Secret Slasha – The Buffy the Vampire Slayer & Angel Slash Fanfiction Secret Santa Project
Secret Slasha – The Buffy the Vampire Slayer & Angel Slash Fanfiction Secret Santa Project

By Willocwen
For Elizabeth Scripturient


Ethan arched an eyebrow, before nodding. Did Giles really need to ask? Honestly. He watched as the amber whiskey was poured into the glass, which was promptly offered. "You know, I have half a mind to think it's poison," Ethan said, folding his arms and looking at Rupert. There was a tense pause and Rupert almost smiled, downing that glass of whiskey, and quite calmly pouring another one. Ethan smiled, amused at his own paranoia - but he didn't know Giles any more, he really didn't. So different from the vibrant young bad boy from years ago.

"Thanks for the alcohol, lovely house warming gift. So if I was to ask why you're in Cleveland," he started, "you would answer with…"

"Sunnydale is destroyed."

"Oh." Well, that was a plot twist. Ethan frowned a bit before sipping the alcohol, cold on his tongue but warm in his throat. With an almost twisted smile he lent back into his chair, watching the other man pour himself another drink. "You have a gut of steel, Ripper, for downing that."

Giles didn't say anything, just stood up and walked over to Rayne, and Ethan found himself standing as well. Close, familiar, smelt like alcohol and cigarettes. No leather, or denim. That was a shame. Ethan had become attached to that scent back in the day. Used to it, remembered falling asleep but it and his cock twitching to attention when it came nearer. Ripper. How he missed that man, that man that Giles no longer was. Or so he speculated - he was hoping perhaps he could be proven wrong.

"No no, sit down," Giles assured, and Ethan hesitated before doing so, as the other man perched on the edge of the table in front of him, glass of whiskey clasped between two hands. Rough, older hands. Ethan's eyes were drawn to them, wondering how those hands would feel on his skin, if they would feel terribly different from Giles' hands where he was younger. He was just itching to find out. "I want to know why you're here. We don't have room for evil men."

Ethan chuckled, looking back up at Giles. "Evil man, am I? That's a bit of a stretch." Getting no answer in reply, the warlock shook his head. "I'm here because… why wouldn't I be? It's one of the most untouched Hell mouths in the way of good and there's a lot of business for me here. You should know that, Ripper." There was a pause, and again, Ethan got no answer by way of reward. Only watching Giles look away for a moment and take a sip of alcohol. "So, why are you here?"


"No, not here in Cleveland. Here as in here."

"The question of two girls that were murdered. Thirteen year olds. Hearts were taken and their bodies left in a dumpster. What a Merry Christmas they'll have, I'm sure."

"Yes, I saw that in the paper. And what does this have to do with me?"

Giles frowned at him, and looked slightly bewildered. A long pause, and he shook his head. "No, nothing, at all. I…"

"Yes?" Ethan stood up then, head tilted, a small smirk playing out on his lips and tugging at the corners. Oh, how history can be repeated. He felt warm thanks to the alcohol, knew Giles would be as well. Wanted to be warmer? Ethan certainly did. "Was that a very poor excuse, Ripper?"

A sigh. "For what, Ethan?"

There was a window of opportunity - Ethan took it. With a wry smile he pulled the other man into a kiss, light and tempting, coaxing and asking.

They managed not to miss the bed in their movements to remove their clothes.

The sheets were cheap - thread count too low, perhaps not washed in a while. These things were easily noticeable, as Ethan was pressed down on his stomach against them, gripping them like the sheets were anchors. Pain, such glorious pain, he wanted to laugh, to enjoy the ripping feel of the man above him, who's rough hands held a bruising grip on his arms. Voice, raw and thready from the heat of their activities, whispered Latin words and Ethan's name the only comfort he received. To be used like this, broken open and hollowed out… sublime suffering, oh how Ethan craved it. Why he used to come back for more.

His hips lifted off the bed only to have them forced back down. Giles' movements were like ocean waves and just as unforgiving and consuming. Ethan shivered at the feel of Giles's breath brushing against the back of his neck, sending shivers down his spine, small moans leaving his throat at each thrust. "R-Rupert…" he ground out, and the grip at his arms tightened for his troubles. He bit down on his bottom lip to try not to talk, as again and again he was taken, more pain than pleasure, a thing he had no qualms about.

Memories, such fond memories. Memories of pain and grit and worship. Of afternoons of sex and blood and ritual. Of hot summer nights and icy winter mornings. It had lasted a year - an eternity to Ethan, but perhaps something shorter for Giles.

He could feel Giles, not physically, but everything else - everything that was between them, bonds they made in the past in the highness of magic, smoking marijuana and listening to a rock radio station as they made a circle of candles. He could see it when he closed his eyes, those days. Wanted those days back.

He felt rather than heard Giles come, in that familiar groan, always polite and never too loud, but raw, intense, unstoppable. Ethan felt teeth sink into his shoulder and he gave a shout, bucking into those cheap sheets, pressure releasing like a dam, leaving him slumped and boneless and breathing hard.

And he could feel Giles' fingers through his hair and suddenly, sharply, pulling his head back. A blade, cool like death, rested at his throat, and he froze. "For all the inhuman things you have done," Giles murmured, "I still feel addicted. So here's to our end, Ethan, and the end of the evil you do. Have a very Merry Christmas." And the blade slid, parting through flesh like a warm knife through butter, blood making the sheets rosy and scented with copper and dirtiness. No strangled scream of pain, only a gurgle of shock and horror, eyes wide and pained, but suddenly emotionless as blackness clouded his vision until all he could see was eternity, naked as the day he was born and pain faded as quickly as it had come.

It was later, when Giles was dressed that he cleaned off the fish bone knife, red blood running with the stream of tap water, and he pocketed it. He left the building cleaning his glasses, trying to think of the girls, and how the only way to save them was to undo the ritual, to spill their murderer's blood.

The ritual was closed, among other things. Ethan was a taste of poison - Giles could live without it.