TITLE: Rayne of Chaos 6/7
AUTHOR: Jaydn Michelle
DISCLAIMER: The characters of Giles, Ethan, Buffy, Willow, Xander, Angel, Cordelia, Jenny Calendar, Quentin Travers, Randall Scott, Merrick and Eyghon are the property of people bigger than me. In other words, it's not mine, never will be mine, yada, yada, yada.
FEEDBACK: Always welcomed

1979

The sun was chasing the last swirls of mist - a landscape of half remembered dreams evaporating as Giles walked the streets, hands thrust under his arm-pits, trying to keep warm. Expelled breath collected in front of him, pooling in eddies like the legends of a fire-dragon, body hunched without realising - lost in thought and confusion.

Ethan Rayne was on his mind, as were the activities of the previous night.

He hadn't known what to expect - that was part of the problem - the other part was that he hadn't really expected it to change anything, yet it had. Not the least of which was Giles' own sense of self-perception. He didn't consider himself gay, barely considered himself bi and yet he had surrendered to Ethan, completely, and had been fucked to within an inch of his life. There were still twinges in his body, a vague sense of discomfort and pain intermingled with heat. But it was nothing compared to the sense of loss that had been hounding Giles since they had parted ways - Ethan promising to meet up later at the house. Loss of *self* - Rupert Giles couldn't discern why he had done it in the first place.

//A sense of curiosity? To see what it was like? Satisfy himself and then move on?// Maybe... File it down to youthful antics and the spirit of experimentation.

If that were the case, then Ethan was the perfect partner. There was no doubt in Giles' mind that the man was well versed in matters of sexuality. Rayne had a number of friends, both male and female, who could attest to that fact. Loudly. Vividly. At great length. Or was it because he knew Ethan desired him - had wanted him practically since the day they met - and he had merely granted Rayne his wish, a lame explanation even to his own mind. The third possibility terrified him, remembering with a flinching horror how Ethan had wrenched the confession out of him the previous night.

(I love you).

That was the worst, because on some deeply ingrained level - Rupert Giles wasn't sure of his own worth. Ethan Rayne was a coyote - the trickster in the mist, a cache of lovers behind him, and it was possible that Giles was another feather in his cap. Taking delight in the conquest rather than the emotions behind it.

Giles might have dismissed it - but the manner in which Ethan had taken him seemed to support the notion. Helpless against the grass. Spread eagled and held ransom to the mystic's whim. The cruel humour in the other mans' eyes as he stripped Giles out of every measure of control. Making him beg.

That, ironically, fit Ethan's profile, and made Giles question how much had been genuine affection, and how much had been Ethan playing games.

It was his *first* experience with another man, and the doubts that assailed Giles were those of a virgin, or a beginner - he had no frame of reference. But the sex had seemed offensive, as if Rayne were waging some silent war and Rupert's body was the battlefield.

It hurt - this uncertainty. It might have been easier if the mystic were a woman, Giles probably would have turned around and *asked* if that were the case. But it was Ethan - and Ethan was his best friend.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Some twelve hours later, Rayne was following the exact same path, but his demeanour held none of the pensiveness that had plagued his friend. There was a spring to his step, an eagerness to get home as quickly as he could, and an aura of anticipation.

He'd deliberately stayed away from Giles until now, giving the other man time to order his thoughts and *think* about what had happened. If he knew his Watcher, Rupert would have begun the day sounding out all the negative aspects of their liaison, before proceeding to the positive. By now, he might have decided to give them a chance, and if not, Ethan was going to do his damnedest to convince him.

His body was flushed, still humming with trace memories of pleasure. What Giles lacked in experience he more than made up for in enthusiasm, and Ethan was looking forward to teaching him - slowly, languidly, driving him past the boundaries of reason or control. Consuming him whole if need be. It was ironic that the Watcher had been partially correct in his earlier assumption - Ethan *was* waging a war. But it was a battle over the soul, and Ethan's position in relation to it, that was governing Rayne's actions. Part of him willing to follow Giles to the ends of the earth if need be, and he was going to *tell* Giles that. Although, he'd prefer it if Giles gave up the notion of a destiny and embraced Chaos whole.

Twists of fate were invariably cruel.

Ethan was correct. If given the opportunity Giles would have followed the behavioural model that Rayne had predicted. Beginning with uncertainty, negative fall-outs, and then progressing to the positive - maybe deciding to chance it. But Giles was never given the option - and his doubts over Rayne's loyalties and motivation were soon to be reinforced by a very different factor.

When Ethan entered the home it was dark, and Randall Scott was waiting for him, smiling faintly and flecked in blood.

______________________________

PRESENT DAY

If nothing else, Rayne was a survivor, a mantle he wore proudly and a tradition he was happy to continue. He'd keep Giles alive too, no matter what the cost, because he knew the other man wasn't thinking clearly.

There was a blind panic to Giles' demeanour that was only thinly disguised, and having seen first-hand what Eyghon had once done, Ethan wasn't inclined to blame him. He'd keep Giles alive even if Rupert hated him. Because Ethan couldn't imagine an existence without the other man, because he *owed* him, and because Giles' hatred wasn't unfounded.

Ethan Rayne closed the book slowly and stretched the kinks out of his neck, one hand resting on the leather binding. It was the reason why he had broken into Sunnydale High School's Library in the first place, not to see Ripper as he'd said to Buffy, but to steal the journal. He doubted that seeing Giles would result in anything other than a fist in his face. As it was, he'd barely had the chance to toss the book out the window before the Slayer had discovered him; circling back later to pick it up when he'd made good his escape.

Staring off into the middle distance, his heart was beating like a trip hammer. //This could work//.

He remembered the red-head, the girl that Giles had practically shoved out of the room when they'd all met up for the first time over Halloween. Giles had sensed it of course, the untapped potential of that child, and had gotten her out of Rayne's sphere of influence as quickly as he could. Not quick enough. If the girl had potential, then she was also 'sensitive', and Ethan could get to her. Just a little casting - the spark of an idea, a summons - and Ethan nodded his head, hand resting on the journal, all the information and documents relevant to one vampire by the name of Angelus. Yes, this could work.

The world was a very simple place for a man of Ethan's persuasion, there was 'Us' and there was 'Them'. 'Us' consisted of Janus, Giles, and most importantly, Ethan. 'Them' was everyone else - and they could bloody well look after themselves.

___________________________________

1979

"Ethan."

Definitely not Randall's voice, or rather it was, but deepened, sinister, co-joined with that of a demon. Not a pretty effect. Ethan's high school buddy was being torn apart, skin flaking as the demon pushed through, devouring Randall from the inside. The flesh was torn in places, the beginnings of a ridged forehead, fingers elongating into claws.

Barely a second passed before Rayne reacted, hurling every molecule of magic outward.

Eyghon/Randall smiled, head tilting: "Stop casting at me Ethan - it's irritating."

Just like that the magic was leashed, firing in Ethan's veins and completely useless, Giles' low warning sounding in his head;

(the tattoo will bind the demon to the will of the group, allowing you to control it. But unless the proper rituals are observed, the reverse is also true, and you'll be little more than a puppet to his command, can you handle that?)

No. No he didn't think he could, and his knees buckled faintly, sick with the realisation that he was completely vulnerable to his aberration. "What do you want?"

"Randall wanted *you*," the demon grinned, voice playful. "He thought this would capture your attention. Has it?"

"Undivided. Is... is Randall still there?"

"Barely. He's in terrible agony - being eaten alive does that to a person," the demon leant back, fingers laced across his stomach.

Ethan swallowed, staring at the blood, the feeling of ominousness reaching fever pitch. "Where's Giles?"

"Upstairs," the eyes flared green for a second, a razor smile of ragged teeth. "He fought - it took a while, but I think I knocked it out of him."

Fear coiled into panic, staring at the blood, and he *reached*, trying to find the connection. It was silent, quiet as the house they were in - Giles was either dead or unconscious, and his fingers curled into fists.

Randall smiled, and for a moment, it *was* Randall, head tilted and voice soft as he spoke. "I can smell him on you. Was he any good?"

The demon laughed as Ethan snarled, launching forward only to freeze at Eyghon's command - the order running through his veins like ice.

"Take a seat Ethan, I'm not finished with you yet."

He sat instantly, legs folding beneath him, teeth grinding together at Randall's tolerant smile. "You wanted me? Now what?"

The demon leant forward, a stage whisper, "I'm... not... Randall," and the silence stretched.

This was it. Eyghon would kill him, tear him apart limb from limb and he was shaking, mind racing like a rat in a maze. There had to be some way out of this, a solution, a gamble...

"You know, you were right."

Ethan jerked as Eyghon's words filled the void - no sense of malice in the statement, it was almost musing. He watched with suspicion as Eyghon stood, placing one hand on Ethan's head as if to bless him, or snap the neck in two.

"He would have stayed with you forever... until tonight."

The demon walked past, footsteps creaking on the staircase, a measured stride filled with purpose.

Long after the compulsion ended, Ethan didn't move from his position, listening to the quiet ticking of the grandfather clock, teeth chattering.

//Do something!//, a scream in his own mind, one that was ruthlessly cut short, //Like what? You don't have any defences against him! No magic equals no power! You go up there and try to stop this and Eyghon kills you both! How is that going to save Ripper?//

Ethan rose slowly, movements stiff and mechanical, walking into the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee. There was a numbness that pervaded everything, as if a local anaesthetic had been injected into his body. He found the book in the study and brought it back with him, setting both the volume and the coffee down he turned to the relevant page, and began to read, "The Identification and Destruction of Demons."

He didn't move when the first choked cry sounded, shoulders hunching in on themselves as he slowly turned the page - trying to find a way to kill Eyghon.

It was, quite possibly, the longest night of Ethan's life.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was nearly six a.m when Eyghon left, footsteps receding to Ethan's room, and Rayne hesitated before climbing upstairs.

The sheets were soaked in blood, too much, and Giles looked dead.

The Watcher was naked, body dyed ochre with his own life-blood. It soaked into the mattress, rang in rivets, body torn, slashed in ribbons of exposed flesh. Ethan felt his stomach churn, legs unsteady until he sat on the edge of the bed, feeling for a pulse. Thready, barely existent, but *there* - and almost gone.

Ethan placed his hands down, trying to find a spot unmarred and failing dismally. It hurt, this type of magic, the weave was complex and it took something out of the practitioner, hands shaking with effort, sweat pooling on his brow and in the hollows of his body - intermingling with Giles' blood.

Chanting, with his eyes fixed on the other's body, staring at a cut that ran from navel to sternum, half a centimetre deeper and it would have eviscerated Rupert like a lamb. Staring, as some huge power unfolded inside of his ribs, ensnaring the other man, knitting skin and tissue back together. Slowly, so slowly, as blood reversed its flow, purified and clean, re-entering the body. Chanting, as his eyesight went dim and the pain in his body became ten-fold. Chanting, as Giles took a hitching breath, body unmarked and free of all signs of torture and rape. Green eyes opening wide, body convulsing, curling in on itself with the last echoes of pain.

Ethan stood up calmly, walked to the bathroom, and was violently ill.

There was no sign of physical hurt on the other man's body - but Ethan couldn't speak for the mind. The argumentative portion of his own brain was *still* ranting - //You let this happen. You sat there all night and didn't do a damn thing! Didn't even try!//

//Fuck it. He didn't have time for this//.

Rinsing out his mouth he straightened, catching sight of his reflection and turning aside. //Focus on what you *can* do. You can help Giles deal with it - because if he doesn't, you'll lose him for good//

He re-entered the room just as Giles was sitting up, face twisted with shame and humiliation, fingers catching at the leather twisted around his scrotum.

Ethan cursed, watching as Giles flushed, gaze sliding downward as he avoided the mystic's eyes.

"Giles..."

"Where is he?" the voice was steady but remote, cutting Ethan off before he could finish.

"My room."

"Give me a minute?"

Ethan nodded and backed away, leaving the other man to whatever sense of dignity he could muster. It wasn't long before Giles joined him, dressed in jeans, feet bare as he descended the stairs, by-passing the living room and heading straight for the study. It wasn't books that he sought but the cavalry sword that had been passed down Ethan's family line. He unsheathed the blade silently.

Ethan stared; this was Randall - *Randall* - and said softly: "Can't we... exorcise it?"

Rupert's eyes slid over him, flat and emotionless, "Tried that already," a smile without humour. "Eyghon told me to shut up."

Compulsion.

Rayne's eyes closed: "What makes you think you can get to him before he tells you to drop it?" he gestured to the sword.

"Because I have to. Because if I don't, Eyghon will do the same thing tonight - will keep on doing it, until you let me die."

//Let him die?//

Giles saw the look, his own expression going strangely blank when he realised that Ethan *would* keep him alive - if it came to that. Because Ethan was a survivor - and in the back of his mind was the notion that this time it could be different. At present, Rupert wasn't inclined to appreciate that dedication, sliding past Ethan and moving back into the living room, tossing a question over his shoulder: "When did you get back?"

"Last night."

Last night - and Giles froze.

It always seemed strange to Ethan that in the end, it was an object as innocuous as a coffee cup that did the most damage.

It sat empty by the couch where Ethan had spent the night researching Eyghon.

Giles was staring at it, and Ethan suddenly saw it through his eyes. Rupert had been repeatedly raped and tortured over a twenty-four hour period, while his best friend sat downstairs and drank coffee.

He couldn't know that Eyghon had snatched Giles when the other man was still deciding if Ethan cared for him or not. Couldn't know that Giles was looking for proof concrete that Ethan loved him. All Giles knew was that he hadn't cared enough to stop it, and if Eyghon repeated what had happened earlier, Ethan would revive him without hesitation. Chaining him to a world of torment and the ministrations of a demon.

Giles *wasn't* a survivor. He was a fighter. Given those options, he'd fight, and if necessary, die - accepted death as a natural progression. But Ethan, Ethan didn't... and Ethan had been drinking coffee...

He turned, sword clutched in his hand, face blanched white, remembering the feel of Randall's body, the demon's voice.

...the sly flick of a knife, parting skin and tissue...
...teeth at his neck and collar-bone...

The final act, flinching even as it seared across his mind.

...Randall cutting him, a precise incision across the stomach... and the demon was *hard*, always hard, pushing into that man-made slit, and he couldn't scream any more, knew he was going to die, but god, just let there be peace, falling into softness even as Ethan wrenched him back...

Forgive the other man?

Forgive him for sitting downstairs and drinking coffee? Forgive him for making Giles face the possibility that it might occur again? He could feel everything shutter down, a wall of steel flaring up and blocking the other man from his thoughts, unable to dissolve the connection but doing his damnedest to bar him from entry.

He heard Ethan stumble, realised the mystic had felt the mental barricade, and didn't give a fuck. What would Eyghon do to him if he failed? The final whisper (boy, we've barely begun) - the demon *knew* Ethan would heal him, had been *counting* on it, and it lent Giles a terror he couldn't begin to fathom.

His knuckles were white when he entered the room, seeing Eyghon. There was no trace of Randall, the demon had emerged whole, shedding skin like a snake. In the first traces of dawn, his power was at a minimum, eyes closed as he reclined on the bed, and Giles never once hesitated. Bringing the sword down just as its eyes flickered open.

The body dissolved, trailing into green.

Ethan stared. He'd spent the night researching the book and *knew* exactly what Giles had deduced. Dawn was the best time for attack. Keeping them *both* alive to see it had been the name of his game, and he needed to explain that to Giles, *now*. He stepped forward, mind still reeling from the loss of contact, and touched Giles hesitantly.

Ripper spun, catching Ethan with a fist that he never saw. Head exploding in pain as his jaw was shattered, blinking on the floor from three feet away as Giles left the room without a word. Eyghons' words from the night before sounding like a whisper (you were right, he would have stayed with you forever... until tonight).

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The demon sat quietly, a tooth-pick at the corner of his mouth and a pint of beer in front of him. Watching the footy match with a few other die hard drinkers.

Technically speaking, this meeting should have occurred in hell - or at least in one of its various dimensions. But this particular demon had an aversion to Hades - the heat for one thing, not to mention all the damn screaming - and had resolved to settle it elsewhere. So he had bent the rules a little bit - usurped a corpse for his purpose - and was now patiently awaiting the arrival of Eyghon.

The sex demon could give him the low-down here and *then* he could continue on his merry way to Hades.

He sipped at his beer, watching as Eyghon entered in the body of a fifty year old jogger, who had snuffed it not thirty seconds before by way of heart attack. Convenient timing. Eyghon took the seat opposite.

"Is it done?"

"Yes," the voice was pissy. "I still don't know why I had to die though."

The demon smiled, "Eyghon, they're *bound* to you. You'll get your chance at them... one day."

A dreamy smile, and then Eyghon straightened, piercing him with a look through and through. "So why?"

The demon shrugged, tilting his hat back. "They were too powerful. Ethan Rayne and Rupert Giles alone don't matter too much, but *together* - they tip the balances."

"And that's where you come in?"

"It's a job."

A sneer in Eyghon's voice, taking a sip from the demon's glass, "To keep the balances between good and evil on an even keel?"

"Yes," Whistler nodded, face serious. "Ethan Rayne was prepared to follow Giles anywhere. Two mystics of their power *helping* a Slayer, and *that* Slayer in particular! It would have been an unfair advantage to the white team."

"So, now that we've torn them apart, is it all on an even keel?"

Whistler shrugged, suddenly tired. He knew of the future, or more accurately, he knew of possible futures.

He knew Giles would never seriously practice magic again.

He knew Rayne, enmeshed in bitterness, would be driven further into the arms of Chaos.

He knew that what Eyghon had done to the young Watcher these past few hours would hold Giles in good stead come twenty years, if a vampire named Angelus should ever reveal his face.

But was it on an even keel? Strangely, Whistler didn't know.

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