FIC: Broken English - Part 8 - (Giles/Ethan) - R
Ethan-ficathon Masterlist
I'm sorry about the long wait. Although I tinkered with the chapter almost every day, I never made real progress until this morning. The last two weeks were both busy and lazy. I took time off, the kids were at home, we made a few trips, played computer games. Anyway, the next part is almost finished. I hope it won't take me long to update.
TITLE: Broken English Part 8
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
PREVIOUS PARTS: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7
A great ball of fire erupts from the car and colours the night blood red, followed closely by a shockwave of heat and a loud blast, as the other car explodes in a magical fireball of epic proportions...
... power surges...
.. a young man’s body is hurled into the air and slammed against the trunk of a tree...
... enough power for Giles to...
Teleport.
Part 8
One instant Ethan is overwhelmed by terrifying heat and noise and the ecstatic sensation of touching Rupert, just like old times, of spilling all his power into him; the next instant the connection is severed: Giles’s hand is yanked out of his grasp, and Ethan is falling into a black bottomless pit.
Judging by the inarticulate holler echoing his own, Rupert, too, is falling.
Without thinking, Ethan tries to levitate. The backlash nearly stops his ticker. He’s dry. Tapped out. Gave it all to Rupert. Fuck!
Dark shapes lash out at him. Tear at his suit. Arms? Tentacles? Arms flailing, Ethan gropes around in the dark, desperate for something - or someone - to cling to.
Misses. Misses again, then hits the ground with so much force, it steals his breath away.
So much for the bottomless pit.
For several seconds Ethan is too stunned to do anything, except lie still on his back, and gape at the snowflakes that drift from the ink-black sky. It seems his body no longer remembers how to breathe.
It does, however, remember how to ache with want. Pouring his magical powers into Rupert has made him hard. Ethan notes, not without amusement, that his hard-on is remarkably unimpressed by his current adverse circumstances. Brilliant timing.
Oh well, at least his heart’s still beating. Now, if only he could get a little air... Pretty please?
Finally, with a convulsive shudder, his breathing kicks in again. As he’s gasping for air, everything else returns as well: touch, hearing, pain. More importantly, the ability to make sense of what his senses tell him. Enough moonlight trickles from the sky, for Ethan to make out a host of bare, twisted trees. The dark tentacles? Branches, that’s all. The only reason why he didn’t break his neck: he landed on a thick, soggy bed of leaves. Several years worth of rotting, dank-smelling foliage.
Blast! This is so like Rupert. Rematerialising them fifteen feet above the ground in the middle of a fucking forest. Once a shitty driver, always a shitty driver.
Well, lying on the ground soaking up the cold and wetness while tiny pinpricks of ice melt on his face is not going to improve his health. Stifling a sigh, Ethan forces himself to sit up. His muscles and joints protest. Evidently, he’s too old for this shit.
Behind him, leaves rustle. Ethan turns to see Giles struggle into an upright position. He’s deathly pale. His nose is bleeding, lending him a savage appearance.
“Never a dull moment, mate. Out of the frying pan and into the freezer. Any particular reason why you picked a spot fifteen feet above the ground?”
“If you’d rather burn to a crisp, please feel free to teleport back to the car.” Rupert’s voice is cold, distant. “In fact, feel free to teleport anywhere you like.”
“What? And miss all the fun of being stuck with you? In the middle of nowhere? Not for all the dope in Holland.”
Rupert’s only reply is a furious glare.
“That’s the spirit.” Ethan puts on a cheeful smile. “Always look on the bright side. Better cold than dead. Mind you, old boy, you don’t look very alive to me.”
Giles doesn’t even try to hide his sigh of exasperation. “Unless you have something productive or helpful to offer, would you kindly shut up?” He bends over to gingerly probe his ankle with his fingertips. Grimaces.
Ethan gestures vaguely at Rupert’s face. “Just so you know: you’re bleeding.”
“Oh, uh, I am?” Giles wipes his nose and shrugs. “Just so you know: so are you.” His voice is flat, almost indifferent. Almost.
Eyebrows raised, Ethan mirrors Rupert’s movements; regards the smear on the back of his hand. His blood looks black in the monochrome moonlight. Ethan stifles a sigh.
The two sorcerers stare at each other, wary, yet also battle-weary and just a little broken, a host of unspoken words between them, and for a second, Ethan is overcome by so much want, it chokes him.
He knows a million ways to rub Rupert the wrong way, but not a single way to make things right. Chaos mages throw spanners into other people’s works, they are not meant to mend bridges, fill in trenches, or hand out olive branches. Even now, part of Ethan is contemplating ways to make Giles lose his composure. He’s itching to see if he still can. Old habits die hard.
The ground is too cold and wet to sit on, but Ethan is reluctant to destroy the unexpected symmetry. He considers enquiring after Rupert’s foot, but settles for an indignant “So. What the hell just happened?”
Giles does not answer. He quickly pats all his pockets, before searching them more methodically. In the end he squints up at the sky, then frowns at the surrounding trees.
“Well?”
“It seems my cell phone is currently being, uh, cremated in the car. You wouldn’t happen to...?”
“Sorry, mate.” Ethan lies.
Giles mutters something under his breath, too softly for Ethan to hear, but it’s easy to read the words off his lips: “Bugger!”
TBC
I'm sorry about the long wait. Although I tinkered with the chapter almost every day, I never made real progress until this morning. The last two weeks were both busy and lazy. I took time off, the kids were at home, we made a few trips, played computer games. Anyway, the next part is almost finished. I hope it won't take me long to update.
TITLE: Broken English Part 8
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
PREVIOUS PARTS: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7
A great ball of fire erupts from the car and colours the night blood red, followed closely by a shockwave of heat and a loud blast, as the other car explodes in a magical fireball of epic proportions...
... power surges...
.. a young man’s body is hurled into the air and slammed against the trunk of a tree...
... enough power for Giles to...
Teleport.
Part 8
One instant Ethan is overwhelmed by terrifying heat and noise and the ecstatic sensation of touching Rupert, just like old times, of spilling all his power into him; the next instant the connection is severed: Giles’s hand is yanked out of his grasp, and Ethan is falling into a black bottomless pit.
Judging by the inarticulate holler echoing his own, Rupert, too, is falling.
Without thinking, Ethan tries to levitate. The backlash nearly stops his ticker. He’s dry. Tapped out. Gave it all to Rupert. Fuck!
Dark shapes lash out at him. Tear at his suit. Arms? Tentacles? Arms flailing, Ethan gropes around in the dark, desperate for something - or someone - to cling to.
Misses. Misses again, then hits the ground with so much force, it steals his breath away.
So much for the bottomless pit.
For several seconds Ethan is too stunned to do anything, except lie still on his back, and gape at the snowflakes that drift from the ink-black sky. It seems his body no longer remembers how to breathe.
It does, however, remember how to ache with want. Pouring his magical powers into Rupert has made him hard. Ethan notes, not without amusement, that his hard-on is remarkably unimpressed by his current adverse circumstances. Brilliant timing.
Oh well, at least his heart’s still beating. Now, if only he could get a little air... Pretty please?
Finally, with a convulsive shudder, his breathing kicks in again. As he’s gasping for air, everything else returns as well: touch, hearing, pain. More importantly, the ability to make sense of what his senses tell him. Enough moonlight trickles from the sky, for Ethan to make out a host of bare, twisted trees. The dark tentacles? Branches, that’s all. The only reason why he didn’t break his neck: he landed on a thick, soggy bed of leaves. Several years worth of rotting, dank-smelling foliage.
Blast! This is so like Rupert. Rematerialising them fifteen feet above the ground in the middle of a fucking forest. Once a shitty driver, always a shitty driver.
Well, lying on the ground soaking up the cold and wetness while tiny pinpricks of ice melt on his face is not going to improve his health. Stifling a sigh, Ethan forces himself to sit up. His muscles and joints protest. Evidently, he’s too old for this shit.
Behind him, leaves rustle. Ethan turns to see Giles struggle into an upright position. He’s deathly pale. His nose is bleeding, lending him a savage appearance.
“Never a dull moment, mate. Out of the frying pan and into the freezer. Any particular reason why you picked a spot fifteen feet above the ground?”
“If you’d rather burn to a crisp, please feel free to teleport back to the car.” Rupert’s voice is cold, distant. “In fact, feel free to teleport anywhere you like.”
“What? And miss all the fun of being stuck with you? In the middle of nowhere? Not for all the dope in Holland.”
Rupert’s only reply is a furious glare.
“That’s the spirit.” Ethan puts on a cheeful smile. “Always look on the bright side. Better cold than dead. Mind you, old boy, you don’t look very alive to me.”
Giles doesn’t even try to hide his sigh of exasperation. “Unless you have something productive or helpful to offer, would you kindly shut up?” He bends over to gingerly probe his ankle with his fingertips. Grimaces.
Ethan gestures vaguely at Rupert’s face. “Just so you know: you’re bleeding.”
“Oh, uh, I am?” Giles wipes his nose and shrugs. “Just so you know: so are you.” His voice is flat, almost indifferent. Almost.
Eyebrows raised, Ethan mirrors Rupert’s movements; regards the smear on the back of his hand. His blood looks black in the monochrome moonlight. Ethan stifles a sigh.
The two sorcerers stare at each other, wary, yet also battle-weary and just a little broken, a host of unspoken words between them, and for a second, Ethan is overcome by so much want, it chokes him.
He knows a million ways to rub Rupert the wrong way, but not a single way to make things right. Chaos mages throw spanners into other people’s works, they are not meant to mend bridges, fill in trenches, or hand out olive branches. Even now, part of Ethan is contemplating ways to make Giles lose his composure. He’s itching to see if he still can. Old habits die hard.
The ground is too cold and wet to sit on, but Ethan is reluctant to destroy the unexpected symmetry. He considers enquiring after Rupert’s foot, but settles for an indignant “So. What the hell just happened?”
Giles does not answer. He quickly pats all his pockets, before searching them more methodically. In the end he squints up at the sky, then frowns at the surrounding trees.
“Well?”
“It seems my cell phone is currently being, uh, cremated in the car. You wouldn’t happen to...?”
“Sorry, mate.” Ethan lies.
Giles mutters something under his breath, too softly for Ethan to hear, but it’s easy to read the words off his lips: “Bugger!”
TBC