FIC: Broken English - Part 16 - (Giles/Ethan) - R
After this chapter there will only be two more installments, I think. The next chapter is tricky, the last one is not.:)
TITLE: Broken English Part 16
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, Part 15
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.
***
It’s like opening a door to the Antarctic. A wave of glacial cold freezes the steaming mugs on his tray faster than he can blink.
At first glance, his old bedroom looks exactly like Ethan remembers it: the battered wardrobe, the spell books on the rickety nightstand, overflowing ashtrays on the floor, and stacks of LPs lying everywhere. Yet, everything is covered in jagged sheets of black ice: the furniture, his books, even the floor. Rows of needle-sharp icicles hang from the ceiling, creating a sense of having stepped into a giant maw.
That’s not all. The bed is gone. In its place there is an open grave with a mound of dark earth next to it.
Giles is standing at the window, with his back to Ethan. He’s not wearing what Ethan has come to think of as “Rupert’s Watcher-straitjacket”, but faded jeans (with a wooden stake tucked into the waistband), Doc Martins and a biker jacket. His hair is slightly longer here, and more unruly. Interesting.
Giles is alone. There’s no dream-Ethan, real-Ethan notices, with a tiny stab of disappointment. It would have been gratifying to walk in on a dream-blowjob. Still, Giles is here, in their old house, back in the old days, and the dream is so detailed, so utterly tangible, Ethan is certain Giles comes here often.
“Hello Rupert.” Ethan pushes the door shut with his heel, causing several icicles to rain down from the ceiling.
“Ethan?” Giles turns to face him. His dream self looks young, about thirty years old, but with an aura of experience. Quite irresistible, in fact, if it weren’t for an overwhelming sense of exhaustion and sadness.
“Are you here to haunt me again?” Giles asks. “Why won’t you leave me alone? What do you want from me?”
Not quite the welcome Ethan hoped for. With a sigh he sets the frozen tray down on Giles's old amplifier. “What do I want? A little warmth would be nice. I’m sick of freezing my balls off.” Ethan gestures at the frozen room. “May I?"
"It's your house."
"True. But it's your dream."
Giles adjusts his spectacles like a teacher suspecting foul play from a student. “I’m dreaming?”
“Yes, my friend, you are.” Ethan can’t help but smile at Giles’s surprise. “You’re out cold in some decrepit old watchtower somewhere in the middle of bloody nowhere.” He flutters his lashes. “And your good old friend Ethan tucked you in. Now, about the ice. May I?”
Giles's permission comes as a slow nod.
It does not require genuine magic, only a bit of hand waving and mumbo jumbo to melt the ice. Within seconds the room is habitable again, with a roaring gas fire and an aroma of freshly brewed tea. Only the open grave remains, resisting Ethan’s attempt to simply wish it away. Maybe Giles’s dreamspace is taking its cue from Ethan’s knowledge that his grave is still waiting for him.
“That’s better.” Ethan picks up one of the mugs. ”Tea?”
A silent headshake is his only answer. Even asleep, Giles is bristling with suspicion.
“Suit yourself.” Sipping from his mug, Ethan joins Giles at the window to study the unfamiliar view that Rupert's subconscious has conjured.
A blindingly bright desert stretches out before them, with only a handful of bare, bone-white trees to act as landmarks. A cougar is strolling down a sand dune. Why on earth is Giles dreaming about a cougar?
A flippant remark about cats great and small dies in his throat, when Ethan catches his own reflection in the window. What the hell? Ethan glances at his hands: Pallid skin and fingernails that look like chipped talons, the hands of a dead man.
There used to be a mirror inside the wardrobe. Ethan rushes over to open it and check his reflection. Bugger! How on earth is he supposed to get into Giles’s pants looking like a sodding corpse?
Granted, this is Giles’s dream, but Ethan’s own sense of self should have overruled Giles’s preconceptions. Ethan and Ethan alone should shape his own appearance.
“Is that how you see me?” Ethan asks. “As some kind of zombie? Well, thanks a lot.”
“You died.” It sounds like an accusation.
“I know.” Ethan squints at the bullet hole in his skull. For a fleeting second he wonders what it would feel like to poke a finger into his own noggin. “I remember.”
Ethan stares at his reflection, willing it to change. In here his appearance depends mostly on how he sees himself. He can cheat, of course, make himself younger and more desirable-. No! He is who he is. Not a zombie, not a monster. Just a man. Scarred, alive and very scared. Only when his reflection matches the person he thinks he is, Ethan shuts the wardrobe and turns to Giles. “To answer your question: no, Rupert, I’m not here to haunt you.” Ethan purses his lips. “But I’ll definitely look into that option, next time I die.”
For a second Giles looks like he’s about to take a swing at him; angry, but with a gratifying amount of pain underneath.
Raising both hands, Ethan dredges up a smile. “Just kidding.”
Abruptly, Giles turns away. He stares at the glaring desert as though it requires his complete attention. “You’re not even real,” he mutters.
“Oh, but I am.” Ethan grabs his arm. “Rupert, look at me, I’m as alive and real as it gets. Just because you’re dreaming, doesn’t mean that I’m a figment of your imagination. Remember how I helped Buffy find her friend?”
Giles slowly turns to face him. Behind him, darkness descends on the desert landscape, so fast, it’s as though someone had thrown a switch. A tremor rumbles through Giles’s dreamscape. Like a distant earthquake. “You invaded my dreams?”
“Now, I wouldn’t use as harsh a word as this…” Ethan backpedals.
“Of course you wouldn’t.” Giles’s voice is dangerously soft. “And? Did you have a good look around?”
“What? No! You really think I came here to rifle through your sock drawer?”
Giles moves with the unexpected speed of a skilled fighter. In here his martial arts knowledge is no longer just theoretical. Faster than he can blink Ethan finds himself sandwiched between the unyielding wardrobe and an irate Watcher. Instinctively, he raises his arm to protect his face. “No, no, please, listen-”
Giles catches his wrist and pins it against the wall, above Ethan’s head. “Stop playing games, Ethan! Why are you here?”
Giles is so close that Ethan is able to breathe in his scent: an intoxicating mixture of aftershave, traces of whiskey, cigarette smoke, male musk and the leather of his jacket. Ethan’s heart is hammering wildly in his chest. He can feel himself growing hard. And, judging by Giles’s fast breathing and the throbbing artery at his throat, so is he.
“Do you really have to ask, Ripper? It’s not like you to be so slow on the uptake.” Ethan chuckles. “Think about it! Right now, we’re both lying on dirty concrete floor in some dank and dark watchtower, totally knackered, and unlikely to get it up, whereas in here we have warmth and everything else can think of. Even a bed, should we need it….”
Ethan pauses. When he turns his head to glare at the open grave, Giles follows his gaze. This time the grave disappears, making way for a king-sized bed.
“This, my friend, is your last chance to bugger me senseless.” Ethan slowly raises his free hand to touch Giles’s face. It sends a stab through his heart when Giles catches his wrist half-way, but he does not struggle. “’Cause I can promise you one thing, Rupert: come sunrise I’ll be out of your hair. For good.”
Giles’s expression is a kaleidoscope of emotions: anger, pain, sadness, confusion…
Ethan’s next words would have been ‘For crying out loud, Ripper, why can’t you just seize the moment?’ but then Giles does just that.
***
TITLE: Broken English Part 16
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, Part 15
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.
***
It’s like opening a door to the Antarctic. A wave of glacial cold freezes the steaming mugs on his tray faster than he can blink.
At first glance, his old bedroom looks exactly like Ethan remembers it: the battered wardrobe, the spell books on the rickety nightstand, overflowing ashtrays on the floor, and stacks of LPs lying everywhere. Yet, everything is covered in jagged sheets of black ice: the furniture, his books, even the floor. Rows of needle-sharp icicles hang from the ceiling, creating a sense of having stepped into a giant maw.
That’s not all. The bed is gone. In its place there is an open grave with a mound of dark earth next to it.
Giles is standing at the window, with his back to Ethan. He’s not wearing what Ethan has come to think of as “Rupert’s Watcher-straitjacket”, but faded jeans (with a wooden stake tucked into the waistband), Doc Martins and a biker jacket. His hair is slightly longer here, and more unruly. Interesting.
Giles is alone. There’s no dream-Ethan, real-Ethan notices, with a tiny stab of disappointment. It would have been gratifying to walk in on a dream-blowjob. Still, Giles is here, in their old house, back in the old days, and the dream is so detailed, so utterly tangible, Ethan is certain Giles comes here often.
“Hello Rupert.” Ethan pushes the door shut with his heel, causing several icicles to rain down from the ceiling.
“Ethan?” Giles turns to face him. His dream self looks young, about thirty years old, but with an aura of experience. Quite irresistible, in fact, if it weren’t for an overwhelming sense of exhaustion and sadness.
“Are you here to haunt me again?” Giles asks. “Why won’t you leave me alone? What do you want from me?”
Not quite the welcome Ethan hoped for. With a sigh he sets the frozen tray down on Giles's old amplifier. “What do I want? A little warmth would be nice. I’m sick of freezing my balls off.” Ethan gestures at the frozen room. “May I?"
"It's your house."
"True. But it's your dream."
Giles adjusts his spectacles like a teacher suspecting foul play from a student. “I’m dreaming?”
“Yes, my friend, you are.” Ethan can’t help but smile at Giles’s surprise. “You’re out cold in some decrepit old watchtower somewhere in the middle of bloody nowhere.” He flutters his lashes. “And your good old friend Ethan tucked you in. Now, about the ice. May I?”
Giles's permission comes as a slow nod.
It does not require genuine magic, only a bit of hand waving and mumbo jumbo to melt the ice. Within seconds the room is habitable again, with a roaring gas fire and an aroma of freshly brewed tea. Only the open grave remains, resisting Ethan’s attempt to simply wish it away. Maybe Giles’s dreamspace is taking its cue from Ethan’s knowledge that his grave is still waiting for him.
“That’s better.” Ethan picks up one of the mugs. ”Tea?”
A silent headshake is his only answer. Even asleep, Giles is bristling with suspicion.
“Suit yourself.” Sipping from his mug, Ethan joins Giles at the window to study the unfamiliar view that Rupert's subconscious has conjured.
A blindingly bright desert stretches out before them, with only a handful of bare, bone-white trees to act as landmarks. A cougar is strolling down a sand dune. Why on earth is Giles dreaming about a cougar?
A flippant remark about cats great and small dies in his throat, when Ethan catches his own reflection in the window. What the hell? Ethan glances at his hands: Pallid skin and fingernails that look like chipped talons, the hands of a dead man.
There used to be a mirror inside the wardrobe. Ethan rushes over to open it and check his reflection. Bugger! How on earth is he supposed to get into Giles’s pants looking like a sodding corpse?
Granted, this is Giles’s dream, but Ethan’s own sense of self should have overruled Giles’s preconceptions. Ethan and Ethan alone should shape his own appearance.
“Is that how you see me?” Ethan asks. “As some kind of zombie? Well, thanks a lot.”
“You died.” It sounds like an accusation.
“I know.” Ethan squints at the bullet hole in his skull. For a fleeting second he wonders what it would feel like to poke a finger into his own noggin. “I remember.”
Ethan stares at his reflection, willing it to change. In here his appearance depends mostly on how he sees himself. He can cheat, of course, make himself younger and more desirable-. No! He is who he is. Not a zombie, not a monster. Just a man. Scarred, alive and very scared. Only when his reflection matches the person he thinks he is, Ethan shuts the wardrobe and turns to Giles. “To answer your question: no, Rupert, I’m not here to haunt you.” Ethan purses his lips. “But I’ll definitely look into that option, next time I die.”
For a second Giles looks like he’s about to take a swing at him; angry, but with a gratifying amount of pain underneath.
Raising both hands, Ethan dredges up a smile. “Just kidding.”
Abruptly, Giles turns away. He stares at the glaring desert as though it requires his complete attention. “You’re not even real,” he mutters.
“Oh, but I am.” Ethan grabs his arm. “Rupert, look at me, I’m as alive and real as it gets. Just because you’re dreaming, doesn’t mean that I’m a figment of your imagination. Remember how I helped Buffy find her friend?”
Giles slowly turns to face him. Behind him, darkness descends on the desert landscape, so fast, it’s as though someone had thrown a switch. A tremor rumbles through Giles’s dreamscape. Like a distant earthquake. “You invaded my dreams?”
“Now, I wouldn’t use as harsh a word as this…” Ethan backpedals.
“Of course you wouldn’t.” Giles’s voice is dangerously soft. “And? Did you have a good look around?”
“What? No! You really think I came here to rifle through your sock drawer?”
Giles moves with the unexpected speed of a skilled fighter. In here his martial arts knowledge is no longer just theoretical. Faster than he can blink Ethan finds himself sandwiched between the unyielding wardrobe and an irate Watcher. Instinctively, he raises his arm to protect his face. “No, no, please, listen-”
Giles catches his wrist and pins it against the wall, above Ethan’s head. “Stop playing games, Ethan! Why are you here?”
Giles is so close that Ethan is able to breathe in his scent: an intoxicating mixture of aftershave, traces of whiskey, cigarette smoke, male musk and the leather of his jacket. Ethan’s heart is hammering wildly in his chest. He can feel himself growing hard. And, judging by Giles’s fast breathing and the throbbing artery at his throat, so is he.
“Do you really have to ask, Ripper? It’s not like you to be so slow on the uptake.” Ethan chuckles. “Think about it! Right now, we’re both lying on dirty concrete floor in some dank and dark watchtower, totally knackered, and unlikely to get it up, whereas in here we have warmth and everything else can think of. Even a bed, should we need it….”
Ethan pauses. When he turns his head to glare at the open grave, Giles follows his gaze. This time the grave disappears, making way for a king-sized bed.
“This, my friend, is your last chance to bugger me senseless.” Ethan slowly raises his free hand to touch Giles’s face. It sends a stab through his heart when Giles catches his wrist half-way, but he does not struggle. “’Cause I can promise you one thing, Rupert: come sunrise I’ll be out of your hair. For good.”
Giles’s expression is a kaleidoscope of emotions: anger, pain, sadness, confusion…
Ethan’s next words would have been ‘For crying out loud, Ripper, why can’t you just seize the moment?’ but then Giles does just that.
***