FIC: Broken English - Part 9 - (Giles/Ethan) - R
Actually, ‘Bugger’ is putting it mildly. Giles just watched a small fortune go up in smoke, his shirt is soaking wet, his glasses are gone, his ankle is throbbing, and he’s freezing his arse off. If holds his breath to listen, all he can make out over the rapid hammering of his heart, is Ethan’s uneven breathing and the rustle of leaves whenever one of them shifts a little. Beyond that? Not a bloody sound. Not even the soothing hum of cars travelling in the distance. Great. No autobahn, no phone. While he’s sitting here, God knows where, incommunicado, counting his woes, Abramelin’s grimoire will go to another buyer.
But the crowning glory of today’s complete and utter disaster? The one thing Giles promised himself he’d never do again: Working magic with Ethan.
The last time another practitioner of magic poured massive amounts of power into him, Giles was preparing to stop Willow from destroying the world. A heady experience, but one he mastered. But Ethan’s magic is different than the coven’s. Granted, not as wild and reckless as it used to be, but still a far cry from safe and sound. Dear Lord, just thinking about it causes a tingle to travel down his spine, makes his hands twitch with the urge to touch and-
Giles clenches his fists.
“Come now, Rupert. Don’t look so glum. Look on the bright side. At least you’ve got company.”
Giles’s niggling suspicion that Ethan has him right where he wants him sharpens into certainty. “You’re not company.”
Ethan slaps a hand over his heart, as though hit by a bullet. “Ouch, you kill me!”
“Stop it. I have no patience for your games!”
“Ease up, Rupert, it’s not like you’re in any real danger. What do you think will happen when your valiant Slayer finds out her watcher is AWOL?”
Giles keeps his voice even. “Buffy will come for me.” And walk right into a trap?
“Exactly. We both know she’ll launch a full-scale rescue mission. Helicopters, flamethrowers, witches. The whole goddamn cavalry. Trust me; you’ll be rid of me before you know it.”
A shiver races down Giles’s spine. A chill that has nothing to do with the cold and everything with the trace of bitter finality that is skulking underneath Ethan’s easy smirk. A hint of despair that Giles never sensed from Ethan before. Giles squints, wishing he hadn’t lost his spectacles in the crash. The dark is playing tricks with his eyesight, making Ethan’s expression even harder to read than usual.
What does Ethan want with him?
Abruptly, Ethan scrambles to his feet. “As much as I hate to break up this cosy little palaver, it’s too cold to just sit around on our arses. We better get a move on before our pricks turn into friggin’ popsicles.”
Move? Not bloody likely. Giles doesn’t even try. Just shakes his head.
Stomping his feet, Ethan rubs his hands and breathes on them. “What? Got a hurtie? Want me to kiss it better?”
“Shut up!”
“Come now, Rupert, you white hats are supposed to scoff at scrapes and bruises.”
“I broke my foot. In the crash.”
“Oh?” The stomping stops. “My my, you really are buggered, mate.” And then: “Well, don’t look at me for first aid. I’m a chaos worshipper, not a doctor. One of the bad guys, remember?”
As if Giles could ever forget. Yet, he also remembers Ethan’s profound knowledge of herbs and drugs and his intuitive understanding of the human body. Not to mention the deftness of his hands. Squandered gifts, always used for self-gratification or gain. A bloody waste of talent.
“None of this would have happened if you hadn’t turned up,” Giles lashes out.
“Ah yes, driving too fast and crashing the car was all my doing. And whoever set your car on fire had fuckall to do with you or your precious Council. Right. And I’m the archbishop of Canterbury.”
“You turn up, out of nowhere. Alive, when I know you to be dead! What am I supposed to think?”
“How about: ‘Welcome back’?”
Giles stifles a sigh. Tries to sound firm. In control. Just because Ethan has nothing to do with the people who torched the car, doesn’t mean that he isn’t up to one of his old tricks. “Look, Ethan-“
“No! You look, Rupert!” One brisk stride brings Ethan into striking range. Giles braces himself for a vicious kick, because, like him, Ethan is not above kicking someone who is already down. But the blow never comes. Instead, Ethan crouches beside him, close enough for the warmth of his breath to mingle with Giles’s. “I never made you do anything you didn’t want. When are you going to stop blaming me for each and every screw-up in your life?”
“For God’s sake, Ethan, this isn’t about Randall and the others!”
“You’re right. It’s not. Only, it always is, isn’t it? It’s always about Randall. And Deirdre. And the others. You think I don’t know my part in their deaths? We were young. We played with fire. We got burnt. Deal with it!” With that, Ethan stands up again.
Maybe it’s just as well that Giles can’t stand up as well, because white-hot rage washes over him, momentarily dispelling the mind-numbing cold. “You!” he spits, hands balled into fists. “You’re not the one who got burnt.”
“No? Well think again, mate.” Ethan’s voice sounds jagged. “Where do you think I’ve been, since that bullet smashed into my brain and dropped me dead?”
Giles flinches. Around them, skeletal trees glower in silent reproach. Snowflakes continue to trundle down. With all this yelling they must have woken every goddamn living thing in the whole bloody forest, but all Giles can hear is the hammering of his heart and Ethan’s agitated breathing.
Is it possible that Ethan is saying the truth? The image of Ethan writhing and screaming as hellish flames gnaw at his flesh tastes like bile in Giles’s mouth.
Of course he’s glad that Ethan is no longer dead. However, he also knows that hell is not exactly a place renowned for letting go of its prey. What kind of deal did Ethan make? Was he forced to claw his way out of his own grave, like Buffy, reanimated by dark necromancy? Who’d be interested in bringing him back into play? Janus? The First? A dark coven?
“Why are you here, Ethan?”
“To see you.”
Even though the words ring true, this is not the answer Giles is looking for. “That’s not what I asked.”
“I know.”
TBC
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