elbows braced on the cushion of the couch, and the hands are working his belt, whipping the leather from his beltloops.
 
A rush of heat sweeps through him, humiliation and desire and shame and anger. He's on his knees, at the mercy of this all-too-real spectre, yet he knows he wants this, even as he gasps a sobbing breath as his trousers and pants are yanked down his thighs. The silence is eerie, there's no sound from his unseen partner, no words, no breaths, nothing but the feel and the taste and the smell. He shudders as those hands slide up his back, rucking up his shirt, with no apparent goal beyond just touching him, revealing more of his flesh. He's gasping, still, his cock is steel hard, hurting, the tip just barely brushing against the fabric of the couch, and even that light touch is so intense it burns.
 
There's no warning, no preparation, no *need* for any of that. There's just hands, clamped on his hips, restraining him, holding him in place as he's penetrated, suddenly, shockingly, painfully, perfectly. Shattering, ice-flecked explosions behind his eyes, he shoves back, embracing the feeling, embracing the oblivion and the shame. His voice is alone as he cries out at each hard thrust. He has no idea if he's even breathing, he can't even feel the couch or the floor. Can't hear, can't see, can only feel the force inside him, the hands bruising him, the breath, hot and wet at the back of his neck. He comes, wailing.
 
And it's gone. Everything.
 
He's alone, on his knees, against the couch, half-naked. He takes each breath deliberately, trying to slow his galloping heart. All he can smell now is his own sweat and his own come. The trace of colonge, even, is gone from the air.
 
He presses his sweat-damp cheek against the rough couch cushion and feels himself shaking all over. Then, slowly, moving as though wounded, he carefully stands, pulling his trousers up, redoing his fly and belt with shaking, fumbling hands. He goes to the kitchen and drinks down a glass of water, then returns to the living room with a dampened towel to clean up.
 
He drops the card, the foil, the towel, in the trash as he heads back to the bathroom. He leaves all of his clothes in the laundry hamper, showers, and goes naked up the stairs to change.
 
He descends the stairs again, on knees that still are shaking slightly, and goes to his desk. He opens a book, to resume his research of Angelus. The words barely seem to make sense. He shuts the book gently and opens his desk drawer, reaching deep into the back. His hand closes around a small box and he draws it out.

He picks one cigarette from the nearly-full pack and goes out to the courtyard. He sits by the empty fountain and smokes and watches the stars, waiting for the tremors to fade.