Buffy and her friends arrive back from their little research expedition, report back that there is nothing worth reporting, and then head off again quickly. They can tell that the tension in Giles' house is beginning to reach explosive levels, and quite sensibly make a hasty exist. I only wish I could do the same.

Ethan won't stop whinging. He blames me for… well, putting it bluntly, he blames me for everything. If he thought about it long enough he could probably work out how to blame me for original sin. And this sudden, painful invasion of his life by the council has my trademark stamped all over it. If I were him, I'd probably blame me too. Trouble is, him sitting here and accusing me is getting us nowhere.

And any minute now, I'm going to loose my temper and thump him.

Either that or Giles is.

I've never really seen Giles angry before. Not like this, anyway. He's… seething. I've got the distinct impression that the only reason he's not rearranging Ethan's face at this point is because someone else has already done it for him. He looks like he's working bloody hard to keep from doing something he'll regret. I wonder again what Ethan could possibly have done to turn his friendship into such bitter hate. Then I go back to wondering why the fuck the Council would go to such lengths to get the three of us together in Sunnydale. If it's mages and magic they're after, I'm sure they could easily find willing little helpers among their own people, mages that they can trust, magic that they can control. And if it's not magic they want from us… then what?

'I think you should check out any local books of prophesy you can get your hands on,' I suggest to Giles. 'See if we're obviously destined to come together and do something any time in the near future.'

Giles nods, still looking distracted, and begins to search through his piles of books, slightly aimlessly. Ethan laughs bitterly.

'I've had enough of this,' he says. 'These stupid conspiracy theories, blaming the council... it's not helping. Giles, something bloody attacked me, and it wasn't a bloke in a suit. If you're not going to do anything about it, I'm off. This is pointless.'

He makes to stand up and leave, but Giles quickly grabs his arm, hard enough to hurt. Ethan struggles angrily. I watch them in fascination, but find myself unable to intervene, even though they're just one step away from real violence.

'Let go! Let me go, you bastard. Get off me!' Ethan growls.

'Don't be such a bloody idiot,' Giles hisses, jerking his arm back and forcing him to stop struggling. Ethan sits back and stares up at him defiantly, but Giles doesn't release his grip.

'If the aim of the… whatever-it-was that attacked you was to draw you here, then for now you're perfectly safe. But only as long as you stay where it wants us. You fuck off now, and you're putting us all in danger,' Giles says quietly and rationally, but with an undertone of blazing anger. He's bent his face close to Ethan's, and suddenly an unwelcome image springs to the front of my mind: something that looks like Ripper is bending down over a cowering Ethan, gripping his shoulder, raking blunt nails across his face. I shudder.

'All right!' Ethan yells suddenly. 'I'm not going anywhere. Happy?' Giles slowly lets go of his shoulder, and the image passes.

'If you fuck this one up for me,' Giles says dangerously, 'If anyone gets hurt because of you, I'll kill you. I mean it, Ethan.'

His voice is shaking with emotion, and not just anger. He sounds like he's on the verge of tears.

'I've said I'll bloody cooperate, haven't I?' Ethan says resentfully. 'You're just going to have to trust me.'

'And how the hell am I supposed to do that?' Giles yells. He clenches his fists and stares at Ethan for a long moment, before turning and storming out of the room.

Me and Ethan sit in uncomfortable silence and try not to meet each other's eyes. I can hear Giles clattering around the kitchen, and then the sounds of muffled cursing. I throw Ethan a reproachful look and follow him out of the room.

He's poured himself a whisky, and is leaning against the kitchen counter, not drinking, just swirling it around in the glass. He looks up as I approach.

'John,' he says, nodding slightly. 'Drink?'

I shake my head. 'Not a good idea.'

He shrugs, and takes a gulp.

'You alright?' I ask. He doesn't answer for quite a while, and when he finally does, it's barely above a whisper. We're both very conscious that there's not even a wall between us and Ethan.

'D'you remember Deirdre Page?' The sudden change of subject throws me.

'Of course,' I say with a shrug, a little bemused.

'How about Henry Thomas? And Philip?' he continues.

'Yeah,' I say cautiously. 'What about them?'

'They're dead, John,' Giles says gently.

'Dead?' I echo stupidly, not knowing what else to say. It might sound callous, but I honestly don't care. It's been too long. The names barely even have faces attached, and I can't make myself care.

'Dead,' Giles says again, and then suddenly, in a rush of words: 'It was Ethan. Ethan killed them, John.'

I stare at him, stunned. He shakes his head wildly.

'Oh I don't mean he murdered them with his own hands. He's too much of a coward for that. But he killed them all the same.'

'How?' I ask, a little too loudly. Giles glares at me and we both glance over at Ethan, but he doesn't seem to be listening. He has his head buried in his hands.

'A possession that went wrong,' Giles mutters. My blood runs cold.

'But…Giles, that's… you can't blame him for that…' I say desperately, reaching out to grip his shoulder. Because if you blame him for that, how can you not blame me? I can't put the thought into coherent words, but somehow, Giles understands. He grasps my hand tightly.

'John, don't even think it. What you did… what happened was not your fault. You made mistakes; I can forgive you for that. What Ethan did was… malicious, and cowardly, and…' his face screws up in anger and he breaks off, and takes another gulp of his whisky, making an obvious effort to calm down.

'He would have killed Buffy to save his own life,' he continues after a moment's silence. 'I can't trust him again, John. Not if it means putting her in danger.'

His hands are shaking. He puts the whisky down clumsily, it clatters on the countertop. Ethan looks up, his eyes narrow with suspicion, but also he seems… hurt. His expression is unguarded, and he seems upset, miserable, and yes, vulnerable. He realises I'm watching him, and looks away quickly.

'We were… so… close,' Giles whispers. 'I thought… I thought I knew him. Christ, John, we shared so much. I thought I could trust him!'

His face is twisted unreadable with conflicting emotions. And I… don't know how to react. I'm almost afraid of the strength of his anger. And I can't bear the force of his grief. I grip his hand.

'Ripper, calm down. Now isn't the time. Please,' I whisper urgently

He bows his head, and takes a deep breath. Then he takes off his glasses and wipes them clean, before picking up the half finished glass of whiskey and staring at it for a moment.

'Giles?' I say. He puts the glass down again with a sigh, and a strange half smile.

'You're right,' he says. 'Really not a good idea.' I touch his shoulder.

'You alright?' I ask again, quietly. He shrugs, and then nods.

'Sorry,' he says, loud enough for Ethan to hear.

'It's fine,' I reply. There's more I want to say, but now Ethan's listening to every word.

I can't sleep.

The harsh rasp of Ethan's heavy breathing is deafeningly loud in the silent room. And I keep imagining that I can hear other things. Footsteps.

It's dark. The wrong sort of dark. Not the comforting cover of pitch blackness, but darkness that is ghostly and pale, where it's still possible to see things crawling in the shadows on the floor.

Ethan fell asleep on the sofa, so I got stuck with a bloody armchair, and I can't get comfortable. Curling up makes my arms and back ache, and if I stretch out, I'm going to go crashing to the floor, and anyway, the blankets aren't bloody big enough. I'm cold. And cramped. And fucking exhausted. My eyes are prickling, and my thoughts are starting to go fuzzy round the edges. Maybe I'll be able to drift off in a minute. I shift miserably and bury my head in my arms.

And then suddenly, for no apparent reason, I'm wide-awake again.

Last night, just before he fell asleep, Ethan murmured to me, 'I don't trust you.' I laughed out loud. Then I sat and stared at him for quite a while. He watched me back, with wary, expectant eyes, obviously waiting for a response.

'Funny. I was just about to say the same thing,' I said eventually. He nodded, sighed and closed his eyes.

I lay awake in the uncomfortable darkness. It was a long time before my mind drifted to the verge of sleep.

And now, suddenly, inexplicably, I'm wide awake again.

No, not inexplicably. Something's… changed. It takes me a moment to work out that I can't hear the regular rasp of Ethan's breaths. I lie very still, and hear him catch his breath. Then he stirs and stretches.

He's awake.

He sits up. Not quite knowing why, I make myself breathe slowly and deeply, pretending to be asleep. There is silence for a long moment.

Suddenly, he's bending over me. I force myself to keep perfectly still.

'Constantine?' he murmurs softly. 'Constantine!'

Just as I'm about to roll over and answer him, he turns away with a sigh of relief.

'Bastard,' I hear him mutter quietly, bitterly.

He walks quietly across the floor. For a while, I can't tell what he's doing. Then I here muffled whispering, and realise with a jolt that he's using Giles' telephone.

'Ethan?' I mumble sleepily. He freezes. 'Ethan? That you?' I say more forcefully.

'Go back to sleep, Constantine,' he says with thinly veiled irritation.

'Can't. Too bloody cold,' I complain.

There's another silence. And then a click as he hangs up the telephone. He comes and sits down heavily on the sofa…

…And suddenly, everything is confused, and dreamlike. I think he's laughing, and then I think he's crying. And then he's kneeling at me feet and I see… or think I see… Giles…

'Ripper!' he says, urgently. 'Ask Ripper! You can't ask me, you see, because I don't know. You have to ask Ripper…'

Ethan's face is covered in blood. I open my mouth to ask him what's happened, who's hurt him, but then I realise that my own hands are covered in blood. Ripper leans over me and grips my shoulders, and I cower away from him. He raises a hand, slowly, gently, almost tenderly, but in a gesture that is nonetheless violent. I cry out, and raise my arms to protect my face, but they are covered in blood, it drips into my eyes, blinding me.

'I don't trust you,' Ethan whispers.

'I don't trust you,' Ripper echoes. He rakes his nails down the side of my face, hard enough to draw blood…

… I wake up with my heart pounding loud in my ears.

And I can't work out how much of it was a dream. The phone call… Ethan in tears at my feet…the blood on my hands… it all seemed so real… and in the cold light of morning, I couldn't swear to any of it.

But I don't trust Ethan. That's the one thing I'm certain of.

The trouble is, I'm not sure I trust myself, either.