I don’t recall precisely at what point this began. It seems as though it’s been forever. This unexpected preoccupation I hold for him. He’s in my mind constantly. And when I’m near him, I’m anxious and foolish and altogether uncertain, and I wonder if it shows. Does he know? Can he sense it? There’s so much about him I don’t understand. Perhaps he’s aware, and he’s far too much a gentleman to point it out. Though, there are moments. Fleeting moments where I believe he feels the same. Followed by moments where I suppose it’s simply wishful thinking on my part.

Is it?

He stumbles on his entrance, yet moves fluidly through the room. I glance up at him from my paperwork, offer a sociable smile and a nod of the head before returning to my notes. My stomach twists a knot, and I am now acutely aware of my accelerated heart beat, the shallow breathing, and the beads of sweat forming on my upper lip. If he is conscious of this, it doesn’t show. He sits quietly across from me, thumbing through an ancient text. I catch myself gazing too long at the elegant fingers that idly caress the tattered leather spine. It’s difficult to turn my eyes away as I see the gentle tapping of forefinger before a yellowed page is carefully turned.

“Something on your mind, Wes?”

He asks casually, never lifting his head from the aged volume.

“No… nothing at all.”

The primal eyes flicker up at me, questioningly. Is he willing me to confess? Is he expecting some tedious elucidation on our most current villain? Is he waiting for a signal that I’m agreeable to some sort of meaningless rendezvous? More than meaningless? Because of course it would be. I’ve stood by the side of the warrior, I’ve bandaged his wounds, I’ve counseled him, I’ve laughed with him. Those are miles paved by friendship and loyalty. We can not remove what is.

“Wes?”

Shaken from my reverie, I blink at him.

“Yes?”

“Feeling alright?”

I notice his index finger is keeping his place on the page, his head tilting to the side. Inspecting me.

“Right… yes, I’m fine. Just lost in thought, you know.”

A simple nod, and the finger drifts from the page, the eyes returning to the book in his lap. And even though I tilt my head forward, and position my pencil, as if to write, my eyes remain on him. The lead from the pencil touches my notepad, and I make short dragging motions. Is the sound convincing? Lead on paper. Crisp. It must be, as his head stays pointed at the book, fingers still worry the threads of the spine. The soft light casts shadows on half of his face. He looks, for all the world, like an earnest and reliable man, reading a book after a hard days work. The only items missing are the cocker spaniel at his feet, and the wife in the kitchen warming up the evening meal. I am forced to remind myself that he is not a man. That he will never know the easy pleasure of an animal that doesn’t hiss or growl when he comes near, or a wife that smiles as he walks through the door, asking about his day. And even if he is granted his humanity, he will forever feel an outcast, having lived far too long in a dead man’s skin. His memories will plague him. For much like the highway of pavement that our friendship has laid, there is no way to remove what is.

“Any luck with the translation?”

Again, his head does not lift. I imagine he can feel the heat of my stare. Making him uncomfortable is the last thing I desire. Instantly I avert my eyes.

“No, none at all.”

I hear his book close, and raise my head once again to meet his gaze.

“Share a drink with me?”

Yes, all very casual. All very normal. Co-workers often share drinks.

“Erm, certainly… could use a rest.”

My fingers pinch the bridge of my nose, giving my hand something to do, and effectively concealing my face. Hoping my expression is hidden, because there are times... times like these... that I’m sure every emotion I’m feeling is written in script across my brow. When a glass tumbler is placed before me, I steady my eyes on the decanter of tawny liquid being poured into it. Deftly, I avoid meeting his eyes, feigning intense interest in the contents of my glass.

“You work too hard, Wes.”

Offer him a cordial laugh, if he’s listening closely to the intonation, he’ll notice the nervous tremolo at the end of each clatter escaping my lips.

“Imagine I do.”

I smile foolishly into the glass, ashamed to lift my head. Instead I lift the tumbler and fill my mouth with the rich liquor, relishing the slow burn as it slides down my throat.

“Been a long night.”

“Quite.”

Finally, I raise my head. I smile at him, a friendly co-worker smile, I reason. But I can not force my eyes to experience the smile, and the tightness in my cheeks gives rise to the sensation that I’m frowning.

“Sure you’re alright?”

“I’ll be fine, Angel. While the prophecies are quite clear, I believe I’m missing something in the translation.”

“Let me have a look.”

His hand has fallen to my shoulder, and he bends over me to view the document. And now I’m forced to wonder precisely how acute his senses are. Does he feel my muscles tense under his fingers? Possibly he’s noticed I’m holding my breath. Surely that would alter the blood flow through my veins. And clearly he would sense that. But his hand isn’t moving, and he’s quietly sounding out the inscription on the parchment.

“Yahoowma?”

“My thoughts exactly.”

There, a shared easy laugh between colleagues. Thankfully, the hand moves from my shoulder. Turn to see him perch himself on the edge of my desk. Looking down on me, smiling. And while men aren’t necessarily beautiful, I must admit that he is.

“You need a haircut, Wes.”

His fingers absently brush the loose strands from my forehead. I feel a heat radiating from my face. Nervous chuckle, and I’m turning to face my notes again.

“Yes, well… Thought I’d grow it out, join a rock and roll band.”

A hearty laugh, and his hand slaps his knee.

“Is that right? And what would your rock band be called?”

“Hadn’t thought that far ahead, actually.”

“Well, I hope you remember me when you’re a big star.”

He grins. How could I forget you? I’ve dedicated myself to you. To your calling. To your redemption. And somewhere along the path, the lines blurred. Desire to assist shifted seamlessly into mere desire.

“But of course… mustn’t forget where I came from.”

“Sure… that’s what they all say.”

A knowing wink. A tongue sneaks out to wet his lips, the glass lifted to them, a smile before he takes a sip. I can’t bear this.

“So… will you be going away again this weekend?”

“Yes…”

The expression doesn’t change, but I know it’s there. The longing acknowledged, but gently rejected. And on my part? The unspoken affair accepted without question. Obviously the others wouldn’t understand. And I do. I do.

“Right, well we’ll see you Monday evening, then.”

“I should… probably go get some sleep.”

“Certainly… you should be rested before you take to the road.”

“Goodnight, Wesley.”

“Goodnight, Angel.”

Yes, I want to tell him… What exactly? Stop, come back, I’d like to share time with you, I apologize for behaving the way I am, I understand… Any of those things. All of those things. But I won’t. I’ll sit here, and allow myself to relax. Allow the tension of the evenings events to slip away as I drink down the remnants of my glass.

So he’ll leave tomorrow at sunset. He won’t say goodbye. He’ll simply wave at me as he strides out the door, in clothes I’ll never see again. And when he returns, he’ll smell of leather and nicotine, sex and cheap motel rooms. He won’t bathe, he’ll lie in his bed, and sleep until the next afternoon. I won’t begrudge him the comfort he seeks. Because I saw it, in all its grandeur. And if I didn’t understand before, I do now.

There were strangled moans coming from his room. On the many scenarios that went racing through my mind as I hurried towards the door, *that* was not one of them. I swung open the door to find William the Bloody on his knees, torso pressed against the mattress, face turned to the side, eyes closed – his expression… utter ecstasy, hands gripping his backside, opening himself for Angel. So lost in their passion for one another, my entrance went unnoticed, and I stood in shock taking in the scene. Angel’s body pumping deeply into the demon beneath him, his hands stroking the back and shoulders, his mouth opening and closing around silent words like ‘oh’ and ‘ah’. Those lips, they trembled in pleasure.

What was I to do? Those soft muted moans were of their lovemaking. Angel wasn’t hurting, or being attacked. So what *does* an ex-Watcher do? Quietly swings the door to the frame, leaving a space open, and watches.