*****

It was rather sad, really -- even after all these years, Ethan still remembered the feeling of hauling a drunken Ripper off to bed well enough to notice that he'd gained a few pounds.

Not too many, of course. If ever there were a body he couldn't find much wrong with...But no. Now was not the time to be dawdling over past fancies; now was the time to get Ripper all tucked in and make sure the transformation took hold as it should. It was really just too bad that the warm arm slung over his shoulders for support was just *so*...Yes, warm. And Ripper's breath so interestingly *labored* as they trudged up the stairs together...

Ethan tried to shake it off, he truly did. Because really, the last thing he needed right now, when everything was working out so perfectly, was that teeny tiny all-consuming distraction of pure memory and all-too-close possibility.

If Ripper weren't just so damn...loose, or something, when he was this drunk. All slung against him and mumbling bits about how he used to feel at least a little bit needed. Just like the old days. This was not supposed to be happening. Not like this...Damn Ripper for being so incredibly...Ripper-ish, he supposed.

Tripping was most certainly not part of the plan, either; but then, down he went, unable to untangle himself from Ripper's clinging heat and clutching arms before gravity intervened and yanked them both down onto the bed, and as he fell on top of his drunken...acquaintance, the old familiar scent of bitter alcohol and biting cologne grabbed him and just wouldn_t let go.

Damn the luck, and even more so after Ripper failed to let him go, muttering something about how things had gone just delightful that evening. His fingers were just sort of *there*, curling into the back of Ethan's neck with rather firm reminiscence and insisting that Ethan's mouth *needed* to be coming down, and down even further, and then he was latching his lips intently, but with bad aim, onto the curve of Ethan's jaw.

He meant to pull back before Ripper found the way to his mouth, honestly. And were it not for the uselessness of synapses when it came to getting body to obey brain at times like these, he would have.

Too bad, again, that the time span in which there was an actual choice was so damn short; as soon as Ripper's tongue pressed itself between lip and tooth and carved out a little niche of moist space, it was over, in a sense. No longer any point in wasting thought on ending it at all; he'd never been able to resist that taste or those hands, even when fully sober.

Over, and yet just begun, and the ease with which his inebriated fingers manipulated the buttons on Ripper's shirt made him think perhaps this was *supposed* to happen; how else could he manage to get through that material and under the white cotton undershirt so quickly, and find his way down to an all too blazingly hot expanse of flesh, a pale and un-sunned span, marked only by scattered scars, two peaked nipples, a smattering of hair, and the indented navel that was being a slight bit too insistent in its invitation to Ethan's tongue.

There are times when laziness is simple palpable; Ethan felt it sinking into his head, transferred through Ripper's weakly slung arm, so well-aimed in its thoughtless quest to hold Ethan's mouth on his flesh. The fingers were digging in, pressing every nuance of want into Ethan, forcing him to understand, and he didn't really notice the difference between when he *wasn't* fumbling with a zipper and when he *was*.

A brief difference, anyway, one of mere moments that required a few swift tugs and then there it was, so inappropriately dry and silently begging for Ethan to remedy that situation. And he was all too glad to help, at last; all too willing to hurriedly strip his clothes off and be back in the days when slipping his arms under Ripper's ass and rolling his hips perfectly into place were normal activities, to be enjoyed so often in dank and sweaty nights.

And yes, so he paused; so he took his time and trailed his tongue slowly up the side and down again, always one to taunt and tease and draw out the inevitable in the way only he could do. Yes, so he did, but in the long run, what of that really mattered when Ripper was so damn boilingly helpless beneath him, thrusting up and clutching the bedsheets, and at last opening so willingly to every single thing Ethan's mouth was capable of.

Ethan wondered, in the idle moments in which his mind slipped from the grasp of concentration, if Ripper would be surprised later; his lips could do more than spew lies and mayhem, after all. Then it was back to focusing on all the surging cock in his mouth, to taking just a moment to drench two fingers in saliva and ease them in and finally, at such long last, to take note of the cresting burst of new tension that flooded Ripper's body and forced him to stiffen, and then melted away just as soon as he'd come into Ethan's mouth.

Ethan, for his part, couldn't possibly swallow it all; he tried, as always, to do the best he could for Ripper, but then again, one of the nicest parts was scraping his tongue across softening flesh in a few residual sweeps to clean up. Only then could he inch his way back up and press fully into the length of damp, flushed skin and urge Ripper into the slow drowsiness of exhausted kisses.

He was wrong, of course; he should have known Ripper not to forget. Still, the fingers came as a surprise, wrapping around his cock and stroking so gently between them; curling and forming such a tight seal that it was a good thing there was enough sweat to make the going easy.

Grinding down, he met Ripper's eyes, and there was the surprise again. They were so damn clear, so understanding, and Ethan almost managed to forget that the trust there was of drunken origin, because it was just so *right*. The rhythm between them, the way they were perfectly on pace, and Ethan was kissing him then with only vague recognition of how good it felt to have that shooting, spreading warmth between them, and to go still except for one final kiss that didn't want to let itself be cut short.

When it did end, Ethan could only stay there, his face pressed against the pounding pulse in Ripper's neck, and breathe slow and deep, waiting until the rise and fall beneath him fell out of rhythm, into something slower and more even. Only then did he push himself up and away, and he pulled his clothes back on over his sticky, protesting skin with his eyes locked on Ripper's sprawled form the entire time.

The glimmer of a wish was prying at his mind, a bothersome fancy that he knew needed to be pushed away and left behind. If only it weren't so peculiarly pleasant, the thought that maybe this didn't have to be the last time. That maybe Ripper could be redeemed, or could redeem him...and then, luckily, the thought got too muddled to entertain, and it was abandoned.

And Ethan left. He turned his back and trudged down the stairs, hoping all the while that the regret wouldn't last too long.

**end**