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indriSUMMARY: Giles and Ethan, the electric Kool-Aid funky Satan groove year, in the early seventies. Rated M. Spoilers to Band Candy. Acknowledgements and disclaimers.
35.
Well, thought Ethan, what a crashing disappointment that had been. He was in his room, crouched down, looking through a box for his hashish and homemade pipe. God knows, but he needed something to take the edge off that disaster.
Inept, inhibited, and unwilling to take instruction was not a combination he could do much with. And yet, Ripper couldn't be that bad with Adrienne, or she'd never have kept him. It wasn't as if he were being asked to do something difficult.
There were footsteps along the corridor and Ethan thought, for fuck's sake, Ripper, please just go away, but no, he tapped on the door and tentatively opened it.
"Erm," Ripper said, standing in the doorway and staring at his shoe. "I didn't quite finish you off."
"Please don't worry about it," said Ethan.
"But, but I am worried about it," said Ripper. He stepped further into the room, and still without looking at Ethan, took off his leather jacket and laid it on the floor, perhaps to indicate that this time he might be willing to get even partially undressed. Then he sat on the floor and started taking off his boots.
And Ethan looked at him, wondering how Round Two could possibly be worth it. He should really just throw him out and forget about it, apologise to Adrienne that he wouldn't be able to take Ripper off her hands after all.
Ripper took his socks off and finally managed to look at Ethan. He was looking to see whether Ethan would say yes.
And Ethan considered whether to cut this dead or give it another chance. He rubbed at his forehead with the heel of his hand. At least, he thought, this was unlikely to be a world-ending decision.
"All right," Ethan said.
Much later, Ethan woke to the sounds of the others coming home. It was already light, so they must have taken one of the morning trains. He thought he could hear laughter from the kitchen, and a while later he heard Randall's heavy tread up to the drawing room below.
Ripper was sprawled on his stomach next to Ethan, still quite asleep, his bare right shoulder protruding from the blankets. Ethan considered running his hand along it and across Ripper's back, but he decided not to wake him up quite yet.
Instead he sat up and reached for Ripper's jacket. He went through the pockets, one by one, to see what was there. Most of it was what he'd expected: car keys, cigarettes, a guitar pick and a wallet. More surprising was, oh dear, an ornate and heavy cross on a chain. There was also a rather fetching pair of glasses that Ethan would love to see Ripper wear.
The wallet contained a little money and several hard-to-get reader's cards from academic libraries. There was a driver's license that Ethan unfolded onto his knee. Ripper's name was Rupert Giles. The out-of-date address was for an Oxford college. He was two years younger than Ethan, twenty-one and quite legal.
Ethan packed it all away carefully, as he had found it, and put the jacket back on the floor. He looked at Ripper. He was a Rupert, then, like the investigative teddy bear in the red top and yellow check trousers.
Ethan leant over to wake him up.
36.
Ripper woke a second time to find Ethan sitting on the mattress next to him, reading the paper. He looked freshly-washed and had a cup of tea next to him. It felt like the late morning.
"Oh God, what time is it?" Ripper whispered.
"Around eleven, I think."
Ripper groped for his watch. "Oh God, oh God," he said, when he saw the time. "The bus is in five minutes and I've got to get washed and dressed and, and..."
"Why don't you drive?"
"It's impossible to get a park on a Saturday," Ripper said. "I'm going to be late! I'll be fired."
"I'll drive you," said Ethan. "I'll drop you off and you can catch the bus home."
"All right," said Ripper. He pulled on his jeans and hesitated at the door.
"They're all downstairs," said Ethan, so Ripper left for a wash and some clean clothes. Everyone else seemed to be in the drawing room. He bumped into Randall on the first floor landing.
"Dee's still tripping," Randall explained, looking very tired. Most, but not all, of his facepaint had been washed off. "We're looking after her."
"Right," said Ripper. "I have to go to work."
Ethan was waiting for him downstairs, next to where Ripper's car was parked out front. Ethan sat in the driver's seat, took the keys, and then stared at the dashboard for a long moment.
"You do know how to drive, don't you?" asked Ripper.
"Why would I not know how to drive?"
"I haven't seen you driving."
"I don't have a car."
"When did you last drive then?"
"1968," said Ethan. "No, wait, I'm wrong. 1970."
"I could call in sick," said Ripper.
Ethan put the key in the ignition and turned. "There we go," he said. "But you'll need to give me directions. I don't know where this place is."
Ripper couldn't think of anything to talk about on the drive, so it was Ethan who kept up the conversation, sometimes breaking off mid-sentence as he changed lanes or turned a corner.
"She's all right," Ethan was saying, "but maybe the dosage was a little wrong. She's only winding down now."
"That's one of the reasons why I didn't stay at the gig," Ripper said. "I had terrible nightmares the last time I took that stuff."
"She seems to have enjoyed it," Ethan said. "It just went on a little long. They had a hard time keeping her from shouting in the train station."
"Is shouting a normal side effect?"
"I'm not sure that I would know."
"It's the second on the right from here," Ripper said.
He stuck to the set list through lunchtime, playing by rote, but no-one seemed to much care. Once he'd finished, the manager gave him his week's wages. As always, Ripper took the cash and then wondered how he'd managed to spend all of last week's.
He deliberately missed his usual bus home and went for a walk through the city streets. There were a couple of decent record shops a twenty minute walk away. Still carrying his guitar, he edged his way down the narrow aisles, taking his time to pick something out. He bought a Nick Drake LP just as his stomach started to remind him that he hadn't eaten anything since the pub meal the night before.
He found a bakery near the Tube station and bought a pie and a bun. He ate them as he waited for his train, then read the record's liner notes as headed towards the nearest Northern Line station. But he had run out of things to distract him by the time he changed trains. Last night had not been entirely what he had envisaged, but it was over with and no-one seemed to have noticed. He was pretty sure that Ethan wouldn't say anything to anyone else. Pretty sure, yes.
Back at the house, he found Ethan heating up several cans' worth of chicken soup on the stove. "Make us some toast?" Ethan asked him. "They're all feeling poorly and don't feel well enough to cook."
Up in the drawing room, everyone looked trashed. Pillows and cushions had been piled up for people to rest on. Tom was fast asleep on a rug, but Dee, Randall and Stan were at least nominally conscious.
Dee was explaining what she'd seen and felt. "And all the way through," she said, after swallowing a mouthful of soup, "was this sense of extension, of being a continuous piece of a world-spanning whole." She looked uncertainly at Ethan. "Do you know the kind of thing I mean?"
"Every time I'm in the magic," Ethan said.
Everyone went to bed very early, even Ethan. Ripper stayed awake for a while, trying to read a book. He could hear Randall snoring in the room next to him.
After a while, he put down his book, left his room, and crept along the corridor to Ethan's. He tapped very quietly on the door. Ethan opened it, looking at Ripper inquiringly.
"Um," said Ripper.
35.
Well, thought Ethan, what a crashing disappointment that had been. He was in his room, crouched down, looking through a box for his hashish and homemade pipe. God knows, but he needed something to take the edge off that disaster.
Inept, inhibited, and unwilling to take instruction was not a combination he could do much with. And yet, Ripper couldn't be that bad with Adrienne, or she'd never have kept him. It wasn't as if he were being asked to do something difficult.
There were footsteps along the corridor and Ethan thought, for fuck's sake, Ripper, please just go away, but no, he tapped on the door and tentatively opened it.
"Erm," Ripper said, standing in the doorway and staring at his shoe. "I didn't quite finish you off."
"Please don't worry about it," said Ethan.
"But, but I am worried about it," said Ripper. He stepped further into the room, and still without looking at Ethan, took off his leather jacket and laid it on the floor, perhaps to indicate that this time he might be willing to get even partially undressed. Then he sat on the floor and started taking off his boots.
And Ethan looked at him, wondering how Round Two could possibly be worth it. He should really just throw him out and forget about it, apologise to Adrienne that he wouldn't be able to take Ripper off her hands after all.
Ripper took his socks off and finally managed to look at Ethan. He was looking to see whether Ethan would say yes.
And Ethan considered whether to cut this dead or give it another chance. He rubbed at his forehead with the heel of his hand. At least, he thought, this was unlikely to be a world-ending decision.
"All right," Ethan said.
Much later, Ethan woke to the sounds of the others coming home. It was already light, so they must have taken one of the morning trains. He thought he could hear laughter from the kitchen, and a while later he heard Randall's heavy tread up to the drawing room below.
Ripper was sprawled on his stomach next to Ethan, still quite asleep, his bare right shoulder protruding from the blankets. Ethan considered running his hand along it and across Ripper's back, but he decided not to wake him up quite yet.
Instead he sat up and reached for Ripper's jacket. He went through the pockets, one by one, to see what was there. Most of it was what he'd expected: car keys, cigarettes, a guitar pick and a wallet. More surprising was, oh dear, an ornate and heavy cross on a chain. There was also a rather fetching pair of glasses that Ethan would love to see Ripper wear.
The wallet contained a little money and several hard-to-get reader's cards from academic libraries. There was a driver's license that Ethan unfolded onto his knee. Ripper's name was Rupert Giles. The out-of-date address was for an Oxford college. He was two years younger than Ethan, twenty-one and quite legal.
Ethan packed it all away carefully, as he had found it, and put the jacket back on the floor. He looked at Ripper. He was a Rupert, then, like the investigative teddy bear in the red top and yellow check trousers.
Ethan leant over to wake him up.
36.
Ripper woke a second time to find Ethan sitting on the mattress next to him, reading the paper. He looked freshly-washed and had a cup of tea next to him. It felt like the late morning.
"Oh God, what time is it?" Ripper whispered.
"Around eleven, I think."
Ripper groped for his watch. "Oh God, oh God," he said, when he saw the time. "The bus is in five minutes and I've got to get washed and dressed and, and..."
"Why don't you drive?"
"It's impossible to get a park on a Saturday," Ripper said. "I'm going to be late! I'll be fired."
"I'll drive you," said Ethan. "I'll drop you off and you can catch the bus home."
"All right," said Ripper. He pulled on his jeans and hesitated at the door.
"They're all downstairs," said Ethan, so Ripper left for a wash and some clean clothes. Everyone else seemed to be in the drawing room. He bumped into Randall on the first floor landing.
"Dee's still tripping," Randall explained, looking very tired. Most, but not all, of his facepaint had been washed off. "We're looking after her."
"Right," said Ripper. "I have to go to work."
Ethan was waiting for him downstairs, next to where Ripper's car was parked out front. Ethan sat in the driver's seat, took the keys, and then stared at the dashboard for a long moment.
"You do know how to drive, don't you?" asked Ripper.
"Why would I not know how to drive?"
"I haven't seen you driving."
"I don't have a car."
"When did you last drive then?"
"1968," said Ethan. "No, wait, I'm wrong. 1970."
"I could call in sick," said Ripper.
Ethan put the key in the ignition and turned. "There we go," he said. "But you'll need to give me directions. I don't know where this place is."
Ripper couldn't think of anything to talk about on the drive, so it was Ethan who kept up the conversation, sometimes breaking off mid-sentence as he changed lanes or turned a corner.
"She's all right," Ethan was saying, "but maybe the dosage was a little wrong. She's only winding down now."
"That's one of the reasons why I didn't stay at the gig," Ripper said. "I had terrible nightmares the last time I took that stuff."
"She seems to have enjoyed it," Ethan said. "It just went on a little long. They had a hard time keeping her from shouting in the train station."
"Is shouting a normal side effect?"
"I'm not sure that I would know."
"It's the second on the right from here," Ripper said.
He stuck to the set list through lunchtime, playing by rote, but no-one seemed to much care. Once he'd finished, the manager gave him his week's wages. As always, Ripper took the cash and then wondered how he'd managed to spend all of last week's.
He deliberately missed his usual bus home and went for a walk through the city streets. There were a couple of decent record shops a twenty minute walk away. Still carrying his guitar, he edged his way down the narrow aisles, taking his time to pick something out. He bought a Nick Drake LP just as his stomach started to remind him that he hadn't eaten anything since the pub meal the night before.
He found a bakery near the Tube station and bought a pie and a bun. He ate them as he waited for his train, then read the record's liner notes as headed towards the nearest Northern Line station. But he had run out of things to distract him by the time he changed trains. Last night had not been entirely what he had envisaged, but it was over with and no-one seemed to have noticed. He was pretty sure that Ethan wouldn't say anything to anyone else. Pretty sure, yes.
Back at the house, he found Ethan heating up several cans' worth of chicken soup on the stove. "Make us some toast?" Ethan asked him. "They're all feeling poorly and don't feel well enough to cook."
Up in the drawing room, everyone looked trashed. Pillows and cushions had been piled up for people to rest on. Tom was fast asleep on a rug, but Dee, Randall and Stan were at least nominally conscious.
Dee was explaining what she'd seen and felt. "And all the way through," she said, after swallowing a mouthful of soup, "was this sense of extension, of being a continuous piece of a world-spanning whole." She looked uncertainly at Ethan. "Do you know the kind of thing I mean?"
"Every time I'm in the magic," Ethan said.
Everyone went to bed very early, even Ethan. Ripper stayed awake for a while, trying to read a book. He could hear Randall snoring in the room next to him.
After a while, he put down his book, left his room, and crept along the corridor to Ethan's. He tapped very quietly on the door. Ethan opened it, looking at Ripper inquiringly.
"Um," said Ripper.
