Lost in Translation
Notes: Wanted to write something with Will and Grell, and swearing. Doesn't really have a point, coherency or readability, but there you go anyway.
Sometimes, William looked at the open balcony doors of that penthouse apartment and wondered what it would feel like to grab that stupid songbird by the neck and fling him off. Grell was just the most aggravating, the biggest pain in the arse, that he'd ever had the misfortune to meet - and it wasn't like he could get rid of him! Oh, no, he had to work with the biggest pain in the arse in existence, and he had to get along (since someone had to, and Lord knew Grell wasn't going to be the mature one here) and it was driving him batty.
Grell had gone Too Far this time.
Either he'd kill him today, or they'd live Happily Ever After, and considering that William had a handful of pictures of himself dressed in the most politically-incorrect outfit since that Prince had decided to go to a party dressed as a Nazi, it seemed like the latter was a mere dream.
Not that he... Not that he dreamed about Happily Ever Afters with Grell!
This was entirely that bugger's fault.
Fuming, William slammed open the door to Grell's room and marched over to the bed, where the redhead was laying - a small, hairy-chested, crushing-beer-cans-on-the-forehead masculine part of his brain admired the long, skinny, utterly smooth legs in barely decent shorts, and the little tufts of bright red hair that fell out of place, the rare and studious look behind the red-framed glasses - while the majority of his brain, the parts that he actually thought with, made him nudge the door quietly shut behind him so that nobody came to investigate.
Then, he grabbed Grell by the hair and yanked his head back hard enough to break his neck, holding up the incriminating pictures fanned out like a deck of cards. "Ciach ort," he snarled, slamming the cards back down to the table.
He knew, somehow, that Grell wouldn't understand, and the understandibly bewildered look the singer gave him only made him angrier.
Which made William swear more, long strings of Irish words falling from his lips, the dusty language brought back to life for one moment of blinding, tempestuous anger; and it didn't matter that Grell didn't understand him, because William helpfully gestured along to what he was saying.
It did involve letting the prat go, but it was worth it just to mime 'go n-ithe na péisteoga thú', something his mother was particularly fond of sling-shotting at him.
Finally, William ranted himself out of breath, and stood there glaring, hands on his hips, teeth still gritted.
"What do you have to say for yourself?"
Grell had pinned himself back against the pillows, and now raised one neat red brow. "... Well, nothing for myself; for you, however, how about 'the power of Christ compels you'?"
Idiot.
William shouldn't have smiled at him. It was bothersome, how the bastard wiggled his way out of trouble. "Don't take advantage of me next time, Grell. I mean it. That's not what you do to friends."
"I mean, what was that that you just said to me? Did I piss you off enough to make you forget English? Was that Irish? I didn't know the IRish had their own language, I just thought they banged a potato on the bar when they wanted to speak to someone... One bang for yes, two bangs for 'another pint', three for 'I'm horny', and th-"
Tuning out Grell's babbling, William sighed and gathered up the pictures, tossing them into the bin. "You're a fucking moron."
"I think it's pronounced 'fook', in your language," Grell responded smart-arsedly, and had no grounds for complaint when William threw the notebook at him.
Sometimes, William looked at the open balcony doors of that penthouse apartment and wondered what it would feel like to grab that stupid songbird by the neck and fling him off. Grell was just the most aggravating, the biggest pain in the arse, that he'd ever had the misfortune to meet - and it wasn't like he could get rid of him! Oh, no, he had to work with the biggest pain in the arse in existence, and he had to get along (since someone had to, and Lord knew Grell wasn't going to be the mature one here) and it was driving him batty.
Grell had gone Too Far this time.
Either he'd kill him today, or they'd live Happily Ever After, and considering that William had a handful of pictures of himself dressed in the most politically-incorrect outfit since that Prince had decided to go to a party dressed as a Nazi, it seemed like the latter was a mere dream.
Not that he... Not that he dreamed about Happily Ever Afters with Grell!
This was entirely that bugger's fault.
Fuming, William slammed open the door to Grell's room and marched over to the bed, where the redhead was laying - a small, hairy-chested, crushing-beer-cans-on-the-forehead masculine part of his brain admired the long, skinny, utterly smooth legs in barely decent shorts, and the little tufts of bright red hair that fell out of place, the rare and studious look behind the red-framed glasses - while the majority of his brain, the parts that he actually thought with, made him nudge the door quietly shut behind him so that nobody came to investigate.
Then, he grabbed Grell by the hair and yanked his head back hard enough to break his neck, holding up the incriminating pictures fanned out like a deck of cards. "Ciach ort," he snarled, slamming the cards back down to the table.
He knew, somehow, that Grell wouldn't understand, and the understandibly bewildered look the singer gave him only made him angrier.
Which made William swear more, long strings of Irish words falling from his lips, the dusty language brought back to life for one moment of blinding, tempestuous anger; and it didn't matter that Grell didn't understand him, because William helpfully gestured along to what he was saying.
It did involve letting the prat go, but it was worth it just to mime 'go n-ithe na péisteoga thú', something his mother was particularly fond of sling-shotting at him.
Finally, William ranted himself out of breath, and stood there glaring, hands on his hips, teeth still gritted.
"What do you have to say for yourself?"
Grell had pinned himself back against the pillows, and now raised one neat red brow. "... Well, nothing for myself; for you, however, how about 'the power of Christ compels you'?"
Idiot.
William shouldn't have smiled at him. It was bothersome, how the bastard wiggled his way out of trouble. "Don't take advantage of me next time, Grell. I mean it. That's not what you do to friends."
"I mean, what was that that you just said to me? Did I piss you off enough to make you forget English? Was that Irish? I didn't know the IRish had their own language, I just thought they banged a potato on the bar when they wanted to speak to someone... One bang for yes, two bangs for 'another pint', three for 'I'm horny', and th-"
Tuning out Grell's babbling, William sighed and gathered up the pictures, tossing them into the bin. "You're a fucking moron."
"I think it's pronounced 'fook', in your language," Grell responded smart-arsedly, and had no grounds for complaint when William threw the notebook at him.