Ethan left Sunnydale by a late night bus. It was not the triumphant exit he had planned when he first arrived, but if there was something he had learned from his life, it was that things rarely went the way they were supposed to, and he had come to the conclusion that as long as he stayed alive, he was successful enough to congratulate himself. Even if he had had to run in the middle of the night.
The Mark of Eyghon – or rather, the place where the Mark had been – throbbed with pain. It was expected. After all, he had burned it off his skin with acid, and that would sting a bit, logically. He was of the opinion that it was good for the soul to endure a little pain now and then, if it meant you could avoid a much worse, excruciating, and bone-crushing pain – especially if that pain lead to death, since he was pretty sure death was a rather unpleasant experience.
He was alive, and Eyghon was gone. While the others were busy fighting off the demon, he had taken the chance to sneak away. That was what he did best, sneaking away. It had kept him alive and well for a long time now. Ethan Rayne always landed on his feet. Maybe a bit unsteady sometimes, but he always kept upright. Whether or not he was on the run.
For the moment, however, Ethan Rayne was in the act of getting pissed. He sat at a table in the darkest, most enigmatic corner of the bar – some fishy place along the Californian highway, unclean and with a sorry clientele – and drained a bottle of the cheapest beer the bar had to offer that was still drinkable. American beer – he would have preferred some good scotch, or perhaps vodka, but his budget was rather low at the moment.
He figured if he got drunk enough, he would forget the pain in his arm. The wound itself burned like fire. The bruises Ripper and the girl had given him was not that bad, but they were certainly noticeable. He felt as if he had been dragged through a mangle.
He thought about Ripper. Ripper, who had thrown away everything he could have had, all the things his powers could have gotten him, for the career of the glorious librarian Rupert Giles. Dressed in tweed. For a minute, Ethan pondered over what it was with tweed and Watchers. A Watcher – oh, yes, Ripper, the great rebellious magician, had gone to do exactly what was expected of him and become that nice and obedient little tweed-clad Watcher he was always supposed to be.
He remembered when Ripper had left, all these years ago. Apparently, he had not understood the full potential of his powers. Or maybe that was why he had backed out, because he saw what he was able to do and it scared him. Ethan wondered if Ripper had ever thought about what his life would have been like if he had stayed. If he had ever tried to imagine what they could have done together, as agents of chaos and evil. It would have been beautiful, that. But Ripper had given it up, and left, and now he was stuck above the Hellmouth with his blonde little Slayer and his books and his tweed suit. In many ways, that was the embodiment of poetic justice.
Ethan might be the only one of the old gang left who hadn't died or gone completely mental, but at least he was still free. He wasn't obliged to do anything, except getting pissed. He was the servant of chaos, indeed, but a fine thing, that – chaos had a tendency to spread itself while he just watched from the shadows; it did not demand that much, certainly not more than he was willing to give. And in the end, he always got out unscathed. If Ripper – Rupert "Tweed" Giles, nowadays – did not want that, bollocks to him.
He emptied the beer bottle. The insides of his head were in full spin. Drunk. Yeah, he knew that feeling very well.
"I did do well, though", he said to no one in particular. He smiled to the shadows. "I did bloody well." The seed of chaos on top of a Hellmouth – he had done great, but then again, he always did great.
He had done a good job getting drunk as well. When he left the bar to get back to the motel where he was about to spend the night, he had a rather hard time walking straight. He almost dropped the keys as he was unlocking the door, and then he fell down on the bed. Ethan Rayne always landed on his feet, or sometimes his arse.
The room was very empty, and dark. He could feel the presence of magic, as always around him. He summoned the remote control with a spell – pointless, really, but he did not think he could get up at the moment – and turned on a random channel on the ridiculously small TV. He had no intention to watch, but he enjoyed the sound. It made the room less empty. All there ever was on TV was brainless soap operas and tasteless porn. The late night news had already been on, but he knew what they would have shown. The same as every day. Chaos. His master had the whole world as its domain. It made him feel insignificant, and if there was something he hated, it was feeling insignificant. That was for other people to worry about, not him. He was not insignificant. In fact, he thought he might rather be dead than be just as any other stupid, useless human being, and that said a lot, considering how very little he wanted to be dead.
He looked at the roof. It was not being still. He thought the sudden gloominess was because of the beer, and the best way to get rid of that would obviously be to drain the bottle of cheap whiskey he had left in the room. It was already lying on the bed. Handy. He opened it and took a swig.
"Cheers, then", he said to the room.
He came to think about Ripper again. Somehow, it always seemed to happen when he was drunk. Once, he had asked him why he had left, and Ripper's answer had been strangely hurtful. They had both been drunk then, and Ripper's edges were still visible, not hidden behind his tweed as now. Tweed, Ethan thought and snorted. Maybe the Rupert he was now tried to hide them, all his sharp edges, but some things simply won't leave you that easily. Not who you really are. That stays, maybe hidden deep down, but still there.
When Rupert had beaten him up in the costume shop, Ripper had approached and taken command. Ethan had seen him in Rupert's eyes. Ripper, all the bitter rage and beauty that had been him, in those eyes. He remembered that now, and for some reason it seemed important. Something worth to keep in mind. For the future, perhaps.
He's still there.
He raised the bottle. "To Ripper", he said. "To chaos." He stopped with the bottle by his lips, smiled, and added, "To the sort of evil that never leaves."