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The Watcher

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Wesley had never felt comfortable in the role of a Watcher – too aware of his father’s shadow, primarily. So he found it amusing that now, after Fred’s death, a “watcher” was all he was.

He walked past life, now, with nothing to gain, nothing to lose. Watching became his pass-time, and then his passion. It started so subtly he hadn’t noticed; watching Illyria tread through the world like a figurehead breaking waves before her. His eyes followed her like a car-wreck, and the anger and grief and awe he felt tripped over the edge into a kind of peace. Too much emotion was the same as none at all.

He watched her fists break bones without passion. He watched her stare at the rubber tree in the reception area. He watched her walk.

It was when Illyria had stood, unmoving, for an hour in the hallway, that he had seen Gunn.

Gunn, who had been his best friend, and who had doomed his love. Tenderness and hatred welled in him like blood from a re-opened wound. He stepped into the shadow of the doorway and watched.

One hand ran tiredly over his head and down his face, stopping with the palm against his mouth, fingers splayed around his eyes, which were wet with tears. His shoulders shook, pulling his tan shirt taut and loose against his chest until he leaned forward and gave in to his sobs.

A thrill like asphyxiation seized Wesley’s limbs. He stood there, watching, until someone opened the door, nearly knocking it into him, and entered the office.

Gunn rubbed his eyes on his sleeve and smiled for his underling, thanking him as he took the papers. He was calm after that, and Wesley wandered away, unfulfilled.

The security personnel were kind to him, and never questioned why an executive wanted to access the cameras. They never questioned why an executive did anything. Still, it was better when he could find a place to watch close at hand, where he could breathe the same air as his subject and be part of the diorama.

He never touched himself, when he watched in the seclusion of the security booth.

He watched Angel and Spike, hurling insults and kicks at each other, biting hard and deep as only intimates can.

“No one wants you here. No one wants you, period. You were a mistake only a mad woman could make.”

“You’re sad and alone, old man. You’ve pushed everyone away and it just burns you alive that of all people, I stayed.”

He watches Lindsey in his holding cell, fingers flexing and releasing, drumming up and down his cock with patience, the way only a prisoner can, who has all day to get off and nothing planned for afterwards.

Lorne has a new lover. No one has had the time nor the inclination to know this but Wes. How red his mouth is, when it opens in a gasp of delight, his eyes squeezed shut and long throat thrown back.

But it’s the vampires that draw him back, always. That’s a watcher’s duty and role, isn’t it? He knows vampires; their habits and abilities were his first catechism. He watches from the monitors until he is sure there is enough blood, sweat and lust in the air to cloud his personal aroma.

He is only five paces away when Angel abuses himself, seated too close to the large screen, which shows a certainly illegal pornography – blood and screams and begging, bodies writhing, smeared in dirt and their own life. Angel’s eyes are riveted to the screen and his hand is a blur, twisting and bending his cock so much it should surely hurt, not please, but soon enough he is bucking high, over the arms of the couch, and spurting ejaculate all over his chest.

Wes quietly slips out the door. He glances back as the lock clicks shut, imagining Angel’s face, the shame and fear.

He goes back to the video room to play the footage, and confirms his suspicions.

He hopes some day, some day soon, to be caught.