Ethan did not like Sunnydale. It was a vapid place--all sunny days, all the time. He preferred the moodiness of England, the rain and chill and damp. It was more real, more honest, in his opinion. Here, the weather was as tacky-plastic-fake as the people.
If it wasn’t for the lurking darkness of the Hellmouth, he suspected he would have gone insane before they’d even managed to unpack.
Even so, he’d come rather close to going stir-crazy before the owner of the magic shop on Revello had died and left a gap in the local supply-demand balance. So, now here Ethan was, in a shop--his shop--shuffling around candles and herbs and crystals, and feeling like a human being for the first time in the two and a half months he’d been in this damned town.
Feeling at home for the first time.
He and Rupert had a shop, back in England, much like this one. Rupert had been in charge of the rare books dealing, and Ethan had dealt with the magical artifacts, and... he missed the place. Although, mostly he missed working with Rupert every day.
The shop was still open, of course, being run by a friend, waiting for when they returned.
A part of him hoped that would be soon, even though he knew what their return would mean. Would mean Rupert’s perky little California girl had done her duty and died.
That wasn’t a pleasant thought at all, and not even just because he knew it would destroy Rupert. In fact, Buffy was actually rather charming, in her way.
He shook his head. It wouldn’t do at all to get attached to her. Slayers were like fish, in that way. They lasted just long enough to become fond of, and then...
Well, yes.
He placed another charm in the case by the register and tried to think of other things.
The End
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