Pure Chance
November, 1972. London.
London was the first city to achieve a population of one million persons, and that had been a long, long time ago. Ergo, it was a meeting of pure chance and neither of them pretended it had been anything more. Planets had not aligned and there was nothing special about it. Nothing at all.
As was customary and cliché of this particular city, it was raining. Cold, grey, wet days were what Rupert Giles was used to, having lived in Britain all his life. He was one of those who could spot tourists from a mile away due to their lack of umbrella, even without a cloud in the sky.
It had been a bad day. He had no purpose at the moment, but the rain was better than the indoors-induced argument of his potential and how many generations of the family had studied at Oxford. "You do look much nicer in tweed, dear," his mother had said cautiously, eyeing the worn leather jacket, taking a tentative sip of her tea.
Ethan Rayne was not very purposeful at the moment either. He wasn't one for planning ahead, and at the moment, meaninglessness suited him perfectly well.
And of course it was pure chance that they had been in the same dark and empty pub at the same time, pure chance that Ethan Rayne was out of matches and had only a broken cigarette lighter on hand. It was pure chance that Rupert Giles had nicked his father's lighter the week before in a subtle sign of protest. It was pure chance that Ethan Rayne decided at that moment that he would like a fag, and it was pure chance that Rupert Giles was the nearest smoker at the time.
The months that followed were filled with a blur of loud music, alcohol, petty crime, and chaos. Again, it was pure chance that Ethan Rayne had found an ancient volume of demonology in the alley behind his flat and it was pure chance that he took an interest to the subject.
It was pure chance that the rest of the group did as well.
In the beginning, there were small spells. Bending the forces of darkness to cough up a few extra pounds or a ritual demon worshipping for laughs.
One evening in July, a summoning got out of hand. That demon apparently like to be disturbed, Rupert would later say. In a moment of clarity, clear spot in the fog of alcohol and drugs, he'd grabbed a knife, slashing the thing's throat. It was then that he earned the name Ripper. Ethan hardly ever called him anything else after that point.
It was the name by which he called him in casual conversation as well as the name, which he would call out during sex, a gasp or sometimes half-scream. Someone whose name neither of them could ever remember had once said that if you're still in control, you clearly aren't going fast enough. It was their motto for that time, when the music around them pounded until their blood rushed and when the nights were full of pounding and squeaking mattresses or creaking bed frames.
It was a quiet night, and - as never - it seemed like all of London was fast asleep.
Except for the two of them.
There were soft gasps and the occasional wince of pain. There was a whispering in his ear, "Breathe, Ripper. Breathe," as Ethan squeezed his shoulder, trying to catch his breath. Rupert made a feeble attempt to lift himself gently off of the mattress to allow some air to his lungs, failing horribly. "Relax," Ethan commanded. "It'll bloody hurt if you don't."
"Mhmph," Rupert replied from the pillow. Ethan ignored him. Eventually, he found a suitable rhythm and went to it, the gasps and moans becoming more pronounced as he did. Finally, he pulled out and rolled off onto his side. Rupert rolled over with a groan and sighed.
A few wordless minutes passed. Rupert watched the clock, which hung crooked on the wall, counting down to two in the morning. He said casually, "You know, good man, some of the rest of us have needs as well."
Ethan cocked an eyebrow, smirked, calmly slid down the damp sheets, and set to work. He nibbled and suckled the surrounding flesh before taking it all in, swiftly finishing off.
Later, as Rupert was getting dressed, something seemed off. There was a cold, indifferent air about him, something Ethan couldn't place. He frowned.
Rupert turned to take his shirt from where it had caught on the edge of the bed frame. He noticed the look and sighed. "My father wrote today," he said quietly.
"So Daddy's still hoping to reclaim his pride and joy, isn't he?" He sounded amused.
"Yes," Rupert agreed. "He is."
"But he won't succeed," Ethan said. It wasn't a question.
"Perhaps." Rupert fastened the top button of his shirt and ran his fingers through his hair distractedly. He bent down to tie his shoe. "Quite a bit of what he said made sense."
"Well, this is a new development." No more amusement. Just acid.
"I'm going to see him tomorrow. For lunch."
"Good on you, Rupert."
Rupert finished tying both shoes and got to his feet, taking his jacket from the floor. He thought, No more Ripper?
"See you," he said aloud, voice somewhat softer than normal.
"Goodbye, Ripper," came the reply. Goodbye.
It by pure chance that Rupert managed to find the restaurant his father had chosen. It was much more posh than he'd become used to of late, and in an area of the city he had not frequented for some time. It was by pure chance, of course, that Ethan Rayne was walking by the window, on the other side of which their table stood, at the very moment.
Rupert Giles was dressed neatly, cleanly shaven, shoes polished and shirt newly pressed. He mirrored his father, sitting opposite him, speaking in an even tone while his son remained emotionless, listening carefully.
Ethan saw them rise from their lunch and embrace, father and son, and he knew that the Ripper had just died before his eyes. He turned and left before Rupert could glance out of the window and, by pure chance, catch a sight of him.