!fanfic! - BtVS - Runaway for the Giles H/C Ficathon
This is VERY LATE as I believe I've explained to everyone whose ficathons I'm late for. I went to New Zealand, my memory stick didn't. *facepalm* Many apologies again.
Title: Runaway
Rating: PG-13 to R, I think.
Wordcount: 734
Ficathon: headrush100's Giles Hurt/Comfort Ficathon.
Ficathon Words: sleep, road, glass, lost and consequence
Notes: An angst-filled h/c piece with no credible plot. A vignette, I suppose :D
It had seemed like a good idea at the time, to tell his father how he felt, to storm from the house with only the shirt on his back and the fury in his heart. It had seemed right, seemed apt, that he should be forced from his home by that bigoted fool. That his mother would stand there in silence, tears in her eyes as she watched the man she loved and the boy she created rip into each other with words that could not be forgiven. That his dear, helpless mother would pick up the shattered glass on the floor rather than say anything to either of them. That he would run on and on to the station after the bust-up, spending what little money he had on a coach into London.
But now, at four in the morning in the middle of Soho, he realised he was as much of a fool as his father. This was what that bastard wanted, for Rupert to lose himself, lose all control and face the consequences of his own stupidity. He wanted him to run for miles and have to be ‘collected’ later, have to apologise to his father and be coddled by his mother.
He walked on down the road, bathed in red lights from the girls in the windows all around him. Some called out to him as he headed down the still-busy street. He kept his head low and didn’t answer - there’d be no end of trouble if he got caught, at just fifteen, with a prostitute. And he didn’t dare give his father more superiority; he couldn’t face the guilt of having to be bailed out of a jail cell for pure indulgence.
So Rupert walked on, firmly deciding he’d stay in London until his father came to find him. He wouldn’t call, wouldn’t plead to be returned home. He’d go home when Theodore Giles apologised to him for a change. He’d go home when he was begged to return.
Naturally that posited several problems, none of which the angry young man could really contemplate in his state of mind. He was going to have to find somewhere to sleep. He needed more than the couple of quid in his pocket for food and shelter. His father had no idea that he had gone to London. He knew no-one in the capital that he could go to for assistance.
Wait a sec… Rupert felt a delicious moment of triumph. He did know someone in London, someone he’d been banned from seeing a few years back. Someone who’d been kicked out of his home by the same type of bastard-father that Rupert had, someone who’d made it on his own. Rupert smirked, heading for Shaftsbury Avenue and the bright lights of the Theatre District. Oh how wonderful the look on his father’s face would be when he found out that Rupert was crashing on Ethan Rayne’s sofa.
Up a narrow street where the Theatre District began to die out, Rupert found the address he’d written to several times in secret. The address where birthday presents still arrived from, those objects filled with dark magic that excited every inch of his body. It was a dingy-looking flat above a newsagents, not that Rupert was in any state to be critical. He, after all, had been walking and travelling in the same clothes all night.
Shivering a little, Rupert knocked on the black door, watching the paint peeling away from it until he heard a stirring inside.
“Shut up a second, I think that was the door,” came the low, muffled voice of Ethan Rayne from within the flat.
A moment later the door opened and Rupert looked up at the seventeen-year-old, awed by how much more of a man he seemed with such independence.
Before Rupert could speak, Ethan turned away from the door and to a pretty girl who was sitting on the arm of a battered leather chair.
“Cardene,” he began sweetly. “Get out.”
Appalled at his quick change of heart, the pretty blonde picked herself up, wrapped her faux-fur coat around her and huffed her way out of the flat, giving Rupert a vicious look as she passed him.
Ethan smiled, clapping Rupert on the shoulder.
“You said any time I was in London,” Rupert said with a pained smile.
“I did,” Ethan replied as he ushered him in.
Title: Runaway
Rating: PG-13 to R, I think.
Wordcount: 734
Ficathon: headrush100's Giles Hurt/Comfort Ficathon.
Ficathon Words: sleep, road, glass, lost and consequence
Notes: An angst-filled h/c piece with no credible plot. A vignette, I suppose :D
It had seemed like a good idea at the time, to tell his father how he felt, to storm from the house with only the shirt on his back and the fury in his heart. It had seemed right, seemed apt, that he should be forced from his home by that bigoted fool. That his mother would stand there in silence, tears in her eyes as she watched the man she loved and the boy she created rip into each other with words that could not be forgiven. That his dear, helpless mother would pick up the shattered glass on the floor rather than say anything to either of them. That he would run on and on to the station after the bust-up, spending what little money he had on a coach into London.
But now, at four in the morning in the middle of Soho, he realised he was as much of a fool as his father. This was what that bastard wanted, for Rupert to lose himself, lose all control and face the consequences of his own stupidity. He wanted him to run for miles and have to be ‘collected’ later, have to apologise to his father and be coddled by his mother.
He walked on down the road, bathed in red lights from the girls in the windows all around him. Some called out to him as he headed down the still-busy street. He kept his head low and didn’t answer - there’d be no end of trouble if he got caught, at just fifteen, with a prostitute. And he didn’t dare give his father more superiority; he couldn’t face the guilt of having to be bailed out of a jail cell for pure indulgence.
So Rupert walked on, firmly deciding he’d stay in London until his father came to find him. He wouldn’t call, wouldn’t plead to be returned home. He’d go home when Theodore Giles apologised to him for a change. He’d go home when he was begged to return.
Naturally that posited several problems, none of which the angry young man could really contemplate in his state of mind. He was going to have to find somewhere to sleep. He needed more than the couple of quid in his pocket for food and shelter. His father had no idea that he had gone to London. He knew no-one in the capital that he could go to for assistance.
Wait a sec… Rupert felt a delicious moment of triumph. He did know someone in London, someone he’d been banned from seeing a few years back. Someone who’d been kicked out of his home by the same type of bastard-father that Rupert had, someone who’d made it on his own. Rupert smirked, heading for Shaftsbury Avenue and the bright lights of the Theatre District. Oh how wonderful the look on his father’s face would be when he found out that Rupert was crashing on Ethan Rayne’s sofa.
Up a narrow street where the Theatre District began to die out, Rupert found the address he’d written to several times in secret. The address where birthday presents still arrived from, those objects filled with dark magic that excited every inch of his body. It was a dingy-looking flat above a newsagents, not that Rupert was in any state to be critical. He, after all, had been walking and travelling in the same clothes all night.
Shivering a little, Rupert knocked on the black door, watching the paint peeling away from it until he heard a stirring inside.
“Shut up a second, I think that was the door,” came the low, muffled voice of Ethan Rayne from within the flat.
A moment later the door opened and Rupert looked up at the seventeen-year-old, awed by how much more of a man he seemed with such independence.
Before Rupert could speak, Ethan turned away from the door and to a pretty girl who was sitting on the arm of a battered leather chair.
“Cardene,” he began sweetly. “Get out.”
Appalled at his quick change of heart, the pretty blonde picked herself up, wrapped her faux-fur coat around her and huffed her way out of the flat, giving Rupert a vicious look as she passed him.
Ethan smiled, clapping Rupert on the shoulder.
“You said any time I was in London,” Rupert said with a pained smile.
“I did,” Ethan replied as he ushered him in.