Disclaimers: If they were mine, I'd be the one with the steady supply of bandages and comfort sex.

Summary: Another night with Ethan, Oz, and Ethan's memories.

Spoilers: Vague ones for A New Man, and New Moon Rising.

Ratings Note: Call it an R.

Author's Notes: This is a part of the Webrain's Ethan/Oz series. In order: Plans, Sun, Moon, Ash and Ember

All here: http://home.dencity.com/webrain/buffy/bindex.html and here: http://debchan.com/buffy/bindex.html.

Acknowledgments: To my Webrain, for giving me a safe place to play.

Feedback: Yes, please. thete1@earthlink.net

*

Te: Somebody gimme an improv?
spike: window, ladder, silver
Te: *mrrr* Like that one.

It's disgusting, but the gleam of silver still gives Ethan pause. The sight has become quite meaningful, and he can never tell whether the attendant tooth-aching scent of metal is his imagination or not.

The desire -- the *pull* back towards north and the ruins of the institution Ethan left behind is getting quite, quite old. There were only so many times one could go back to re-stir and piss on the ashes, but...

They'd hurt him.

A fundamental sort of pain, poked and prodded, sliced and julienned for the sake of *science* and, no, it wasn't the first time Ethan had been brutally tortured, but... At least there had always been feeling behind the others. Emotions to exploit, or just to wallow in while his body gained new scars that he might or might not be able to heal later.

He'd given them everything they'd wanted at first -- no real choice there. Observed every minute of every day, no time alone, no sleep, too many drugs and oh, God. They were very good at what they did.

And that had only to be expected -- they'd clearly had to experiment to see which demons yelled loudest to which stimuli, but there was all sorts of cataloged information on how to break *humans*.

Ethan had dreamed the first time they'd let him sleep. Dreamed deep and vivid and jagged -- an old one. From when he'd been young and still almost entirely powerless. A small, slim boy with a too-pretty face in the land of public schools and bored little rich children.

In those dreams he'd changed into whatever monster he could think of, and rampaged precisely as a monster would... though perhaps with a touch more male rape than usual.

And some part of Ethan's terribly unsubtle subconscious had pulled that up out of the depths and left it to him in the present. Here you go, old boy -- another shot at being pathetic.

It did the job, though. Restful sleep and just enough shame when they woke him again for him to begin plotting. One iron clad room to another, daubed with Fezur blood just to be sure. Ethan wondered if the Fezur they'd used was still alive... he liked the inconvenient little things. Always ready with a joke or a bit of shed skin -- delicious in wine.

With the blood present, he could do no harm to any warm-blooded creature, but the scientists always provided any number of cold-blooded ones for Ethan to play with.

And here was where it became complicated. Forced again and again to use his sorcery to do things he'd only ever done for money or favors before, and then without much relish. There was little chaos in the breakdown of a single being, unless the being in question was pivotal to the way the universe moved.

Breaking, then *killing* creatures was absolutely useless.

They couldn't even *learn* from him, since they never allowed him the ingredients he needed for the spells even non-sorcerers could perform. And did they really expect to use him as a weapon? They could surely never trust him outside of his iron/Fezur prisons.

There was no logic to any of it, and more than one hint that the base itself was half-outside any official program. The real power, unsurprisingly, was still in Sunnydale. This was... what?

Messy recreation for a cooperative prisoner who always screamed quite loudly when given the cattle prod?

A distinctly Clockwork Orange method of rehabilitation? It was all inside, now. The knowledge of just what he could do beyond the more diffuse (and thus more benign) spells he could perform in the name of chaos. The pleasure in it, that connection between sorcerer and ensorcelled in the moments between pain and death, and oh, yes. It felt good.

It felt wonderful.

Briefly, slipping out of memory to focus on his companion across the table. Oz's bruises had faded more quickly than Ethan's, but that was only to be expected. And Oz was enjoying his dinner out in a way that firmly suggested he knew exactly where Ethan had been in his mind.

Beautiful, *polite* child. They hadn't had him long enough to test his violence against that of other creatures -- Ethan hadn't needed to be told that. It was something he knew he'd always be able to sense, from now on. Oz had had friends to rescue him, including, of course, Ripper.

Ethan consciously relaxed his hold on the blunt little knife and returned his attention to his food, amazingly half-eaten.

It would be too easy to hate Oz for not needing to find a way to escape on his own, and so Ethan held it back. Oz was not to blame for being loved. Oz wasn't really to be blamed for anything important, as near as Ethan could tell... and Ethan had searched. Conscientious without being dull, perfectly wild sex, and the commonality of experience.

Oz had, most probably, never been tortured before.

Never raped, never beaten, and too terrified of his own inner monster to change and there was something absolutely *necessary* about innocence, now. Something strong and vital and terrifying. Something like a renewal of faith to look into the boy's changeable eyes and see nothing but burgeoning friendship and clear, open lust.

Oz was no one he had to hurt.

In the end, he had contrived to be overheard tapping Morse through his iron to his vampire neighbor. A special gland, very near to the pancreas that only wizards had.

And then, a silent, careful, hopeful spell on himself.

Ethan had smiled through his light dinner that night, knowing it to be just as full of drugs as his earliest meals here.

And then, many, many hours later, he woke up on the operating table, full of clamps, the scalpel still sticking out of the meat of his side.

Surrounded by the dead. Oh, and he'd laughed so hard he'd nearly bled to death right there. Just a simple spell of self-destruction, a harsh, gassy poison just waiting to be released... If they hadn't cut into him as quickly as they did, it would've been a suicide, but... Chaos had been kind.

Perhaps it had been the randomness of it all. The poison had killed every human in the compound and many of the demons, but a nice selection of demon species had remained quite safe.

Ethan had even released a few of the less bloodthirsty on his way out.

The first night, he'd made it at least twelve miles before coming back to toss stones through the few windows -- with his power, of course, the windows were bulletproof.

The second night he'd barely made eight before jaw-clenching his way back into the compound. Up and up, propping doors open as he went, finally pulling the small ladder down to get up to the roof, where he set a fire under the ice clear night sky.

Down again, safe distance calculated.

Ethan stayed, and he gloated. Stopped his ears to the inhuman screams from within.

Cried.

Ethan wasn't sure how long he stayed in the shadow of the rock amid the blowing ash beyond it being long enough for his wounds to begin healing without the benefit of food, water, or real rest. Still, he'd eventually gotten to the road, and the road had given him... Oz.

Ethan pushed his plate away and squeezed his eyes shut for a few moments. Watched it all burn, again. When he opened them, Oz was staring at him. Concern scarcely hidden, anger and understanding open, and just for Ethan.

At some point, perhaps, he could hone all that righteous indignation into something fine and sharp. Tell Oz all the old stories, and not bother straying too far from the truth -- no real point, considering the stories' content. At some point he will presumably do all of that and more, take the boy into all the circles Ethan traveled, show him what corruption truly meant.

At some point.

For now, though... "Back to the house, I think?"

Oz nodded seriously, smile flitting across the edges and planes of his face too fast to be caught. Yes. Ethan would say everything he cared to with his body tonight, and it would be very fine for both of them.

And that was... enough.

*