FIC: Broken English - Part 10 - (Giles/Ethan) - R
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.”
***
The silence lengthens, transmuting into a ceasefire. With the heat of their argument gone, the cold inches back towards them like a wolf on the prowl.
Ethan frowns at the sky that is mottled with snow. “I spy with my little eyes, something that starts with s.”
Giles sighs, but decides to accept the change of subject. “Snow?”
“Exactly. We need to find shelter.”
Giles struggles to keep his teeth from chattering but fails abysmally. “But of course! B-brilliant thinking. Why didn’t I think of that?”
With one languid flick of his wrist, Ethan brushes his sarcasm aside. “Come on. Surely a couple of old mystics like us can whip some sort of divination spell together.” He tilts his head, as though to listen for a distant sound that only he can hear. “There’s magic here. I can taste it in the wind. Can’t you feel it?”
Giles shakes his head. The mind-numbing cold and the pain in his ankle leave very little room for anything else.
“Something’s asleep here. Powerful, but wild,” Ethan muses, longing in his voice. “Old as grit. Probably slept through the whole German division and reunification saga without even a blink. I suppose I could siphon off some of its power, without waking it. But then you’ll have to take over. Take control.”
“What makes you think I can control it?”
“Oh, come on! You’ve always been better at holding spells together,” Ethan reminds him, exuding a confidence Giles finds hard to share.
Casting a delicate spell after the thorough power drain of their earlier teleportation spell is like attempting to fold an origami lion out of cigarette skins right after busting one’s knuckles in a boxing match. With only wild magic to draw on? Giles shakes his head. It can’t be done. “Not without some kind of ritual.”
“So?”
“Need I remind you that a ritual requires a variety of specific objects? Like chalk, candles and other ingredients. Consecrated objects. Not to mention a focus of some sort. I don’t see a magic shop here. Do you?” The words come out breathless and choppy.
“Then invent a ritual that works without those things!” Ethan snaps. “Preferably, before we both turn into ice sculptures.”
“That’s easy for you to say!”
“Nag, nag, nag.” Ethan shrugs out of his coat. Two long strides, and he is squatting at Giles’s side to drape the garment round Giles’s shoulders. “Listen to yourself! You sound like an old granny. Old Granny Grunt.”
“You do realize, that calling me an old granny is scarcely suited to endear yourself to me,” Giles grouses, pretending that buttoning the coat requires his utmost attention.
It’s not a proper winter coat, obviously chosen for its soft material and fashionable cut rather than for warmth, but Ethan’s lingering body heat makes up for it. Giles knows he ought to express his gratitude, but the faint traces of masculine musk that lurk underneath the hint of expensive cologne make Ethan’s kindness hard to bear. Tongue-tied, Giles forces himself to meet Ethan’s gaze, mentally kicking himself for his cowardice.
For two, maybe three heartbeats, they are both silent, then Ethan flaps up Giles’s collar and steps back. “Think nothing of it. As you full well know, I’m merely looking out for my own interest.”
Scowling at the tightness in his chest, Giles tries to focus on the problem at hand. Improvisation isn’t his strong suit, but for seven years he’s watched Buffy stab vampires with pool cues, pencils, fences and sign posts in lieu of stakes; he’s watched her use rocket launchers and holy water, heard her order the buffybot into battle as a decoy; he’s even seen her turn a notorious vampire into an ally. These seven years have taught him one thing: in order to survive Slayers have to work with what fate puts their way. Surely, the same goes for Watchers.
Giles holds out his hand. “Empty your pockets.”
“Yes, Sir.” Ethan affects a snappy salute, but his voice sounds strained. “Right away, Sir.”
Methodically turning his pockets inside out, as though to say, ‘lookie here, no secrets’, Ethan surrenders a pack of smokes, matches, and a Swiss pocket knife. No wallet, only a handful of loose change, ten coins in all. Precious little to work with. Somehow, Giles expected Ethan to carry amulets, charms, and potions, or at the very least some representation of his god.
“Check the coat. Breast pocket.”
Giles finds not a small Janus idol but a flask. It resembles the one Spike always drank from on patrol, during that awful summer, when Buffy was dead and buried and solace resided in the dregs of bourbon bottles…. Giles unscrews the cap: Whiskey fumes, slightly peaty. Excellent quality. Miles from the bottom shelf booze Spike used to drown his grief in.
Giles sets the flask on the ground, then rifles through the remaining coat pockets. He finds neither wallet nor ID. But something else: a pack of condoms. Unopened.
Giles’s gaze darts from the pack on his palm to the shivering chaos mage, who is stomping his feet in a vain attempt to keep the cold at bay.
“Oh, that.” Ethan shrugs. “Hope springs eternal.”
Giles swallows. The utter resignation in Ethan’s voice is like a stab through the heart.
It would be easy to say something cutting. Too easy. Without comment, Giles tosses the condoms on the small pile of Ethan’s possessions and proceeds to add the contents of his own pockets: a handkerchief, a Swiss pocket knife, and his wallet. No condoms, and how sad is that?
Ethan is right. For years, the memory of the sleepwalker has been like a black djinn spilling from its cursed bottle at every conceivable opportunity. It loomed behind him as he studied for his exams; it kept him in line, whenever he felt like straying from the narrow path mapped out for him.
Well, Giles is sick of it! Sick of letting feelings of guilt hound him down a path he willingly follows anyway; sick of driving Ethan away, again and again; sick of letting the past dictate what he can and can’t do! Frowning, he studies the small pile of objects in front of him. Divination rituals are lengthy affairs that require a peace of body and spirit, that Giles feels unable to muster. No, a divination spell is out of the question. But waking something that’s already nearby, with Ethan’s whiskey acting as an offering, now, that might just work. There’s no telling what kind of entity Ethan is sensing, but most likely it’s an earth or forest spirit. These creatures aren’t exactly keen on humankind, but some have developed a palate for human spirits.
He has no chalks to draw a circle. Not that the uneven ground lends itself to geometric drawings. Still, it’s unwise to call forth unknown powers without some kind of protection. What other resources…? His roaming gaze comes to rest on Ethan’s scarf. “I’ll need your scarf. Your belt and tie, too.”
Ethan hands them over.
Giles calculates their combined length. “And your socks.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing.” Ethan toes off his shoes.
Ethan’s socks are black, and so soft, they have to be brand-new. Even so, Giles can barely tie them together. Maybe it’s because he’s shivering in spite of the warmth of Ethan’s coat. He hands the items back along with his own belt. “Here, you do it. Tie a rope. It doesn’t need to be strong; just long enough to form a circle that will hold us both.”
“A protective circle?” Ethan blurts out. “From you? But you detest all forms of summoning magic!”
“I do.” Giles is glad that his voice is steady. “That’s why we are going to be careful.”
“We?”
“I wouldn’t even dream of trying this without you.”
It’s too dark to see Ethan’s face, but Giles can hear his sharp intake of breath.
A moment later, Ethan is crouching beside him. “So, what kind of offering do you have in mind?” Now that Ethan is close enough for Giles to be able to read his expression, his unfathomable half-smile is back. “Blood?”
He picks up Giles’s pocket knife and snaps it open to study the length of blade. ‘Mine’s longer,’ his arched eyebrow seems to say.
Giles sighs. ‘Grow up, will you?’ Yet, at the same time he feels a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. “I was thinking of trying the whiskey first.”
With a radiant smile, Ethan snaps the knife shut. “As you wish.”
* * *
TBC
.
“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.”
***
The silence lengthens, transmuting into a ceasefire. With the heat of their argument gone, the cold inches back towards them like a wolf on the prowl.
Ethan frowns at the sky that is mottled with snow. “I spy with my little eyes, something that starts with s.”
Giles sighs, but decides to accept the change of subject. “Snow?”
“Exactly. We need to find shelter.”
Giles struggles to keep his teeth from chattering but fails abysmally. “But of course! B-brilliant thinking. Why didn’t I think of that?”
With one languid flick of his wrist, Ethan brushes his sarcasm aside. “Come on. Surely a couple of old mystics like us can whip some sort of divination spell together.” He tilts his head, as though to listen for a distant sound that only he can hear. “There’s magic here. I can taste it in the wind. Can’t you feel it?”
Giles shakes his head. The mind-numbing cold and the pain in his ankle leave very little room for anything else.
“Something’s asleep here. Powerful, but wild,” Ethan muses, longing in his voice. “Old as grit. Probably slept through the whole German division and reunification saga without even a blink. I suppose I could siphon off some of its power, without waking it. But then you’ll have to take over. Take control.”
“What makes you think I can control it?”
“Oh, come on! You’ve always been better at holding spells together,” Ethan reminds him, exuding a confidence Giles finds hard to share.
Casting a delicate spell after the thorough power drain of their earlier teleportation spell is like attempting to fold an origami lion out of cigarette skins right after busting one’s knuckles in a boxing match. With only wild magic to draw on? Giles shakes his head. It can’t be done. “Not without some kind of ritual.”
“So?”
“Need I remind you that a ritual requires a variety of specific objects? Like chalk, candles and other ingredients. Consecrated objects. Not to mention a focus of some sort. I don’t see a magic shop here. Do you?” The words come out breathless and choppy.
“Then invent a ritual that works without those things!” Ethan snaps. “Preferably, before we both turn into ice sculptures.”
“That’s easy for you to say!”
“Nag, nag, nag.” Ethan shrugs out of his coat. Two long strides, and he is squatting at Giles’s side to drape the garment round Giles’s shoulders. “Listen to yourself! You sound like an old granny. Old Granny Grunt.”
“You do realize, that calling me an old granny is scarcely suited to endear yourself to me,” Giles grouses, pretending that buttoning the coat requires his utmost attention.
It’s not a proper winter coat, obviously chosen for its soft material and fashionable cut rather than for warmth, but Ethan’s lingering body heat makes up for it. Giles knows he ought to express his gratitude, but the faint traces of masculine musk that lurk underneath the hint of expensive cologne make Ethan’s kindness hard to bear. Tongue-tied, Giles forces himself to meet Ethan’s gaze, mentally kicking himself for his cowardice.
For two, maybe three heartbeats, they are both silent, then Ethan flaps up Giles’s collar and steps back. “Think nothing of it. As you full well know, I’m merely looking out for my own interest.”
Scowling at the tightness in his chest, Giles tries to focus on the problem at hand. Improvisation isn’t his strong suit, but for seven years he’s watched Buffy stab vampires with pool cues, pencils, fences and sign posts in lieu of stakes; he’s watched her use rocket launchers and holy water, heard her order the buffybot into battle as a decoy; he’s even seen her turn a notorious vampire into an ally. These seven years have taught him one thing: in order to survive Slayers have to work with what fate puts their way. Surely, the same goes for Watchers.
Giles holds out his hand. “Empty your pockets.”
“Yes, Sir.” Ethan affects a snappy salute, but his voice sounds strained. “Right away, Sir.”
Methodically turning his pockets inside out, as though to say, ‘lookie here, no secrets’, Ethan surrenders a pack of smokes, matches, and a Swiss pocket knife. No wallet, only a handful of loose change, ten coins in all. Precious little to work with. Somehow, Giles expected Ethan to carry amulets, charms, and potions, or at the very least some representation of his god.
“Check the coat. Breast pocket.”
Giles finds not a small Janus idol but a flask. It resembles the one Spike always drank from on patrol, during that awful summer, when Buffy was dead and buried and solace resided in the dregs of bourbon bottles…. Giles unscrews the cap: Whiskey fumes, slightly peaty. Excellent quality. Miles from the bottom shelf booze Spike used to drown his grief in.
Giles sets the flask on the ground, then rifles through the remaining coat pockets. He finds neither wallet nor ID. But something else: a pack of condoms. Unopened.
Giles’s gaze darts from the pack on his palm to the shivering chaos mage, who is stomping his feet in a vain attempt to keep the cold at bay.
“Oh, that.” Ethan shrugs. “Hope springs eternal.”
Giles swallows. The utter resignation in Ethan’s voice is like a stab through the heart.
It would be easy to say something cutting. Too easy. Without comment, Giles tosses the condoms on the small pile of Ethan’s possessions and proceeds to add the contents of his own pockets: a handkerchief, a Swiss pocket knife, and his wallet. No condoms, and how sad is that?
Ethan is right. For years, the memory of the sleepwalker has been like a black djinn spilling from its cursed bottle at every conceivable opportunity. It loomed behind him as he studied for his exams; it kept him in line, whenever he felt like straying from the narrow path mapped out for him.
Well, Giles is sick of it! Sick of letting feelings of guilt hound him down a path he willingly follows anyway; sick of driving Ethan away, again and again; sick of letting the past dictate what he can and can’t do! Frowning, he studies the small pile of objects in front of him. Divination rituals are lengthy affairs that require a peace of body and spirit, that Giles feels unable to muster. No, a divination spell is out of the question. But waking something that’s already nearby, with Ethan’s whiskey acting as an offering, now, that might just work. There’s no telling what kind of entity Ethan is sensing, but most likely it’s an earth or forest spirit. These creatures aren’t exactly keen on humankind, but some have developed a palate for human spirits.
He has no chalks to draw a circle. Not that the uneven ground lends itself to geometric drawings. Still, it’s unwise to call forth unknown powers without some kind of protection. What other resources…? His roaming gaze comes to rest on Ethan’s scarf. “I’ll need your scarf. Your belt and tie, too.”
Ethan hands them over.
Giles calculates their combined length. “And your socks.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing.” Ethan toes off his shoes.
Ethan’s socks are black, and so soft, they have to be brand-new. Even so, Giles can barely tie them together. Maybe it’s because he’s shivering in spite of the warmth of Ethan’s coat. He hands the items back along with his own belt. “Here, you do it. Tie a rope. It doesn’t need to be strong; just long enough to form a circle that will hold us both.”
“A protective circle?” Ethan blurts out. “From you? But you detest all forms of summoning magic!”
“I do.” Giles is glad that his voice is steady. “That’s why we are going to be careful.”
“We?”
“I wouldn’t even dream of trying this without you.”
It’s too dark to see Ethan’s face, but Giles can hear his sharp intake of breath.
A moment later, Ethan is crouching beside him. “So, what kind of offering do you have in mind?” Now that Ethan is close enough for Giles to be able to read his expression, his unfathomable half-smile is back. “Blood?”
He picks up Giles’s pocket knife and snaps it open to study the length of blade. ‘Mine’s longer,’ his arched eyebrow seems to say.
Giles sighs. ‘Grow up, will you?’ Yet, at the same time he feels a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. “I was thinking of trying the whiskey first.”
With a radiant smile, Ethan snaps the knife shut. “As you wish.”
* * *
TBC
.