FIC: Broken English - Part 15 - (Giles/Ethan) - R
And my little G/E road movie/dreamspace journey continues... this time we catch a glimpse of the past....
Only a short update, sorry, but the dialogue in the next section still needs a bit of polish
TITLE: Broken English Part 15
PAIRING: Giles/Ethan
RATING: will eventually be R
SPOILERS: Set after 8x04 The Long Way Home (comics); set in Germany, btw
PROMPT: a vacation or roadtrip, magic, slash
WRITTEN FOR: spikendru
Sorry, unbeta'd.
PREVIOUS PARTS: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part12, Part 13, Part 14
Ethan doesn’t need a guide. He knows this street like the back of his hand, but he follows the cat anyway. Crowley stops in front of number 13 and meows.
Home, sweet home.
***
His old house looks exactly like Ethan remembers it. The same grimy windows, the same peeling paint. No lights in any of the windows. It’s a gloomy sight, but it doesn’t bother him. On the contrary, Ethan feels welcome, like a time traveller coming home after a long trip into a grim future. He’s not surprised to find the front door key in his pocket.
He unlocks the door and steps into the hallway. The house is dark, silent and stone cold. Stale cigarette smoke, seasoned by the resinous smell of grass, and a faint hint of curry indicate that maybe the place isn’t as deserted as it seems. The house feels more detailed, much more solid than the other places he’s passed. This is it. Giles is here. No doubt about it.
Ethan fights the urge to rush up the stairs or yell “Honey, I’m home.” Instead, he stomps his feet, not only to shake the snow off his boots, but also to announce his arrival. Crowley slips past him and disappears through the open kitchen door at the end of the hallway.
Ethan flips the light switch. No effect. Obviously, the meter ran out again. Just like the old days, when they spent all their money on dope, records and spell books.
He tries to will the lights on, but the house resists. It may once have been Ethan’s, bought on the spur of the moment because he liked the idea of living in a house wearing the number 13, but right now it’s part of Rupert’s dream, where Rupert is in charge. Luckily, years of Initiative imprisonment have turned Ethan into a seasoned dreamspace traveller. He wills a handful of 50p coins into his pocket and feeds them to the gas and electricity meters under the stairs. Immediately, the lights come on, not just in the hallway, but also in the kitchen.
Outside this dream, the clock is ticking. Ethan knows his time on earth is running out fast. But in here it feels like he’s got all the time in the world. Enough time to turn on the gas heaters in all the downstairs rooms. Enough time to walk into the kitchen, and put the kettle on for a nice cuppa, even if it’s only dream-tea.
There’s a pot on the stew-splattered stove. Curious, Ethan lifts the lid: cold vegetable curry.
“Meow?”
“No curry for you, old boy, but let’s see what I can do for you….”
Ethan picks up the metal bowl that sits on the floor, rinses is out under the tap, hunts down a tin of cat food and sets the filled bowl down again. While Crowley tucks in, Ethan soaks up his surroundings.
Everything about this place spells out a lack of funds and a total disregard for order or middle class values: the cheap second-hand furniture, dirty dishes, overflowing ashtrays, old newspapers, empty Rizla packs.
The dining table resembles a notebook, with names and phone numbers scribbled directly onto the surface; there are even a few lines of semi-coherent poetry, scratched into the wood by Deirdre’s lousy poetry group. Cigarettes have smoldered black scars into the wood, and mugs have left countless rings. There’s a battered chessboard with several pieces replaced by egg cups and other kitchen utensils, abandoned in mid-match.
It’s an incredible mess, a lot messier than Ethan remembers it, but probably an accurate picture. Tidying up had always ranked low on their list of priorities. Why waste time washing up or scrubbing the stove when you could be researching a spell or, even better, fucking like crazed weasels?
Several curries and chilies had burnt beyond recognition because Ripper had suddenly pushed Ethan to his knees and fucked his mouth with even, steady thrusts, before bending him over the old dining table, and ploughing into him with the ferocious urgency of a man trying to outrace an apocalypse. Good times. Centuries away.
Ethan is suddenly hard. So hard it hurts. He can taste Giles in his mouth; can feel Giles’s cock inside him. Ethan grips the edge of the old dining table with both hands and tries to calm his racing heart.
He could take care of it, could just jerk off in this cluttered little corner of Giles’s dreamspace. Only, it doesn’t feel right. It’s not what he wants.
Ethan sits down, grabs the pack of cigarette skins and a pack of B & H, conjures a small lump of whacky-backy from his pocket and starts to build two joints. When the kettle whistles, he tosses tea bags into mugs, and wills fresh milk into the fridge before opening it. He could have just willed the tea and joints into existence but he finds the activity soothing.
Balancing the tray with both hands, Ethan ascends the narrow creaking stairs. He stops outside his old bedroom. Mustering all his courage, he pushes the door handle down with his elbow.
Time to meet Giles on his own turf.
***
tbc
Only a short update, sorry, but the dialogue in the next section still needs a bit of polish
TITLE: Broken English Part 15
PAIRING: Giles/Ethan
RATING: will eventually be R
SPOILERS: Set after 8x04 The Long Way Home (comics); set in Germany, btw
PROMPT: a vacation or roadtrip, magic, slash
WRITTEN FOR: spikendru
Sorry, unbeta'd.
PREVIOUS PARTS: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part12, Part 13, Part 14
Ethan doesn’t need a guide. He knows this street like the back of his hand, but he follows the cat anyway. Crowley stops in front of number 13 and meows.
Home, sweet home.
***
His old house looks exactly like Ethan remembers it. The same grimy windows, the same peeling paint. No lights in any of the windows. It’s a gloomy sight, but it doesn’t bother him. On the contrary, Ethan feels welcome, like a time traveller coming home after a long trip into a grim future. He’s not surprised to find the front door key in his pocket.
He unlocks the door and steps into the hallway. The house is dark, silent and stone cold. Stale cigarette smoke, seasoned by the resinous smell of grass, and a faint hint of curry indicate that maybe the place isn’t as deserted as it seems. The house feels more detailed, much more solid than the other places he’s passed. This is it. Giles is here. No doubt about it.
Ethan fights the urge to rush up the stairs or yell “Honey, I’m home.” Instead, he stomps his feet, not only to shake the snow off his boots, but also to announce his arrival. Crowley slips past him and disappears through the open kitchen door at the end of the hallway.
Ethan flips the light switch. No effect. Obviously, the meter ran out again. Just like the old days, when they spent all their money on dope, records and spell books.
He tries to will the lights on, but the house resists. It may once have been Ethan’s, bought on the spur of the moment because he liked the idea of living in a house wearing the number 13, but right now it’s part of Rupert’s dream, where Rupert is in charge. Luckily, years of Initiative imprisonment have turned Ethan into a seasoned dreamspace traveller. He wills a handful of 50p coins into his pocket and feeds them to the gas and electricity meters under the stairs. Immediately, the lights come on, not just in the hallway, but also in the kitchen.
Outside this dream, the clock is ticking. Ethan knows his time on earth is running out fast. But in here it feels like he’s got all the time in the world. Enough time to turn on the gas heaters in all the downstairs rooms. Enough time to walk into the kitchen, and put the kettle on for a nice cuppa, even if it’s only dream-tea.
There’s a pot on the stew-splattered stove. Curious, Ethan lifts the lid: cold vegetable curry.
“Meow?”
“No curry for you, old boy, but let’s see what I can do for you….”
Ethan picks up the metal bowl that sits on the floor, rinses is out under the tap, hunts down a tin of cat food and sets the filled bowl down again. While Crowley tucks in, Ethan soaks up his surroundings.
Everything about this place spells out a lack of funds and a total disregard for order or middle class values: the cheap second-hand furniture, dirty dishes, overflowing ashtrays, old newspapers, empty Rizla packs.
The dining table resembles a notebook, with names and phone numbers scribbled directly onto the surface; there are even a few lines of semi-coherent poetry, scratched into the wood by Deirdre’s lousy poetry group. Cigarettes have smoldered black scars into the wood, and mugs have left countless rings. There’s a battered chessboard with several pieces replaced by egg cups and other kitchen utensils, abandoned in mid-match.
It’s an incredible mess, a lot messier than Ethan remembers it, but probably an accurate picture. Tidying up had always ranked low on their list of priorities. Why waste time washing up or scrubbing the stove when you could be researching a spell or, even better, fucking like crazed weasels?
Several curries and chilies had burnt beyond recognition because Ripper had suddenly pushed Ethan to his knees and fucked his mouth with even, steady thrusts, before bending him over the old dining table, and ploughing into him with the ferocious urgency of a man trying to outrace an apocalypse. Good times. Centuries away.
Ethan is suddenly hard. So hard it hurts. He can taste Giles in his mouth; can feel Giles’s cock inside him. Ethan grips the edge of the old dining table with both hands and tries to calm his racing heart.
He could take care of it, could just jerk off in this cluttered little corner of Giles’s dreamspace. Only, it doesn’t feel right. It’s not what he wants.
Ethan sits down, grabs the pack of cigarette skins and a pack of B & H, conjures a small lump of whacky-backy from his pocket and starts to build two joints. When the kettle whistles, he tosses tea bags into mugs, and wills fresh milk into the fridge before opening it. He could have just willed the tea and joints into existence but he finds the activity soothing.
Balancing the tray with both hands, Ethan ascends the narrow creaking stairs. He stops outside his old bedroom. Mustering all his courage, he pushes the door handle down with his elbow.
Time to meet Giles on his own turf.
***
tbc