~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

He told me he could smell it. 

I used to believe that vampires were highly skilled killing machines...I still do, but I hadn't really understood about their capacity to cause mental pain before. Reading endless volumes of vampire lore hadn't prepared me to meet with one, much less react on a personal level with such a creature. 

And yet, I am here, taking his brooding vampire crap day in, day out and my most vigorous arguments are dealt with a severe look of pity. He knows you see, he knows what I must feel like, trying to make up for my past mistakes. My body count is rather less though - my presence does little to affect those around me. At worst, I may stand accused of those Faith has destroyed, for if it wasn't for me... 

I could walk around in these circles for the rest of my life. 

Working with Angel has done little to dissuade me that these things are my fault. More so, it has cemented my beliefs - for how can one so steeply entrenched in his own misery do other than spread it around? I wonder sometimes if he has a list somewhere, an account of ways in which he can show his penance. 

I wonder if he really needs to drag me down with him. 

Perhaps that's why we see so little of each another after hours. I know it wasn't like this with Doyle, I know that some part of his bitter soul allowed him to taste that Irish malt, allowed him to do anything except be happy. And I know that his loss betrayed a part of Angel forever. He doesn't give of himself anymore - not his emotions, his fear. He keeps all that in. And if those accounts do exist, the words, 'save victim, kill enemy' must be entrenched on every page. 

'Stay lonely' must be there as well. 

I once tried to break that vow - burning with curiosity and embarrassment as I laid a hand on his desk. I asked as casually as I could, whether he wanted to go out for a pint. Just that, just a simple request for companionship, and while the words were simple, the tremble in my voice begged for more. And I hated myself for the desperation. 

He didn't even look up at me, just turned the page on the book he was reading and smiled. 

'I don't think so, Wes.' 

'Why?' 

Again, that smile, one that spoke of pain and pleasure - whispers of Angellus there for the taking. 

'I can never stop at just one.' 

We both know he's neither talking about drinking, at least not alcohol, but the drug is similar and just as deadly. We'd both be fools if we believed he could just taste it and move on. And whilst he's clearly unwilling to venture down that street of foolishness, the part that needs him, the honest Wesley would want him to just try. At least being a fool is something I'm familiar with. 

It's not even about happiness, just the break, the absolute break in monotony which leads me to beg him for companionship. Just that chance to stay somewhere other than my sterile apartment - that moment when I lay down between the sheets, skin other than mine wrapped round my back. 

Be with me, love me and I will be your slave. 

The 'I'll do anything' lingers on my lips for a second before dying away. Because he already has me doing anything, I'm already the slave I promise and there is nothing I can give to him which he does not already have. And whilst loving is not denied to him, he will never link my name with that emotion. I will never hear stolen breath whispered in my ear. 

Not from him, anyway. 

Even the desperate have other options. 

* 

And I'm still not sure if it is cowardice, or courage which led me to Sunnydale. Practicing his skill, his lurking, I wander through the cemetery, wondering whether I'd find what I was looking for before or after I'd tripped over every blasted stone in there. Because the graveyard is unkempt for reasons into which I don't want to delve. But a part of me suspects it is because no one cares - why deal with the lost when their warped forms come back? 

Despite the chill, and the belief that fangs or a stake will be my undeserved end, the crypt is there in front of me, exactly as Angel described. Although its occupant would offer me a less salubrious welcome. 

'Who the fuck are you? 

Who indeed, and I brace myself to answer, to give this creature some kind of explanation as to how I knew about him...as to why I was there. But it's always in the scent, and he moves closer, eyes widening as he catches the faintest aroma of blood on my coat, the hint of dead things in a dead place. 

'Angel's new fucktoy?' 

And something new - a smile from the hopeless, and my mind whispers that Angel's uniqueness is not just due to his atonement. That it is possible to work against what you are without being subject to merciless recrimination. Spike must have read this, because his eyes meet mine, and his hand touches my cheek. 

Blood of his blood, and all life is ice here. 

'You're not his fucktoy - Irish blown all that away has he?' 

'Doyle is dead,' I reply with a solemnity I don't feel. 'I work for Angel now.' 

He nods. 

'You're the replacement.'

He sniffs and with strange clarity I know that we share more than just a desire for the same man - we are both a replica of what was once lost. And we've both done everything to keep that place. 

'I'm here,' I begin hesitantly, 'I'm here to ask you a favour.' 

And instead of the glare I'm expecting, he's all edges and marble and I'm quite sure that nothing shocks him for long. This is the adaptable creature that Angel is not - no amount of denial will allow to pretend he is other. Because without that instant of technology, without that safeguard, I'd be lying on this damp ground, what little blood he'd leave me seeping into this impure soil. 

But I have read this creature's works - I know how brutal, how feral he is, all written in the impotent words of my antecedents. And I cannot control the swelling fear in my belly as his hand strays to my neck, stroking along the line he cannot break. Touching with steady fingers as the pulse throbs. And I don't know which of us wants it more - him to possess, or me to be owned. 

More than that - claimed. 

So it's almost instinctive when I reach for him, clutching at something I understand, the closest I can get to what I want. And it's almost like looking in a mirror, except I've never been that hungry, never been that open about what I need. But in the crypt, in the half battered entrance to a nameless death, I can feel the edges of that hunger creep inside me - the most complex of thoughts clarified. I can taste what he knows so clearly, and I want a part of that. 

And if it has a name that belongs to neither of us, it's all grey in the dark. 

His hands move again, elegant in their strength, covering what little flesh I have exposed. He says nothing, nor needs to - his understanding has covered centuries, and one lonely Englishman in need of a good fucking never escapes his attention. For a brief moment I wonder whether this creature has any trace of sympathy, but it's ripped away, along with my jacket, and want has replaced everything. 

We are not amateurs, either of us, and there's no real need for the fumbling, nervous stripping I do. He stares at me, blue eyes flashing indigo. It's still dark here, but we're both too old to pretend. So I straighten, hands gaining a better grip, sliding under that T-shirt. I'm touching something dead, something that will never change, and I can feel the deep longing in my soul to feel this power from the inside. 

As the last of our garments are stripped away, I feel neither shame nor fear. That we haven't moved inside his crypt, that the Slayer is probably somewhere near - none of this matters. This is not a tryst, and love is something coughed away in another lifetime. Without subtlety or warning, he matches his mouth to mine, and although it is technically a kiss, I am being consumed by the very thing I'm sworn to destroy. 

And I want it. 

I keep my eyes open, willing him to change, so that I can see the demon within. But he's resolute and staring back at me, human form deliberately to the fore. Because he knows what I need to pretend and he has enough faith in himself to replace it. He would wipe out all traces of that other in anyone who knows - he's willing me to forget, to crave the lean form that presses urgently against me. And I do, but even here, in the cold that flashes past my body, I want to close my eyes and hunt for those that burn umber. 

And I think he does too. 

So when we move urgently together, skin slapping loudly in the otherwise peaceful night, he's silent, moving over my body with the skill of the initiated. He pulls the tube from my jacket without ceremony, and we both know who's going where. As his chest touches my back, I hold my breath, waiting for pain he cannot give me, a bite he cannot initiate. 

But his fingers latch round my waist, chin resting against my neck and the invasion is welcomed. And he knows, because he latches on to me in way no human could - pushing into my body and desperate to take from me. Although I cannot see it, I know his face no longer looks human, and the grazing fang upon my skin can do no more than touch. Wearing his mark, seeing this claim in the mirror is more than I'm allowed. 

There will be nothing to show for this, no consequences, no one to know that I spent the night in the company of wolves. And my hands fall to his, covering those long fingers as we close this act. I'm sure he feels the pounding in my ears as clearly as I do, because his fingers close around my own arousal, urging us both forward, his arms plastered to mine. Sweat dripping down my body and although he doesn't say the words, 'Don't say his name', I feel it inside. I bite my lip, drawing the only blood we'll see tonight. 

As one we lean forward, the moment seeming torn from existence as this vampire and this human perform an unnatural dance. I almost expect him to pull away and close the door now that it is over, but he is nothing if not surprising and he pulls me round to face him. And it's all there in his expression - his own need to know Angellus is far from here, that he still counts. 

That he is still the beast. 

I nod without thinking, and his hands reach for me once more, tasting my mouth, licking at the minute amount of blood that dwells there. I would give more; he would take more. But we know better than to wish for what cannot be, and he releases me after a minute, demon present, and for that moment, we are the same. And there is companionship in this dark. 

* 

It never lasts. 

And back in LA, I carry on as normal, my brief respite forgotten in the day to day activities of those I work with. Despite my belief that something makes him sleepier than usual, Angel's claims that his sire is alive and well in this city bite at me. Because here again is someone he's prepared to do anything for, someone who might get past his suit of armour. 

Someone who is clearly not me. 

And in that moment when he steps close, smells what I have been doing and tells the world that Wesley actually has sex, I want to see some reaction from him. I want to see him know that I am prepared to do anything to belong to someone...even if I have to pretend it's him. 

But he says nothing, acknowledges what I have done without anger, without hate, without what I dream of seeing. And he's beyond me again, looking for the woman who caused him more torment than I dare imagine. Wesley isn't a concern, as I am always there, subserviant, ready to do his bidding. 

He doesn't want me. 

As I sigh, the crack in my lip reopens, and I can taste the coppery tang on my tongue. And I smile, because if he can smell my actions, I know he can smell that. And for one moment, he turns in puzzlement toward me. 

Here at last is something he does not own. 

'Webster was much possessed by death'. 

And now, thankfully, so am I. 

~finis~