BtVS Giles/Ethan Fic: "Wet Sand" for the CYA Ficathon
Title: Wet Sand
Author: Maddogs991
Genre: Angst/Romance
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Giles/Ethan
Written For: The CYA Ficathon
Wordcount: Just past the 1000 mark methinks.
Notes: I was given leeway with the timeline, so this vignette takes place before the beginning. The location is Blackpool, purely because I live here and have just spent a couple of weeks visiting the beach and Central Pier. Therefore everything (for a change) is accurate in this story! Slash, romance, rain and sand. Voila. :)
Request:
AUTHOR 20
Characters/Pairings: Giles and Ethan
Things you want: Ethan arrives unexpected on a holiday, rain (or snow) would be a nice addition to the story
Things you don’t want: no deaths please
Other: I'll leave the time line, rating and genre up to the author.
Rupert waited in the darkness so long that he began to ponder how humans could just let the minutes of their lives slip away with such ease. The flies buzzing around beach-donkeys’ backsides rushed through their short spans doing anything and everything, risking an unholy death with a rolled-up newspaper merely to live, to live every moment they were blessed with.
And he was lying on the sand under Central Pier, watching the lights of the Ferris Wheel reflect in the slowly-rising water. He could have been up there on that wheel - Jilly Graham had invited him with a bat of her false eyelashes. A quick kiss at the very top and he’d have come down to earth smiling for the night, racing down to the amusements to waste his money on one-arm bandits and those annoying grabber machines that never actually grabbed, and even when they did the teddy bear slipped out of their grip before you could get at it.
Yes that would have been a decent evening, a damn site better than lying in the pitch black with sand in his socks and the smell of the sea clogging his nose.
It began to rain out in the open and Rupert heard rushing footsteps above as the fairground pundits rushed into the central arcade right above where he lay. A moment later the rain became a downpour with a loud lash of wind, and for less than a second the form of a cuddly toy horse could be seen flying off the pier and into the blackness of the sea.
Rupert sighed, shifting to find he had a wet arse. Inspection of the hard sand he’d been lying on told him it was rather waterlogged and had probably been soaking into his jeans since - he checked his watch - an hour ago. This produced another sigh, this one louder and filled with a great deal more frustration. At least he could find solace in the fact that his Ferris Wheel kiss would have ended in a deluge of water and a terrifyingly powerful gale.
Not that he wanted to kiss Jilly Graham - she had a gob the size of Mick Jagger’s and had probably used hers more than he ever would - but he sort of had to. A school-trip weekend, after all, was where everyone copped off. It was law. And Rupert was missing his own right of passage to rub sand off his jeans and throw things at seagulls who thought he might just be a pile of rubbish ripe for picking through.
Perhaps it was a set-up. Perhaps he’d been sent down here so someone else could take Jilly Graham on the wheel and chase the girls down the promenade. Perhaps the bastards knew this was his first weekend away with the school and were using it against him. Toying with him. The little shits.
Rupert sat up, shaking his head in a dog-like fashion to unsettle the sand in his shaggy hair. He pushed down the sleeves of his jacket and rolled over onto his knees. As he made to get up, however, the rain caught his attention again. He looked along the sopping wet beach to the edge of the water. The fluffy horse toy had washed up with a seagull sat atop it.
He sank down again, watching the seagull peck at the wet mess of fur and stuffing. He’d missed his chance now anyway with the others - they’d all be long-gone, fleeing from the teachers trying to send them back to the hotel for a good night’s sleep. They wouldn’t miss him. They never did.
When Rupert was next aware of his own thoughts he tasted a drop of salty water on his lips. He started a little, jumping up to check the sea level. It was still quite a way away yet. A cold gust of wind revealed the water was his own, and he hastened to wipe his eyes.
Stupid kids. He didn’t need them anyway. Could’ve had a right laugh on his own tonight if he hadn’t been so thick as to follow the hints of one such idiot. Could’ve stolen some good times out in the lights, lost himself on a log flume or two or been scared shitless on the Wild Mouse. Instead he was waiting on an anonymous note slipped into his pocket at breakfast, some rotten prank by some rotten bastard to ensure he had a rotten time.
It was during this fragile moment that Ethan Rayne appeared, slumping down on the sand beside Rupert’s dazed and speechless form. His fashionably-unkempt hair was plastered to his soaking wet face and the water rising up his jeans had successfully reached his knees. Rupert only marked the massive grin at first, taking in the other details slowly as the other boy began to ramble in a breathless tone.
“Sorry! Should’ve told you it was me - you’d have known I’d be late then. Went to scope out that dog track we passed on the bus yesterday. Only up the road but I did have to lose Mr. Forbes first, followed me half-way up the promenade and back. Got a flagpole up his arse that one. And then Jilly was cooing ‘Oh Ethan, come in the ghost train with me, I’m scared!’ Silly cow she is, won a prize in Coral Island and lost it on the end of the pier. Said it flew out of her bloody hands. Anyway… here’s why I’m even later than I should’ve been.”
With a flash Ethan produced a handful of five pound notes, spreading them to form a crumpled fan. Rupert’s keen eyes darted to each note in quick succession as Ethan watched him, his lopsided grin a mile wide.
“That must be… fifty quid!”
“You are correct sir,” Ethan replied, wafting the notes so near they transferred yet more sand onto Rupert’s glasses. He took them off to clean, interested by the sight of money in soft focus until a pair of lips brushed against his own.
“I really am sorry I’m late.”
The words seemed clearer somehow, as if the strange sensation of Ethan’s mouth moving was helping his brain translate the sound. The money tickled his ear as a hand found the back of his neck.
“What do you say to making this an unforgettable evening?”
Author: Maddogs991
Genre: Angst/Romance
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Giles/Ethan
Written For: The CYA Ficathon
Wordcount: Just past the 1000 mark methinks.
Notes: I was given leeway with the timeline, so this vignette takes place before the beginning. The location is Blackpool, purely because I live here and have just spent a couple of weeks visiting the beach and Central Pier. Therefore everything (for a change) is accurate in this story! Slash, romance, rain and sand. Voila. :)
Request:
AUTHOR 20
Characters/Pairings: Giles and Ethan
Things you want: Ethan arrives unexpected on a holiday, rain (or snow) would be a nice addition to the story
Things you don’t want: no deaths please
Other: I'll leave the time line, rating and genre up to the author.
Rupert waited in the darkness so long that he began to ponder how humans could just let the minutes of their lives slip away with such ease. The flies buzzing around beach-donkeys’ backsides rushed through their short spans doing anything and everything, risking an unholy death with a rolled-up newspaper merely to live, to live every moment they were blessed with.
And he was lying on the sand under Central Pier, watching the lights of the Ferris Wheel reflect in the slowly-rising water. He could have been up there on that wheel - Jilly Graham had invited him with a bat of her false eyelashes. A quick kiss at the very top and he’d have come down to earth smiling for the night, racing down to the amusements to waste his money on one-arm bandits and those annoying grabber machines that never actually grabbed, and even when they did the teddy bear slipped out of their grip before you could get at it.
Yes that would have been a decent evening, a damn site better than lying in the pitch black with sand in his socks and the smell of the sea clogging his nose.
It began to rain out in the open and Rupert heard rushing footsteps above as the fairground pundits rushed into the central arcade right above where he lay. A moment later the rain became a downpour with a loud lash of wind, and for less than a second the form of a cuddly toy horse could be seen flying off the pier and into the blackness of the sea.
Rupert sighed, shifting to find he had a wet arse. Inspection of the hard sand he’d been lying on told him it was rather waterlogged and had probably been soaking into his jeans since - he checked his watch - an hour ago. This produced another sigh, this one louder and filled with a great deal more frustration. At least he could find solace in the fact that his Ferris Wheel kiss would have ended in a deluge of water and a terrifyingly powerful gale.
Not that he wanted to kiss Jilly Graham - she had a gob the size of Mick Jagger’s and had probably used hers more than he ever would - but he sort of had to. A school-trip weekend, after all, was where everyone copped off. It was law. And Rupert was missing his own right of passage to rub sand off his jeans and throw things at seagulls who thought he might just be a pile of rubbish ripe for picking through.
Perhaps it was a set-up. Perhaps he’d been sent down here so someone else could take Jilly Graham on the wheel and chase the girls down the promenade. Perhaps the bastards knew this was his first weekend away with the school and were using it against him. Toying with him. The little shits.
Rupert sat up, shaking his head in a dog-like fashion to unsettle the sand in his shaggy hair. He pushed down the sleeves of his jacket and rolled over onto his knees. As he made to get up, however, the rain caught his attention again. He looked along the sopping wet beach to the edge of the water. The fluffy horse toy had washed up with a seagull sat atop it.
He sank down again, watching the seagull peck at the wet mess of fur and stuffing. He’d missed his chance now anyway with the others - they’d all be long-gone, fleeing from the teachers trying to send them back to the hotel for a good night’s sleep. They wouldn’t miss him. They never did.
When Rupert was next aware of his own thoughts he tasted a drop of salty water on his lips. He started a little, jumping up to check the sea level. It was still quite a way away yet. A cold gust of wind revealed the water was his own, and he hastened to wipe his eyes.
Stupid kids. He didn’t need them anyway. Could’ve had a right laugh on his own tonight if he hadn’t been so thick as to follow the hints of one such idiot. Could’ve stolen some good times out in the lights, lost himself on a log flume or two or been scared shitless on the Wild Mouse. Instead he was waiting on an anonymous note slipped into his pocket at breakfast, some rotten prank by some rotten bastard to ensure he had a rotten time.
It was during this fragile moment that Ethan Rayne appeared, slumping down on the sand beside Rupert’s dazed and speechless form. His fashionably-unkempt hair was plastered to his soaking wet face and the water rising up his jeans had successfully reached his knees. Rupert only marked the massive grin at first, taking in the other details slowly as the other boy began to ramble in a breathless tone.
“Sorry! Should’ve told you it was me - you’d have known I’d be late then. Went to scope out that dog track we passed on the bus yesterday. Only up the road but I did have to lose Mr. Forbes first, followed me half-way up the promenade and back. Got a flagpole up his arse that one. And then Jilly was cooing ‘Oh Ethan, come in the ghost train with me, I’m scared!’ Silly cow she is, won a prize in Coral Island and lost it on the end of the pier. Said it flew out of her bloody hands. Anyway… here’s why I’m even later than I should’ve been.”
With a flash Ethan produced a handful of five pound notes, spreading them to form a crumpled fan. Rupert’s keen eyes darted to each note in quick succession as Ethan watched him, his lopsided grin a mile wide.
“That must be… fifty quid!”
“You are correct sir,” Ethan replied, wafting the notes so near they transferred yet more sand onto Rupert’s glasses. He took them off to clean, interested by the sight of money in soft focus until a pair of lips brushed against his own.
“I really am sorry I’m late.”
The words seemed clearer somehow, as if the strange sensation of Ethan’s mouth moving was helping his brain translate the sound. The money tickled his ear as a hand found the back of his neck.
“What do you say to making this an unforgettable evening?”