a.connor  a.doyle  a.lindsey  a.oz  a.spike  a.wesley  a.xander  a.other  three.somes  het.fic  character.study           
Title: Boundaries
Author: Spirit
Pairing: Angel/Wesley
Rating: R
Setting: Early seasons AtS



I watch sometimes, wondering where in the darkness he will lead.

His apartment, rarely seen and much neglected, is a place I've never been invited to. He's known that much - that I'm really not to be trusted - and whilst he's been happy to help outt; to be my second in command, he keeps this part away from eye-line. At least he tries to.

He doesn't know that I watch him walk home on those rare nights he leaves the bike out of commission. I follow that lengthened stride as he makes his way through wintry LA streets up to his solace, waiting for anything to jump out and claim him. Because nothing touches him anymore, nothing gets near enough to know whether he's hurt.

Or if he's just lonely.

Sometimes, back at the Hyperion, I see him look at me, not just questioning if it's stake time again, but there's definitely a question he wants to ask. And when I raise my head, ready to answer anything, he looks away. I don't know whether it's a timing thing, or if he is that afraid of the answer, but that question's remained unasked for nearly a year and the not knowing is beginning to tear at me.

Tonight, as always, he loses the slouch from work and heads home at a much more leisurely beat. He's not the same man who talks to me in the mornings, nor the same victim Faith tortured with long red nails and a promise of 'I'll fuck you to death'. She watched him cry, salt tears staining his cheeks with a smell more potent than any of the gaping pockets of flesh. And when I finally arrived, too late as always, I felt his shame burn deep. It was all I could do to not look at him.

I can still see myself in that room, the hero or the villain, unsure which role I'd like better. I ache to hurt him almost as much as I want to be his succor. I want to feel his skin part between my fingers, raw flesh gleaming under my teeth, a soft sobbing he can't prevent. I'd like to part him from each limb, to watch him crazed with blood loss and the knowledge that it's his benefactor doing this. And on each clean surface, my mark, my ownership printed clearly to all others who would come that way.

And whilst such a tableau creates itself within, I can see the flip side, Lord High Protector come to claim his property, to take vengeance on those who would do him harm. And as heroically as I can, take down all his demons and offer him newly stolen warmth within my arms. Feeling his gratitude as he shows what deference his hidden self can provide, touching that unknown area from which I'm banned.

Screaming to be invited in.

As he turns the key in the lock, unlatching the extra bolt covers that keep him relatively safe, he's all business; ready to combat anything that waits for him. He doesn't know his only stalker waits in the hallway, unable to go further. And on any other night, this is where my observation ends and I leave him to his inner sanctum, returning to the hollowness of the Hyperion. Sixty-eight rooms, sixty-eight vacancies. And I can't fill any of them.

But tonight the door remains ajar, and though I can hear his tread within, he makes no move to close it. Dismissing the notion that he just forgot, (how could he forget, he never forgets) I walk closer, trying to detect what has made my Watcher so careless. And the coldness of that thought strikes deep - maybe he doesn't want to be careful any more.

I grasp the doorknob quietly, determined to close it and bid him a silent adieu, but the temptation remains strong and the door is open before I have a chance to question it. It's still silent inside, except for the slow shlub shlub of the boiler heating up. But if I close my eyes, smell him out - I can see the shadow on the bathroom door. And the soft, un-worked expanse of his skin is open to the world. Only the world isn't watching, and I can't reach.

I force my eyes open, once again ready to walk away, but a thought occurs, and strange as it seems, as unlikely as it must be, I wonder if Wesley knows I'm following him. Stealth is hardly his byword and from the number of times I've surprised him just by standing in the emptiness, wandering from room to room after him, waiting for him to ask...he couldn't know.

But suspicion is a dangerous mistress and I have to know how much he's aware of me - if he can see beyond the threat. So I reach forward with one hand, pressing against the barrier I expect to find. Fingers outstretched, trying to find the slightly gluey field that bans the damned from the yet-to-be. And as I watch my hand shake unexpectedly, I know that the barest hope has shown within me.

I bite that down as I grasp the inner doorframe.

*Angelus intro*

I can hear the shower begin, spurts of warmth within his walls. And with the confidence of the intruded, I walk toward the door, ready to take and take what he can offer. And that too isn't closed to me, bare hints of arrogance from my unequal. Does he think he can tempt me like this and not pay the price? Does he know that I'm waiting for consent, but that once given, it can never be retracted, not from me, whatever footfall I walk in.

I could walk inside, claim his body as clearly as I could own his soul, find his flesh weak and willing beneath mine. I could take my employee and burn him 'till he screams his ownership. I could and would do all that: take the man and bend him to my will. But what I need to know is not how my Watcher reacts, but how Wesley turns without me.

And I watch as the last of his vestments fall to the floor, barely tanned skin on a lean frame. Watching as he steps against the slippery ceramic tiles, not a foot faltering as the spray fails to cascade down his body. He's a line drawing made whole, taking my burnt sketches and painting them in oils. Watching the narrow hips tighten as the water hits his groin, bucking under the heat that pleasures soft flesh. Head forward, trying to catch the wetness that seems to come in badly engineered bursts. And I want to lean in there, taste sweat and heat and just own *this* for a while: fleeting compassion from a man who may despise me now.

Because he walked home alone tonight echoing Doyle. Telling me why death is so soon for those in mortal flesh. Fighting a fight he can't hope to make an impression upon. And so whilst I wage the war, become what they need of me, he'll walk in all too vulnerable steps until his luck runs out and I have to comfort Cordelia's loss once more. And this is not the choice he has to make - he isn't allowed to do this without me. He's fired - away - safe and chooses not to be. Jusst where did I lose that kind of control and why didn't I notice?

And obsession is a dirty word round here, but it's so damn apt, calling me through the night in blood and battle and death. And whilst my women run without taming, unready to face the man who's neither Daddy, nor the enemy, that control must be slipping away from me on cobwebs. So now, as I watch his skin gleam with a thousand droplets, I have to know when this man - who once cowed before me, slipping on his own insecurities - when did he find the strength to not need me.

He turns, eyes closed, facing the door, facing me. And desire is still here, for the meeting of flesh and opening of souls - his soul. He's not pretty - not the glimpse of wickedness that seems to be built into Irish smiles. There's sorrow even in his smile: a throwback apology to years of vicious empire rule, passed through an Anglo gene pool. And that continual apology that seems to linger on his lips is still there, even whilst I can see the predator that might lurk within.

And I hunger to meet with that hidden demon, the one he's been hiding from us all - a Wesley who can take down my enemies because they don't expect it of him. A father's disappointment stays throughout centuries, resentments driving us to foolish mistakes, to finding that cruel, unwanted side and bringing it to the fore. But he won't show me at work, won't share that familiarity and walk by my side through the valley of shadows. I have to sneak into hidden places and wait, and watch for him, trying to find the comradeship I know must lurk there.

He rubs shampoo into his hair, arching back as he tries to get under the jet. For the first time since I met him, I actually want to hear him speak first, beg me to join him, body, soul and demon beneath the spray. Wash away the past and try something different, gaining advantage amongst my childer, however they may fight. If I can gain this back, if I can find control over the hidden, I might stand a chance of defeating them and those who back them.

Center: control: judge.

And as I take a breath, steadying my long-frayed nerve, I want to walk away. But aside from any command I have over my actions, the niggling question remains - what does this man want of me? So I step forward, still catlike above his hearing and extend a hand out, water spilling over my wrist, slicking my shirtsleeves to my arm. Brushing my fingers down, inches away from his body, close enough to feel the tingle of flesh against my skin. And it really has been too long waiting for this - I have allowed him too much space and not demanded to know what is damn well mine by right.

One slip, one touch and it will all be over - I'll know what he means to me and to himself and I can wear whatever garb I like and he will stand by my side, or wherever else I find fitting. Or if I command it, he'll go back to the shadows I want to pluck him from. And I can almost convince myself that one touch and he'll learn to stay there.

But he leans back again into the light, bending once more to wash soap from his hair. And this is what he does when he comes home - he leaves us all behind, leaves me behind and becomes something I really can't touch. Because he has something I still want - and killing him, destroying him won't take me any closer to being human. One soul at a time and they still extend into an abyss which will probably claim him before I see it.

I clench my fist tight, closing this path for now. Because there are different battles ahead, and I can't waste any more time in self-pity. I have to take this focus and bring it back where I need it before I lose more than just my head. And perhaps, once this is over, once all the house is brought down and I'm standing in my isolation once more...perhaps then I can come back and ask him what he expects to find with a vampire.

And whether he really needs me.

As I pull back finally, decision made, he opens his eyes and sees me. And cleansed from the fight, he still manages to assume that Wesley-morning gaze, an assumption of caring for his penitent employer. But I can see that it doesn't quite ring true here and whilst he stares, I can't help the smile that masks my snarl. And in that instant, he understands who doesn't stand here.

And still, he offers me his hand; smile neatly placed on an English face.

I will take it all, I will have it all.

But let him ask me first.

And then we'll see which of us takes the thirty pieces of silver.

~finis~


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