By Minim Calibre
Notes: Not with a bang… My first improv for the Stephen King Title Challenge, and s.a. was there to see it happen. Bless. Giles/Ethan, PG.
They put the drugs in his food. He knows this, but he still has to eat. The government of the United States may have given up on the research and manipulation of demons, but humans are still fair game.
He lives for the moments when he feels his stomach clench, for those are the only lucid ones he has. He skipped a meal once, worked up enough energy to hide the untouched food behind a spell that once would have been no more difficult than breathing or blinking his eyes. They noticed. After the restraints and the IV and the stomach tube, he knows better than to try again.
When he’s lucid, when he’s himself, he devises ways in which to escape. He never has time to bring those plans to fruition before the drugs take effect.
When they’ve worked their terrible mundane magic, Ethan slumps in the corner of the cell, his eyes fixed on his reflection in the glass, and thinks of better days. He thinks of Ripper, and the magnificent swath they cut through London. He dreams of fevered caresses and the rush of Eyghon inside his body, of fucking until he passes out and the demon enters Ripper as Ethan comes.
The moments he dreads are the ones in between: the ones where he comes out of his lovely, drug-induced bliss, and remembers just why it is that this time, Ripper’s not going to save him.