Ethan stumbled from his room, wrapping his blue robe around his body. He hadn't used it in years, having newer more luxurious ones. It had been a gift from Ripper and he enjoyed wearing it in front of Buffy. The horrible warmth of this place was certainly no reason to surrender his little pleasures. He glared down the hallway as a grating sound rent the air. It was far too early in the morning. He grimaced as the sharp metallic sound filled the apartment again. He turned, stalked down his hall, and looked into his lounge to see the slayer sharpening a sword. Her long practiced strokes both alluring and terribly frightening at once. He swallowed past the lump in his throat and said nothing, though not for lack of trying.
He felt his mouth forming the words, felt the air pressing past his vocal cords, but no sound escaped him. He clapped his hands and Buffy looked at him, annoyance clear in her expression. She opened her mouth. He could see her lips forming a single word, but there was no sound.
Buffy lowered the sword to his table and touched her throat gently, the panic in her eyes clear. She stood up and and began pacing. Ethan rolled his eyes. The girl just couldn't be still. There were a thousand ways this could have been done. She needn't panic. He closed his eyes and considered reversal spells, trying to decide which one to use. It was really a rather amusing prank, and this town was full of those both powerful enough and mischievous enough to have done it. He smiled and moved into his small kitchen, loving the play of chaos around him.
He put the kettle on and sliced some bread from the loaf he had bought at the bakery down the street. It was a quaint place that made passable scones. He placed the slices in his toaster and stared at the bread. Perhaps one of the witches in the store had cursed the bread. He had flirted rather shamelessly with all of them. It wouldn't be the first time such behavior had gotten him in trouble. He smiled fondly as memories played through his mind. Unfortunate that Buffy had gotten caught up in it. He would have quite a few ruffled feathers to soothe. He pulled a cup from the cupboard and filled his tea ball, waiting for the kettle to sound.
Buffy came in and sat down at the table putting a blue notebook on the down on the dark wood between them. He looked at the sticker decorating it, and found himself wondering what the significance of baby eating dingoes was. He looked up at her panicked expression and thought better of trying to find out.
Buffy opened the book to a blank page. He watched her write frantically, the motion of her hand blurring. She finished and shoved the notebook at him with a pen.
He looked at her, at the tension in her body, and stood. He didn't look at her rapidly penned words. Calm, rational minds were always best in a crisis. She slapped the notebook and pointed at him. She could be so demanding. He rolled his eyes and pulled out butter and jam. The lovely, little shrew would have to bloody well wait for once. He wasn't her servant.
She stamped her foot and the window rattled. He turned toward her and let his fury show. He wasn't a blindly devoted simpering fool like old Ripper. Tantrums were not acceptable. She put her hands on her hips and tapped her toes. He looked her up and down, considering turning her into something slow, like a turtle or a slug. She might learn something from the experience. He opened his mouth and no sound came. Her smirk only made matters worse. He watched as her hand flew in rapid movements. The ward snapped into place next to him, his tea and toast on the other side.
Teaching her the oldest protective magics had seemed like a good idea. Leave it to a slayer to find a way to make it an offensive weapon. He considered his options. He could take down the ward and continue this battle or read whatever the silly bird had scrawled onto the page. He looked at her, all blonde fury, her eyes flashing, and her belly rounded. He felt the fight go out of him.
His best mate's children were inside of her. He sighed. No matter how annoying she became he would tolerate it. He touched the ward. He was also done teaching her magic. It was no fun having it turned against him. He glared at her still tapping toes as he moved back to the table.
She bustled past him and poured the hot water into his mug. Dropping an oven mitt across the top of his mug, she let it steep as she slathered his toast with butter and jam. At least she was a gracious winner.
He picked up the notebook and let his eyes run over the words, not truly reading. Her handwriting was graceful and demanding. There were lovely loops and bold strokes. Was everything about her a contradiction?
He stopped as certain words began to register. Slayer dream and dying would have been enough, but the words went on and on, each one worse than the last. What was a slayer dream exactly? How reliable were they as prophetic tools? He paled as he read through the note with his full attention riveted to each word. A sense of dread bloomed in his gut.
Her eyes were soft and sad as she settled his mug on the table with his plate. Ethan looked into those eyes and realized the hell Ripper lived in. How did he manage to send her out each night? How would he handle watching her leave to fight when he discovered the truth about her pregnancy?
Ethan clenched the pen in his hand. He knew she was going to her Giles, going to fight some horrible unknown evil. He wrote the words anyway. She patted his hand gently and shook her head. He watched the warrior overtake the woman. The words became a mantra, a drum beat screaming in his head. He said them silently, again and again. Don't go.