“I get knocked, down but I get up again you're never gonna keep me down.”
—Tubthumping, Chumbawumba

1997-London

“Mr. Holmes, there’s a Mr. Giles to see you,” said the man at the door. Giles didn’t hear a response, but a moment later the man moved back into the hallway and gave him a gruff “Go ahead,” that Giles ignored as he dashed through the door.

He might have run right into the desk where Mycroft Holmes was sitting, but the other man raised his hand without raising his eyes from the two computer screens on the desk in front of him and Giles stopped a foot or two away. An awkward silence followed, and when Giles found his patience wearing thin, he blurted out:

“You’ve quit the Council!” He meant it to sound like a bold and angry declaration and was annoyed to find himself yelping out the accusation like a lovesick girl.

“An astute observation.” Mycroft still didn’t look up.

“Dammit, Mycroft, look at me!” Giles demanded even as he felt his stomach twist at what he might see in the other man’s eyes when he finally tore himself away from the monitors.

After Oxford, then Ethan, then Eyghon and the death of Randall, Giles had moved back into the fold and accepted his duties as a potential Watcher. He’d foresworn all magicks and done his best to quit chaos cold turkey. It had been nearly impossible, and even now he believed that he would have failed, that he would have succumbed as Ethan had, if not for the man before him. Classes in Watcher theory were brain numbing beyond belief, and the physical training, the fighting and weapons classes, often found him in the change room afterwards shaking under a cold shower as he struggled to contain the violent, chaotic magick that he could feel inside him.

When Quentin had introduced the newest recruit as the son of one of the Witches of Devon, Giles had felt like he’d opened the windows on a sunny day after months of rain. He found himself making excuses to spend time with Mycroft Holmes. He claimed ignorance of even the most basic Slayer lore in order to study with the ginger haired young man who had apparently memorized all of the Council’s information before even showing up. He told his weapons trainer that Mycroft was just the right height and build to really test him in everything from mace and bullwhip to hand-to-hand. And when Mycroft showed an aptitude for white magick, Giles made himself Holmes’ lab partner, and only had to bribe Robson and Watson to earn that place.

Mycroft finally looked at him.

“My place is no longer with the Watcher’s Council,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument.

Giles had once let a demon possess him and then mere minutes after expelling the creature, he’d engaged in a marathon group sex session from which he had emerged the clear winner. And he’d had this man’s cock in his mouth. He wasn’t about to be cowed by a tone.

“What—I don’t understand, Mycroft. You were sure to be the next Slayer’s chosen Watcher. Your marks in hand-to-hand alone rivaled even Robson’s and you’re surely the best seer we’ve had in a generation. Why--?”

“I had to, Rupert,” he said in that same voice, rising and turning his back on Giles to stare out the large window behind his desk. “I find that my talents are needed elsewhere; that there are others out there in need of a watcher like me.”

Giles joined him at the window and followed Mycroft’s gaze. A dark haired youth sat on a bench in the corner of the expansive lawn smoking a cigarette. Unsure of what had drawn Mycroft to that particular view, he looked away a moment later and instead took in the features of the man beside him. The small frown on lips that Giles knew could smile and kiss with enthusiasm. The furrowed brow that spoke of great concentration whether Mycroft was reading the history of William the Bloody or finding new and frustrating ways of holding off orgasm until Giles was begging for release. And the smattering of freckles on an otherwise pale neck that held up Mycroft’s head and wore Giles’ love bites with equal pride.

“The Council needs you….I need you,” Giles whispered the last, only now admitting the truth of it to himself. Mycroft didn’t turn from the window, but Giles felt the other man’s hand brush against his own, and he tangled their fingers together in something like relief.

“Rupert, you have been a good friend to me. A friend, and so much more, as you well know. And you will be a superb Watcher. While I may have the gift of sight, I have neither your empathy nor your strength.”

“But—“

“It’s done, Rupert. My path now takes a different turn from yours, one at once more personal as well as national. I hope you can understand that.”

Giles didn’t want to understand. He wanted to rant, and fight, and maybe even find a spell that—

Mycroft suddenly gave him a sharp look, and Giles felt his cheeks flush, realizing that his emotional entanglement with this man had taken a sudden dark turn that he had hoped not to feel again.

Without a word, Mycroft leaned forward and kissed Giles hard on the mouth. There was no finesse in the press of his lips, no detachment in the way he crushed the hand he was still holding. Giles immediately deepened the kiss with tongue and small nips and panting breaths, and his free hand came up around the nape of Mycroft’s neck.

Long minutes passed, but before their matching erections could do more than a quick bob, rub and how are you, Mycroft pulled gently away and smiled at Giles. The smile that Giles recognized from late night study sessions, early morning make out sessions and a thousand moments in between.

“So, we’re still good, yeah?” A bit of Westbury pre-Oxford accent slipped out before Giles was able to slow his breathing. "We'll still see each other?"

“Of course. Soon,” Mycroft promised. Then he pushed Giles towards the exit. “Goodbye, Rupert.”

Giles paused at the door, lips tingling, trousers feeling too tight. Mycroft was sitting down at his desk again and Giles grinned as he watched the other man surreptitiously adjust his own trousers.

“Goodbye, Mycroft.” As the same man who had announced him escorted him out of the building, Giles thought he might see if he could get out of the demon theory session he was supposed to be in tomorrow to take Mycroft out for a meal and maybe even a movie. He was grinning as he trotted back to his car.

The next day Giles was shocked to be told he was to be the new Watcher for the most recent Slayer, who had been called in California, of all places, and at a site of some mystical convergence no less.

And twenty four hours later he was on a plane to Sunnydale without exchanging another word with Mycroft Holmes.

“Even through the rain I kept my faith
The will to follow through
And I'll never lose my way again
And it's all because of you.”
--Anything is Possible, Will Young

2002 Devon

Giles was shocked to see Mycroft answering the door himself. He wore suit pants, but no jacket or tie and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. Even this slightly disheveled look made Giles feel self conscious of the old trousers and plain jumper he was wearing. But, ‘He looks tired,’ he thought, and then wondered if he was wearing the years between them on his face in the same way. When he realized he was unconsciously sucking in his stomach, he let out an awkward and shaky laugh and held out his hand.

“Mycroft,” he said.

“Rupert,” the other man responded with the same cool smile that Giles remembered from their first meeting, and when he held the warm grip Mycroft put on his hand for just a fraction too long, and was held in return, he almost forgot his reason for being there.

Reluctantly he released Mycroft’s hand and reached for the young girl cowering behind him.

“Mycroft, this is Willow."

“Of course. Miss Hartness and the Coven have been waiting for her.”

‘And I have been waiting for you,’ thought Giles as Mycroft ushered him into the house. And he felt a warm thrill rush through him when Mycroft turned to look at him and he saw the same thought mirrored in the other man’s eyes.