FIC: Broken English (Ethan/Giles) - Part 1
Okay, so I'm posting the first part of my Ethan-ficathon story. Why am I posting, if it's not finished? I'm posting so that I can concentrate on the unwritten part rather than tinkering endlessly with what I've already written.
Not sure if this works. The fanfic parts of my brain are a little rusty. Sorry, unbeta'd. If you spot any horrid mistakes, please let me know. My spelling checker doesn't work anymore.
Masterlist: http://antennapedia.livejournal.com/275193.html?view=2076409#t2076409
TITLE: Broken English
PAIRING: Giles/Ethan
RATING: I'm aiming for a slashy R, but the characters might chicken out
SPOILERS: Set after 8x04 The Long Way Home (comics); set in Germany, btw
PROMPT: a vacation or roadtrip, magic, slash
WRITTEN FOR: spikendru
The hitchhiker is idly leaning against the Autobahn-sign, a dead man in a three-piece suit, holding a little take-away tray with two tall plastic cups, waving a crudely painted cardboard sign that bears the letters COW.
The BMW’s headlights wash over the man’s gaunt frame, almost too fast to make out any details. Almost. Short dark hair that glints silver in the headlight’s glare, a well-trimmed beard, eyes like black beads. But it’s the insouciant smile that Giles recognizes, the smile that has always been unmistakable.
Giles’s foot stomps on the breaks before he’s even checked the rear-view mirror. Thanks to the anti-skid system, the BMW comes to a halt right next to the Autobahn-sign. Tyres screech. Blowing its horn, the Toyota behind him swerves to the left, narrowly avoiding the BMW’s rear, then heads for the acceleration lane and disappears in the tail-light studded darkness of the motorway.
Giles exhales. His heart is racing. He feels like he’s burning up, in spite of the car’s AC. He stares at his whitening knuckles for several seconds until he realizes he’s gripping the steering wheel like a madman. Loosening his grip, Giles slowly turns his head to look at the apparition. A very solid apparition, for the man raps against the passenger window, producing a very real, solid sound that sends another jolt through Giles’s racing heart.
Giles takes a deep breath. At the push of a button, the window slides down.
“Knock, knock,” Ethan says, leaning forward to peer into the car. “Who’s there?”
“Ethan.” Giles’s voice is flat.
“The one and only.” Ethan is positively preening.
So, the image that has been imprinted on Giles’s brain ever since he saw the footage from Buffy’s comlink, the image of Ethan’s blood and brain splattered all over the prison cell wall - fake, nothing more. Another lie. He should have known. Giles grimaces at his own naivety. “Well, you certainly didn’t stay dead long.”
“Aww, did you mourn me, Rupert?” His tone is light-hearted, but a serrated edge seems to be lurking under his smile. “I’m touched.”
“What do you want?” Giles strives to look cool and decisive. In control. It won’t do to admit that he did, indeed, mourn his erstwhile friend. After a fashion. A completely reckless, unbecoming fashion involving too much whiskey and a one-night-stand best forgotten.
Ethan’s reply is drowned out by several cars blowing their horn, as they barrel past the stationary BMW, reminding Giles that he’s a sitting duck in the middle of a lane leading from the gas station to the autobahn.
Ethan tosses his cardboard sign on the back seat. A moment later he’s lounging on the passenger seat, balancing the two coffee cups on his lap. Looking more at ease than he has any right to be.
“I have no time for your games!” Giles’s voice is cold. “Get out!”
Ethan raises his hand defensively. “All I want is a lift and a little chat. Come on, Rupert, for old time’ sake.”
“What kind of old times? The kind where you spike my drink to turn me into a demon?”
Ethan stifles a sigh. “I believe I already paid for that.”
Another car rushes past them, tooting its horn.
“You don’t even know where I’m going,” Giles states.
“You’re going to Berlin. Don’t look so surprised, old friend. When I heard that Dannenberg’s are auctioning off a 16th century palimpsest of Abramelin’s Sacred Magic, I knew you’d try to purchase it for your precious Council,” Ethan says, looking smug. “As it happens, we have the same destination.”
Resigned, Giles puts the car into gear, and steps on the gas. Like a horse eager to race, the BMW lurches forward. Within seconds, they are on the motorway, heading east.
“Fasten your seat belt.”
“As you wish,” Ethan purrs.
Smug bastard!
TBC