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1975
At first, Ripper told himself he was in love with the music.
It’s a punk band, (the Sex Pistons? Pythons? Something like that) which is not Ripper’s usual scene, but Ethan loves the chaos of it. And it was easy, to blame the pounding of his heart on the rhythm of the drums, not the casual pass of Ethan’s hand over his shoulder. The throb low in his stomach came from the vibration of the bass rather than the sight of Ethan leaning, just barely too close, whispering in Randall’s ear. It's the electric ache in his chest that sends him hurtling into the fervor of the crowd, but doesn’t quite hide him from the wicked sliver of Ethan’s smile.
Ripper wants to punch someone, but he’ll settle for a good fuck. He doesn’t meet a pair of eyes across the crowd, but rather a pair of arms, wiry and raised in punk-rock jubilation. Giles doesn’t even notice his face, his dyed dark hair and dangerous, cutting cheekbones, and he certainly doesn’t think he looks a bit like Ethan, not even with that insufferable smug smirk of a smile.
Ripper meets him at the edge of the crowd and drags him outside, to the back alley fringed with puking drunks and tripping junkies. He doesn’t look back at Ethan. He shoves the man up against the brick wall, hungry and overwhelmed and shaking like a fiend. The man’s mouth tastes like cigarettes, which Ripper loves, and a strange sweet metal flavor, which he doesn’t.
“Well, aren’t you eager?” the man asks, accent rough but voice lilting. “It's nice to meet a fellow who likes it rough.”
Ripper kisses the man again, to make him stop talking. He fumbles at the man’s waistband, fingers clumsy and rushed.
“Here, let me.” The man reaches for Ripper, undoes his belt, snakes his hand through his waistband and slides his hand onto Ripper's cock. Ripper presses against him, aching and hard, breath caught between a moan and a howl. He closes his eyes, and tries not to pretend.
“So, who is it you really want to be fucking right now?” The man asks.
Ripper jerks his eyes open, and almost pulls away, but the man shifts his hand and Christ that feels good…
“What's it to you?” He replies.
“I have a weakness for sob stories.” The man says, dry as a bone. “You were moaning another fellow’s name. Doesn’t do wonders for the ego.”
Ripper, to his absolute horror, feels himself turning red. He pushes the man away. “Sod off, man.”
“I thought that’s what we were trying to do?” The man laughs, and Ripper hates him. He turns to go inside, but the man catches him arm. “There’s no need to get huffy.” He leans into Ripper, and Ripper can feel him pressing, hard, against him. “And there’s certainly no need to stop.”
“Alright,” Ripper says, breathless. He pushes the man back against the wall, and rests his hands against the man’s pointed hipbones. “But tell me – who do you wish you were fucking right now?”
The man answers him with a kiss, harsh and clanging, teeth slamming against teeth. Ripper tastes the same sweet metal against his tongue, and realizes that it is blood. They finish, and neither says another word.
1997
It’s more than twenty years later, and when Giles sees Spike standing in the halls of Sunnydale high, he nearly faints. Jenny pulls on his arm, bless her, and drags him out into the hallway, and she doesn’t even ask him to explain his momentary incompetence. It’s not like he needs any excuse to be terrified, really. That night, he sends Jenny home early, puts the kettle on, and fetches a bottle of scotch.
He was different, new coat, bleached hair, and the mutilated, demonic face of a vampire, but it was the same man. Same vampire, really. William the bloody. Giles’s memory isn’t perfect, in his advancing years, but there’s no way to forget those cheekbones.
He sits, and drinks, and eventually his hands stop shaking. He thinks back to all those years ago, how he stood inches from his own death, and walked away none the wiser. It would make him laugh, if it wasn’t so terrifying. He wonders who would be watching Buffy today, if he had been eaten as he so richly deserved. He wonders if Spike would’ve turned him, if he’d be here now, with him, standing at his side side. If he wouldn’t need glasses, and would still look twenty, and be able to fit into his old, tight jeans. If he would stalk the slayer into a graveyard and try to kill her. (He doesn't believe for an instant he could have actually succeeded.)
He takes another sip of tea, and thinks to himself Dear god, I was stupid.
A few weeks later, when he meets Ethan Rayne in the costume shop, cold, mad, and alone, he amends his thought to Dear god, I was lucky.
1999
It’s another two years after that, and Spike is sitting in his bathtub, trying to drink microwaved blood from a mug. He would laugh, really, at the strangeness of it; the symbolic representation of your misspent youth chained up in your bathtub. But as a far wiser person once said – “Fire bad, tree pretty.” There’s no need to overanalyze.
Giles stands at the doorway, and watches as Spike drops the mug. It’s been more than twenty years, and Spike hasn’t aged a day. Giles might hate him for that alone, if he didn’t have so many better excuses. Spike swears as blood spills down the side of the tub, staining his black tee.
“I can’t manage the mug with these chains.” The vampire whines. “Let me out, and get me a refill.”
Giles watches him squirm for a minute, then bends down over the tub. He reaches for the mug, and Spike is only inches from him, from his jugular. He grabs the mug and straightens, quick and tense.
“No need to get twitchy, I can’t do anything with this chip in my head.” Spike drawls.
“I doubt violence is the only weapon you know how to use.” Giles backs away from the tub, and Spike snorts.
“There’s more to being a vamp than fangs and feeding, it’s true. People forget that.” If its possible for someone to preen in a bathtub, Spike does it. “You’ve got to have style.”
“Style?” Giles says. “Is that what you call it, when you dress up like Johnny Rotten for twenty years? Maybe it’s time to move on with your life.”
Spike grumbles, and shifts in the tub. “Punk rock’s not dead yet, old man.”
That makes Giles laugh. “Me, old? I not the one born in the 19th century.”
“Well, you know what I mean.” Spike pouts. “That’s the nice thing about being a vampire. You don’t have to move on with your life. You don’t have one.” He smiles now, more nostalgic than predatory. “For me, it can always be 1930, or 1900, or 1975.”
“I can’t imagine why you’d want it to always be 1975.” Giles says.
“It was a good year, for me. I was in London again, Dru and I were back together, I fed off a member of the royal family. And, I saw the Sex Pistols for the first time.”
Giles feels his heart start to race. “Really. I saw them play, as well.”
“Really?” Spike straightens up, as much as he can, in the tub. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for the type.”
“I wasn’t, truly. There was a man, a friend. He took me.”
“I know what that’s like.” Spike smiles. “Angelus used to drag me to the ballet. Try to “culture” me and all that. I told him I hated it, but after he left, I used to take Dru. We’d eat a whole luxury box in his honor.”
“Touching.” Giles deadpans.
“Right, I’m sure you wouldn’t understand, about missing a bloke.”
Giles doesn’t respond. “How was it?” he asks. It’s a struggle to keep his voice steady. “Your concert?”
“Eh, it was alright. They were mostly just noisy, back then.” Spike pauses to consider, and Giles breath catches. “Plus, I was too high to remember much. Had just fed off a hippie, you know.” He meets Giles’ eye, and smiles. “How about you get me a blood refill, then?”
Giles starts, and pulls himself out of the chair. He comes back in a few minutes with a mug full of blood and a bendy straw for Spike, and a tumbler of Scotch for himself. He hands the warm mug to the vampire.
“You ate a member of the royal family?”
Spike smirks. “Well, I didn’t finish. It’s a long story, that…”
Giles settles in to the chair and listens.