I can't say I don't hate him, and I won't say I don't love him.

Even now, when I dream at night, I dream of the cold, salty taste of his flesh, tinged with coppery hints of blood. His dark, spicy smell runs through my nostrils and I inhale as if he were the best dope I could ever buy. Sometimes, he becomes his Hyde, the demon companion constantly gnawing at his soul, and every time, I kill it, watching the dust settle on my boots with a glassy stare. I never dream of watching him sleep, such a common act amongst lovers, because I've never seen him sleeping. Though I can imagine what he might look like, I'd be grabbing at air.

That's why I'm jealous of Spike.

As I watch him sleep here on Xander's bed, bloodied and clearly exhausted, I fold my arms over my body and study the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Weird, he's breathing. Angel once told her that though vamps didn't need to breathe, most did out of habit. In fact, they kept a lot of their mortal habits…out of habit.

Studying his body, I wonder how many times he watched old habits bring Angel's handsome chest up, then down, in the needless effort to draw in oxygen. How many has he traced his fingertip down a cold, but still perfect chest, around flat brown nipples, into the slight inward curve of the navel. Does Angel sleep soundly or does he thrash about in constant dreams? If he dreams, does he dream about her? About him? About blood, madness, and hellfire?

Spike's nude body flops half onto its back, the torso twisted up, the legs still mostly twisted down. Now, I can see his face, his chest heaving as his human mask wrestles with a torrent of emotions flowing over the façade. Clearly, Spike does not sleep calmly. I can see his lips move, it's as if he's having an heated argument with someone…with Angel? I look on as his lean, pale body, hard muscles covered in a sheen of silky white skin, restlessly shifts on the bed. It's fascinating, almost like watching a snake shed it's skin, desperate to be free of the old, dead thing still clinging to its body.

The covers have slipped more now, revealing the tight curve of my 'mortal enemy's' ass. Nice ass. No, I didn't just think that, did I? Did Angel like his ass? Part of me would love to pretend I know nothing about vampire culture, that I know nothing of how Angel feels about his childe, or about how Spike feels about his absentee sire. Unfortunately, I'm not that talented at self-delusion. Vampires are essentially bisexual, probably because for them, sex is mixed up with blood and the kill, and it doesn't really matter if dinner is male or female. I've never been able to quite figure out whether or not vampires have any real sexual urges, or if their sex drives have been completely warped by the bloodlust.

I know Angel loves his childe. I know Spike loves his sire. And I also know that both of them would let me dust them before they'd admit it. Angel might admit his love for Spike to Cordelia, or Giles, or Willow, or hell, even Xander, but never me. It would be too intimate of an intrusion on a relationship that had nothing to do with me.

And that brings me back to jealousy, and to the sprawled body on the bed. On countless mornings, in countless countries, Spike has awoken to study his sire's face, to hold the chin in his hands to kiss the lush, cool lips, to lower his hips to say good morning, how are you, to his sire's hips, to wrap his legs in Angel's and dance their way into their morning, the mortal's night. All I had with Angel was a fast, passionately brief introduction to sexual love, followed by a vicious entry into the reality of being a slayer.

After all the time I've put into recovering from loving Angel, I look at Spike's beautifully lean body and know with absolute surety that I will never be over Angel. Spike's lips, over a hundred years away from touching his sire's, still form his name with a soft, wistful sigh.

My breath catches and I feel a tear wash down my cheek. I rise from my chair to settle myself on the bed next to Spike. My hand falls against his angular cheek gently, and his body stills at the touch. I gasp when he arches into the touch, and he begins to purr, a low, throbbing sound that echoes deep in my body. I've never heard Angel do that, I didn't know vampires did that. His sleeping body doesn't seem to realize that the hand touching its cheek is attached to a living, breathing mortal, usually known as dinner. But, that's okay. I can't touch Angel, and oddly, I hope I never see him again, but I can see Spike. I can fight him, and I can keep him safe from the sneering demon community. Through Spike, I can touch Angel; because of Spike, I'll never lose him.

In a less than perfect world, that's nothing less than perfect.