Title: Curtain's Fall 15/?
Section: II Dress Rehearsal (4/10)
Author: Magpie and Wolfling
Email: magpie@moracle.co.uk and wolfling@sympatico.ca
Show: Buffy
Rating: NC-17
Category: angst, hurt/comfort
Warnings: spoilers up to the end of Chosen
Pairings: Giles/Ethan
Series: Of Old Mystics, sequel to Charades
Summary: The roles have all been filled and the players move into place.

Author Notes: This is the last story of the Old Mystics Series, sequel to Charades. We expect this to be rather long -- long enough that we've developed it into subsections: I Casting Call, II Dress Rehearsal, III Opening Night, IV Grand Finale, and V Encore. Many thanks to Mad Poetess and Wesleysgirl for betaing :) Previous stories in the series can be found http://www.myarseisnotpansy.co.uk/piedm/mystics.html. Thanks to all the people who have sent us feedback.

Ethan threw the book across the room in disgust and then watched with embarrassment as pages fluttered down like dead leaves. Skunk barked and looked between the book and her master, as if wondering if she needed to savage the offending text for him.

It was a valuable book, and he shouldn't have done that. After scrubbing at his sore eyes with his hands, he stood up, blinking as the spots cleared from his vision. "Leave it, sweet thing," he told his dog, and she came over to have her head rubbed absentmindedly by him.

He was working so very hard, harder really than he'd ever worked on a project at all, but even if he managed to find a way to make this ritual work without the impossible-to-find component, no one was going to say 'well done'. It seemed ironic that in all his years on the wrong side of the tracks he had never deliberately sat down and planned out how to kill someone.

Because it *would* be murder, of everything Dawn -- the human girl -- was. Once he'd accepted this task, the first thing Ethan had worked on was the possibility of reverting her back to a human form once the need for the Key was over and done with. But there seemed no way to do it. It wasn't like playing with people's inner beast-shapes; this was more like what Ian had warned him against back in Devon -- trying to change a human form into an animal shape not natural to them -- a deadly use of pattern-based magic.

Ethan stooped and lifted Skunk into his arms, burrowing his face into her long fur and hiding his tired eyes from the light of the single unshaded bulb. He mumbled to her unhappily. "I came so close to killing him with that Fyarl prank, sweetheart. So fucking close."

Normal humans were intrinsically who they were, and their animal form was a part of that. The blueprint for the one was contained within the other, like one of those visual puzzles where if you focused your eyes in one way, you saw an old hag, and another way, a young lady. Dawn-as-girl, on the other hand, had been created artificially by the annoyingly extinct monks; the shape was not her natural pattern. The blueprint for her girl-form wouldn't be contained in the Key, a multiple dimensional 'object' that had existed literally since before the beginning of time.

Well, if he was right about all that, anyway.

The monks had given Dawn that name for a reason. They had also, Ethan was sure, made her so likeable for a reason. People naturally wanted to protect her. He laughed aloud at that, but soon stopped; the echo sounded alarming. Skunk licked his face; she was such a good dog - the perfect dumb but loyal companion.

Ethan sighed. He'd been shut up for days in this ramshackle -- and far too cold even with the fire roaring -- little room in the basement of the left wing. He'd hardly spoken to anyone but his increasingly stressed husband because he had no way to answer the worried questions of his friends. Friends who, if he were forced to use the ritual he was working on, would soon be friends no longer.

Sometimes it seemed like the one thing he excelled at in life was making people hate him. It was a significant talent.

He put Skunk down and walked over to the far wall, picking up the book and the loose pages before returning to his table and chair near the fire. His limbs felt heavy as if they were taking on the weight of his thoughts.

Ethan had managed to stop Rupert watching the news that morning, but not before he himself had seen all too clearly how bad things were getting. It was all happening so quickly. England was falling apart, in the south at least. There were calls on the Prime Minister to declare a national state of emergency, although he was refusing so far, claiming that they had things under control.

A complete lie, of course; it had to be. You can't control pure Chaos with policemen and civil restrictions. And what Blair didn't realise -- couldn't possibly know -- was that things were only going to get worse unless Rupert and Ethan could stop them.

Which was still, no matter how he looked at it, a ridiculous thought, megalomaniac and deluded. Only not.

He pushed his hair back from his forehead; it felt lank and nasty, and he contemplated talking mentally to Rupert for the comfort it would bring. He didn't though; he wasn't sure why not, and then the door to his little room opened.

"Ah, so I've finally found your new den," Ian said brightly, looking around the room. "Led me on a good hunt tracking it down, you did."

Ethan felt his spirits immediately brighten upon seeing his friend and mentor, and then almost as quickly sink again as he realised he was in for another round of questions he couldn't answer. As Skunk trotted over to say hello to Ian, Ethan closed his books and covered his notes as surreptitiously as he could manage. "Hello, old crow. Well, I suppose hunting really isn't your nature, despite your heritage."

"I've picked up a knack or two over the years," Ian replied, leaning down to greet Skunk with a proper petting.

"What can I do for you?" Ethan's voice sounded croaky; how long since his last cuppa had it been?

"I thought I might be able to tempt the fox from his den for an afternoon's ramble in the woods." Ian's voice was pleasant, his tone casual, but Ethan thought he could catch a hint of worry underneath it all. Worry for him.

Ian's suggestion sounded... unbelievably good actually. Ethan stared with weary longing at him. "I... I can't. Sorry."

"It's just a walk, Ethan," Ian said sharply. "An hour or so outside, not a month-long, worldwide expedition. The fresh air will do you good. You've been down here since an obscenely early breakfast with no break. Can you honestly tell me you've retained any meaning from what you've read in the last couple of hours?"

"No," Ethan looked down. "Well, only what I remember from the first six times of reading it." Suddenly he felt that if he didn't get out of this room, this underground bunker of his, and get some of that fresh air immediately, he'd lose all control. He stood abruptly, and after checking the fire looked safe to leave, he called Skunk to his heel with a mental whistle and gave Ian a ragged smile. "You win. Wasn't much of a fight, was it?"

"Good thing," Ian replied, as they headed out of the room and towards the more populated areas of the house. "My next step would have been to conk you on the head and drag you out of there bodily."

Ethan wasn't sure he wanted to know how much truth there was in that. "You're a good mate," he told Ian. It came out sounding a good deal more sincere and less ironic than intended.

Ian grinned. "I'm not sure you would still be saying that if we had made it to the conking stage."

"You're assuming I wouldn't stop you first, old man." There were voices up ahead, and Ethan reached out and put a hand on Ian's back, guiding him in a different direction, hoping he'd understand.

"I am assuming that, yes," Ian agreed affably, as he changed directions with no comment. "Because you wouldn't have."

"Possibly." Ethan took his hand back from Ian and ran it over his face, feeling the stubble on his chin with distaste. He hated not being clean-shaven. "Probably."

"Definitely." Ian gave him a sideways glance. "If you want to take a few moments to clean up before we go out..."

"Oh God, do I smell?" Ethan looked at Ian with something close to horror.

"That all depends on whether your nose is working or not," Ian said deadpan.

Ethan stared in dismay. "Christ, I'm sorry. Um, shower. Yes." He turned and headed back to the stairs almost at a run before he realised what a stereotype he was being and slowed himself down.

Ian caught up soon enough, chuckling. "You're really not that bad, my boy. Although I do think a shower, shave, and change of clothes will help your outlook."

"I'll never make it as a 'real' man, will I?" Ethan asked wryly.

"Not if it involves much mud and grime, no."

Ethan narrowed his eyes as they walked down the corridor to his and Rupert's suite. "I never exactly see you much less than immaculate at any point, despite the casual style of dress you prefer."

Ian shrugged. "I never had any designs on being a 'real' man either."

They walked into the bedroom, Skunk immediately going to her bed to fetch a favoured toy, and Ethan groaned. "I hate showering without Rupert."

"If that was supposed to be a proposition..." Ian began with an amused smile.

Ethan blinked at him. "Oh. Oh, well, I'd never say no, but I just meant I need Rupert as a portable water-heater. Our shower here is, to speak frankly, crap."

"Just think of what the rest of us have been making do with, without our own personal portable water-heater." Ian clapped him on the shoulder heartily. "A little cold water is good for the constitution."

Ethan gave him an exasperated look. "Yes, I remember you saying something very similar while waist-deep in the Thames. Oh, wait. No, I don't."

"There's a difference between that and this."

"Yes, *that* was you in the cold and wet." Ethan pulled off his tops as he headed for the bathroom and mumbled, "Don't like the cold; never have done."

"You'll survive," Ian assured him blithely.

Ethan remembered a similar blasé attitude from Ian just before he'd joined Ethan in the river, at which point his opinion on cold water had changed abruptly. Ethan wondered if he should forcibly drag his old mentor under the shower with him for a similar awakening to occur. But no, he wasn't up to that kind of hijinks today.

Showering quickly, although the water wasn't too bad, being tepid as opposed to freezing, Ethan took some pleasure in getting clean, especially his hair. After drying himself off and wrapping a towel hot from the radiator around his waist, he looked out into the bedroom to see what Ian was getting up to.

He was looking through one of Harriet's earlier journals that had been left in a drawer by their bed. Ethan frowned. "I think Rupert would prefer you didn't look through those," he said, apologetic but firm.

"I met her once, you know," Ian said, flipping the pages and showing no sign of having heard Ethan. "Years ago."

"Yes, I know." Ethan walked over and put the hand on the book, making it obvious he wanted to take it from Ian, but not snatching it. "She said."

"Remarkable lady. I quite liked her." He let Ethan take the book, and Ethan closed it and put it back in the drawer, which he shut firmly.

"Come and talk to me while I shave."

Ian gave him amused look. "So you can keep your eye on me?"

Ethan smiled ironically; there was little point in denying it. "I know you're looking for clues. Come on." He gestured with his head and started to walk back to the bathroom. Ian smiled and followed, still giving off a distinctly amused air.

After filling the sink with warm water, Ethan took his shaving bits and pieces from the shelf above the sink. "So how's everyone doing? I've not really seen anyone but Rupert for --" he paused to work it out, "forty-eight hours or so."

"And whose fault is that? You've become a right workaholic, haven't you?"

"Answer the question," Ethan insisted, not letting himself get distracted into areas clearly marked 'No Entry'. He opened his jar of Saville Row shaving cream.

"Everyone is fine," Ian replied, voice a study in patience. "Worried, of course. And wishing they could help."

They wouldn't, Ethan thought glumly, if they knew what it was he was doing in his little room.

He put some shaving cream in the palm of his left hand and lathered it up using his brush. It was a proper badger bristle brush, as a quality shave was one of those luxuries Ethan always liked to afford himself when it was feasible. And Rupert could hardly complain about the bristle choice when he had one himself. "What's the mood regards what's happening out in the world?"

"Everyone's concerned, of course." Ian snorted very quietly. "But this crowd have all been through multiple crises and apocalypses; no one is panicking yet."

"And how long do Rupert and I have until we face a full scale intervention, do you think?" Ethan glanced sideways at Ian while applying the foam to his face. "Or is this it?" He knew his question was likely to start another chapter of the inquisition, but the answer would be useful to have.

Ian held up his hands in protest. "Oh no, not me," he said. "Interventions are not my style. I've always left those to Lucy."

Ethan nodded. "And the others? How long until mutiny?"

"You underestimate them, I think," Ian said with another small smile. "They trust Rupert and you. If you're not telling them things, they accept you have a good reason."

A bark of dry laughter escaped Ethan before he lifted his razor, and concentrating on himself in the mirror, started to shave.

Ian watched him in silence for a few minutes, leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed over his chest. "You do know, I trust, that you can speak with me about anything? I've never been one for judging people; I see no reason to start doing so now, with you."

Ethan used the excuse of having to keep his jaw still while he shaved not to answer. The truth was, he was desperate to confide in Ian. The pressures on him were not of a sort that he'd ever known before, having shirked responsibility all his life until now, and he was, he knew, buckling a little under the strain. Not that Rupert, who'd had far too much experience at this sort of thing, seemed to be doing any better. Ethan had rarely seen his husband looking so rough as he had when they'd staggered out of bed that morning.

As he rinsed the razor in the water, Ethan repeated, "You're a good mate," and left it, regretfully, at that.

"And you're going to continue to carry the weight of these secrets alone until they squash you flat, aren't you?" Ian sighed. "You may have taken those lessons of mine on responsibility a bit too much to heart."

"It's not that," Ethan admitted quietly. "Rupert doesn't want things spoken about. Not yet." And he'd gone too far even just saying that. He sped up his shaving. Perhaps once it was done, he'd go back to his studies, refreshed somewhat and ready to strain his eyes further. It was safer than walking with Ian.

"All right," Ian said, making a throwing away gesture. "I know better than to argue with that. Just remember, my ear is always available for bending."

Ethan shot him an uneasy but genuine smile. "I appreciate it, old crow. Truly." He looked back at himself in the mirror and sighed. "There is something I could talk about, I think. But I don't know if I should. It seems wrong knowing though, and you not knowing that I do."

"Knowing what?"

Ethan shaved the last line of foam from his neck. Just the fiddly places to do now. "Give me a few seconds, eh? This isn't something to discuss without me giving you full attention." He was already regretting mentioning it.

"Sounds serious," Ian said, and Ethan could hear the curiosity in his voice.

"You're not going to like it," Ethan said bluntly. He quickly finished his shave and splashed his face with some of the moisturising skin food he'd been given for Christmas -- sent from the States by Willow of all people, someone who'd never had a chance to meet the 'new him', but who seemed prepared all the same to send nice gifts to Rupert Giles' husband.

"I'm quite used to dealing with things I don't like," Ian assured him, which was probably true and made Ethan feel all the more for his mentor.

After drying his hands on a towel, Ethan approached Ian, holding an arm out in a guiding gesture. "Let's go and sit down."

While Ian went obligingly to the easy chairs around the coffee table, Ethan quickly pulled on some clothes. Skunk came and hovered around his feet, holding her squeaky chew-toy hopefully in her mouth. He smiled wanly down at her. He was neglecting everyone, it seemed. Picking his dog up, Ethan went to sit down close to Ian, staring at him and feeling painfully reluctant to start speaking.

"Oh, come now," Ian said, giving him a small smile. "It can't be as bad as all that."

Best to let Ian judge that for himself. "I told you that Harriet mentions you in her journals. She... we know how Derek died, Ian, and I'm sorry, as I know that was something you wanted to keep private. We don't know all the details, but... well, enough." He made himself leave it at that.

"Oh." Ian's smile faded, and he turned his head to stare out into space.

Ethan closed his eyes briefly, not wanting to see the pain he'd brought his friend, but then he put Skunk onto the floor and moved closer to Ian, putting a hand on his knee. "I'm sorry."

Ian patted his hand absently. "I suppose I should ask if you have any questions..." He didn't sound very enthusiastic however; more like he was offering because it was expected.

Did he have? He wanted to tell Ian that Derek's death hadn't been his fault, but really he didn't know enough to say that, and anyway, surely better people than Ethan had already tried and failed to convinced Ian of it. "I'm sorry," he said again in the end, his voice cracking. "Sorry you've had to live so long with it. Sorry Rupert and I didn't come round sooner."

Ian turned to look at him again with the ghost of a smile, although his eyes were still serious. "Everything happens when the season is right. This is your season, my dear boy, yours and Rupert's. I always knew I would have to wait."

Ethan shut his eyes briefly and made himself remember that Derek was waiting for Ian; not much longer now. "Still want to go for that walk?" he asked with a weak smile.

Ian returned it with a stronger one, squeezing Ethan's hand that was still on his knee. "That was the point of my dragging you from your den, yes."

Nodding, Ethan stood and went to find his shoes, sitting on the edge of the bed to put them on. "I won't mention this again, not without you saying something first. It just seemed wrong for you not to know we knew. Not that I'm a great judge of a thing's wrongness, but still."

"It's not a big secret," Ian said quietly, subdued. "It's a matter of public record -- at least in the Coven it was. I just..." He sighed wearily. "It's difficult to talk about."

"Then don't. God knows, I don't want to bring you anymore pain than I already have." He looked around for Skunk and found black and white hindquarters sticking out from under the old-fashioned dressing table. "Come on, girl. You get to walk too."

Ian touched his shoulder to get his full attention. "Whatever pain you've inadvertently given me is far overshadowed by all the positive things your presence has brought me. So no more apologising, Ethan, all right?"

Good things. Such as the awareness Ian could happily die soon. Ethan really didn't want to think about it, not the actual death. Again, concentrate on Derek waiting for Ian; that was the best way. He drew Ian into a quick tight hug to disguise the fact that he wasn't answering, couldn't in fact answer with anything positive. Then he pulled back. "Let's go find our coats."

"Yes. I think we both could use some fresh air right about now."

They went downstairs in silence, Ethan with his senses fully opened, as he really didn't want to bump into anyone else currently. As they approached the front door, his heart sunk as he felt the approach of someone -- one of the girls judging by the patterns and quite possibly Dawn. No, he just couldn't face her, not with Ian here to watch his every strained reaction.

Knowing it was wrong, Ethan nonetheless twisted the pattern of the girl to give her a sudden overwhelming desire to empty her bladder. He felt the girl reverse her path in a hurry.

"Hmm," was Ian's only comment as they made their way outside. Ethan waited, but Ian didn't say anything else.

Skunk scampered out ahead of them, but even her boisterousness seemed subdued today. Ethan frowned and sighed. "I could do with another idiotic boat ride just about now."

"We could walk down to the village," Ian offered. "Get ourselves a pint or five."

That was very tempting, but... "No." He shook his head. "Much though alcohol with good company seems an answer to my dreams currently, I can't spare that much time. Let's just traipse through the grounds for a while."

Ian smiled and gestured at the woods. "As you wish."

They walked in silence, both lost in their own thoughts perhaps. Ethan watched Skunk's boisterous antics through the long grass and envied her animal freedom again. He felt himself letting his mind align more thoroughly with hers, seeking her simplicity -- living in the now, no worries providing she was fed and walked and the humans she loved were well. He thought longingly of that rabbit warren; he knew where it was now...

But no. Now was not the time for liberty, a concept that depressed him immensely. It wasn't as if he'd made any progress at all in his research over the last forty-eight hours as it was. The Judas Ritual, as he'd come to think of it, was complete, and he was confident it would work... providing he had the correct components.

"I suppose," he said carefully, as they entered the estate woods, "you've done a lot of travelling over the years, seen quite a bit."

"I've done my share," Ian replied a bit evasively.

At another time, Ethan would have found that evasion an invitation to press further, but today he just said, "You must have seen a few things, I suspect. Unique mystical bits and pieces."

"I suppose so." Ian shrugged. "After all, who hasn't? If you run in the right circles at least. Or is that the very wrong circles?"

Hoping very much he wasn't giving too much away, Ethan asked, "Ever clapped eyes on the Bachian Matrix Crystal?"

Ian frowned and was silent for so long that Ethan feared he'd given the game away. "Can't say that I have," he finally said. "Important, is it?"

"It could make a nice gift," Ethan answered weakly. "For someone. Whose birthday might be coming up."

"Oh?"

Ethan gave Ian an exasperated 'work with me here' kind of look. "I'm sure they'll be happy with a voucher or something instead." It was probably best to move on in a hurry, and he cast around rather desperately for a subject. "I've not seen you riding at all since we've been here. The mounted life not appeal to you?"

"Not when there's horses involved," Ian replied with a touch of a smile.

"So you weren't a fox-hunter then?" Ethan had asked before and not got an answer then.

"The only fox's tail I've ever chased is yours."

Ethan grinned over at Ian, liking the feel of the expression on his face much more than the headache-inducing frowning he'd been overdoing recently. A grin was much more him, wasn't it? "I do have a very fine tail."

"It'll do," Ian said, deadpan. "Even if it doesn't have any feathers."

It was dark under the tree cover, but Ethan remembered his animal antics here with Rupert a few days earlier -- before his husband had become quite so chained to his desk and books -- and smiled. "We should have pinched a bottle of something before we left," he said to Ian.

"Actually," Ian pulled out a silver flask, "I did."

Ethan eyed the flask with a happy smile. "Have I mentioned how fond I am of you?"

"You may have mentioned it once or twice." Ian smiled, took a drink, and then handed the flask over.

Expecting whisky, Ethan swigged it back, only to splutter when something that burnt like neat ethanol scalded its way down his gullet. "Don't tell me," he said, wiping the side of his mouth on the back of his hand as he recovered, "You don't just grow illegal substances, you distil them as well?"

"I'm very self-sufficient," Ian replied serenely.

Ethan took another and much more tentative sip from the flask before handing it back. "I'm... well, I'm not sure if impressed is a strong enough word. Where have you been all my life?"

"It's just a matter of knowing how, then experimentation to find the most pleasing recipes. That holds true for most things, I find." Ian took the flask back and took another deep swallow.

"I've never stayed in one place long enough to make learning anything like that worthwhile." Ethan said. "Not even since being back with Rupert. I suppose I'm truly of Nan's bloodstock. Have I ever told you about her?"

"I don't believe so, no." Ian handed the flask back to Ethan.

"Let's find somewhere to sit and I'll tell. That's if you're interested. She was Romany, you see."

"Was she now? That certainly explains a lot." Ian gestured at the base of a particularly large tree. "Will this do?"

There were fat roots sticking out from the ground that looked dry enough to sit on, if not particularly comfortable. Ethan nodded and lowered himself down. "What is it you think is explained by there being gypsy blood in my veins?"

"The innate talent with magic, the restlessness, the tendency to view society's rules as not applying to you." Ian grinned at him. "The usual."

"Oh yes?" Ethan grinned. "And what's your excuse?"

"Possibly I'm a changeling?"

Ethan laughed loudly before passing the flask back. "Maybe you are at that. You certainly seem to have more in common with me than any titled git I've ever met previously."

Ian took another long drink. "Met a lot, have you?"

Ethan thought about that, leaning back against the tree. "Not a great deal, no. But there was the Earl of Farnborough, and I think he should count for several normal blue-bloods."

His mentor snorted. "I've met him. He's certainly the size of several normal blue-bloods."

"My point entirely." Ethan made a toasting gesture with his empty hand. "So, my nan..." He glanced at Ian to check there was genuine interest.

Ian looked back, patiently waiting for him to continue, and Ethan found he was feeling a little embarrassed.

Snorting softly at himself, he spoke almost as if reciting. "She was a kind, wise woman who looked after me when she could until they took her away. The Rom tongue was her first language, and she used to talk to me in it. I think I must have understood some at one time, but I don't recall any now. I... I think she was a hedge witch, but I'm just guessing really. My father--" he couldn't keep the bitterness from his voice, "bullied her, and she withstood it with dignity and equanimity."

"She sounds like a remarkable woman." Ian smiled and handed him the flask again. "And I'm sure she'd be very proud of you."

Ethan took a deep swig; he was getting used to the burn now. "What was your childhood like, my Lord Crow?"

"Materially comfortable, emotionally difficult," Ian replied. "I was the bane of my father's existence, and he was the bane of mine."

Ethan raised the flask again. "Here's to fathers," he toasted dryly, before passing it back to Ian. There was a deeply pleasant humming spreading throughout Ethan's body, and his mind was taking on that ever so desirable haze. He was relaxing whether he wanted to or not. An evil little thought came into his mind as he considered Ian drinking beside him. "Want to play Double Dare?"

Ian laughed. "I rather suspect that could be very dangerous." He clapped Ethan on the shoulder. "So let's have at it."

NEXT