*****

Wants. Needs. One wants, one longs, one desires. One rarely gets. And when one does, it's rarely what one expects.

I've stood by his side for over a year now. I live in the shadow of the seer. - - the one who left his mark on Cordelia quite visibly. Every time she has a vision, I see *him* reflected in Angel's eyes.

Angel's eyes.

Dark, brooding, deep. I could spend hours swimming through them, searching, longing, loving. If he'd only let me. I want . . . .

One does want.

When the world exploded around me and I thought I was going to die, he was in my thoughts. Then he came, crashing through the burning inferno that I was trapped in, pulling me out like an angel of mercy. And I thought. . . .I thought what? That it meant something to him? That the simple act of saving my life would somehow change everything? That rescuing me would grant me full access to his bed, to his body?

I don't know what I thought. I wanted, that is all. And all he saw was his associate in danger and another human that he needed to save. Another rescue on the road to redemption. Another mark on the cosmic tally sheet.

Perhaps that is too harsh. After all, we are a partnership, a three way commitment. Angel, Cordelia, and me. The savior, the beauty, and me.

The only way I've been able to fuck him was to be him. It's not that I don't care for the girl; I do. She is wonderful and seems to like me for simply being me. But the first night we were together all I could think of was him. I pretended I was Angel, that she was me and that he was taking me tenderly. Lovingly.

I would take him any way I could. I wouldn't care if he killed me, just as long as I was with him.

I want.

When I was younger I wanted so many things. Money, prestige, a home. I wanted to be the selected Watcher, chosen to watch the active Slayer. I thought I was getting what I wanted. Then I saw him, and it all flew out the window.

Now, my every day is concerned with him. Every day it tears me to see him alone. Now, every day it kills me to see him searching for Darla, his sire, the one being in the world that he is closest too. Not Buffy; he and Buffy are close in a far different way. Darla is more dangerous. She is his sire. What wouldn't he do for his sire?

What wouldn't I do for him?

/ / Like a slave, sighing for the shade,/ or a hireling with no thought but/ for his wages,/ I have months of futility assigned to me,/ nights of suffering to be my lot / /

I watch him. He fights so hard against it all. I worry. Now he has a purpose: becoming mortal. Will anyone he loves survive until that day? Will his mortality be a gift or a curse when it is bestowed?

Would he want me then?

Darla is now mortal. Does that affect him? Will he fight harder now, knowing that she is in the world, alive, breathing, heart pounding, blood flowing under smooth, creamy flesh? Does he see her presence as a curse or potential reward?

I sometimes pretend that if I linger in the office long enough, he will come up behind me and take me. That if I act strong enough he will want me, for he does seem to love the strong ones. Buffy. Spike. Doyle. Darla.

I wonder sometimes. Gunn. Lindsey. What did Lindsey McDonald do that makes Angel flinch any time I mention his name? Is it simply because he is the enemy, because he was responsible for resurrecting Darla? Or is it more?

I received an interesting telephone call from the lawyer the other night. Meet him at such and such a place at a certain time. I am sitting on my bed, thinking. Why was I called? Why me? He swears he will be alone and none of this will ever go public. No danger from his office. Do I trust him?

I think he wants the same as I do. He had the sire, but I suddenly have the feeling he never got to have her in the way he wished to. And now he's called me.

Do I go?

I suspect it all comes down to Angel. Do I relieve my frustration with the lawyer? Will I go and run my hands over him, through his hair, sinking myself into him or allowing him into me while both of us dream of icy cold skin and brooding dark eyes?

I rise from my bed and take up my coat. There is no decision to be made. When the one wants is unattainable, one makes choices.

One wants.

I move through the darkened street slowly, elegantly.

/ / One wants to move through life with elegance and grace, blossoming infrequently but with exquisite taste, and perfect timing, like a rare bloom, a zebra orchid.../ /

He is there, under the street light. The glow reflects off his hair like a halo, like the angel he will be for me tonight. His face is too young and innocent to be what he pretends: evil. What he really is, like me, is lost and wanting.

"You came," he says softly, his voice monotone.

"Yes."

We look at each other for a long moment before turning to go inside. It is a cheap motel, far beneath what he could afford, but that is not the point. The point is frustration. The point is sex. The point is we need a vampire, want a vampire, love a vampire, but can never have the vampire. Life had fucked us over.

/ / One wants. . . .But one so seldom gets what one wants, does one? No. One does not. One gets fucked. Over. / /

*****
Part 2: Twisted Obsession - Lindsey's POV

Wants. Needs. One wants, one longs, one desires. A person has needs and gradually, one becomes obsessed.

/ / Hell is not a place, it's a state of mind and body; hell is obsession with a voice, a face, a name . . ./ /

I can't get him out of my mind. I've tried, I really have. I slept with every call girl in L.A. When that didn't work, I started on the men. You can always find one for the right price. Dark hair, dark eyes; I must have screwed them all.

It didn't work.

My hand itches. I can still feel it. I wake up nights, sweating and shaking, dreaming of *that* moment, the one when *he* sliced my hand off from my wrist, looming over me in all his God damn majestic glory.

And I *still* wanted him, even then. Even on the floor, in pain, I wanted him. I wanted him to fuck me right there, in front of everyone, dominate me and show them all that he controlled me.

I must be fucking insane.

I searched for him in Darla. His sire. I tried to find him in her. There would have to be a glimmer, just a glimpse; she is his sire. They are connected. Sometimes he was there. She'd come back, smelling like him, after her nights seducing him through dreams. It would drive me wild.

She would come through the door, carrying Angel's scent, talk about what she had done, then be taken away. They would go and I would be left, hard and frustrated, jerking off, trying to keep out of sight of the all seeing cameras.

Holland knew, though. He thought it was because of her. For being almost omniscient, he can be fucking stupid.

I'm not used to not getting what I want anymore. When I was young I never got anything. It was a way of life. I hated it. Everyone around me got stuff, but not me. I got hit; I got beat. I got work.

I wanted out.

At thirteen I discovered the way to get what I wanted, the way to escape.

He was a teacher. It was for a grade. Then there was storeowner. It was for a warm coat. Then I took off and found others.

I was soft, sweet, pliable and submissive. I played the perfect catamite for years, working my way up, working my way West.

I hated every minute of it. Damn fool old men with their fucking cocks and wandering hands. Even Holland wants me. I don't know what it is about me, but I draw them. I never knocked on their doors offering, they came to me, begging.

Holland hasn't pressed it yet. He follows me with his eyes, his hands occasionally resting on my shoulders, grazing close to my hair. Standing close, looming, breathing. Taking my space. Suffocating me.

I never wanted any of them. Then, Angel.

Just when I thought my life was on track, that I could live the normal life of lawyer who defends demons for a living, Angel came.

/ / Like a house with no foundations, unable to resist the first tremor of an earthquake, my existence had tumbled all around me in ruins./ /

One look into those dark, brooding eyes and I was lost.

Angel's eyes.

Dark, brooding, deep. I want to drown in them, die in them, forget everything in them: my life, my past, my pain. I want . . .

When I went to him for help, I thought . . . I thought what? That he would read my supplication as surrender? That he would understand that it wasn't just his help I needed, but his body as well? That in risking my life, my position to do what was *right* I was, in actuality, giving myself to him?

I don't know what I thought. All I know was that in those few days we worked together, I wanted, that's all.

When I went back to the firm, he wasn't even surprised. He didn't care enough about me to feel betrayed.

I am a fool.

And I can't get him out of my mind. I want him, I need him, and I can't have him.

Hell is obsession and I am obsessed. I can't escape and there is nothing to do. So I called the one person I thought might be able to help.

Angel's pet Watcher.

I didn't think he'd come. He didn't trust me when I called; he hardly said anything. Meet me at such and such a place at a certain time, I said. I was playing a hunch. I was guessing that the former Watcher lusted after his boss as much as I did. And that he needed release as much as me.

The motel is cheap and inelegant. I can't think of a worse place to be. It takes me back to my teacher. Not on campus, he whispered in my ear. Meet me here.

I am back *here*.

The watcher is moving through the night towards me, slowly, elegantly. My breath catches in my throat. He moves like the angel he will be for me tonight.

He is beautiful.

"You came."

"Yes," he answers. One word, spoken simply, a blade covered in velvet.

We look at each other for a long moment before turning to go inside. He looks at the cheapness of the hotel and dismisses it. After all, the place is not the point. The point is frustration. The point is fucking. The point is we have been caught in the spell of a vampire we can't have.

We are obsessed. Obsession: a hell with a voice, a face, a name.

Angel.

*****
Part 3: Possession - Angel's POV

Wants. Needs. One wants, one desires, one possesses. That is life. That is how I operate. What I want is mine to keep, to guard, to protect.

Like my boy.

He has been by my side for over a year now. He doesn't know how I feel about him. I keep him at a distance, smiling infrequently, praising rarely, adoring silently.

I watch him always. He is so beautiful, so intelligent. I rely on him for so much, yet I cannot seem to tell him how much I appreciate him.

When I saw my building explode with the knowledge he was inside, I did not stop to think. I could only act, crashing through the burning inferno worse than death to save my Wesley. If he had died, if I had lost him... I don't even what to think of what would have happened to me. After Doyle, the loss of Wesley would have been too much.

I know what he wanted then, what he wants now. He can't hide the simplest emotion. Everything his reflected in Wesley's eyes.

Wesley's eyes. Clear, expressive, deep. I could spend a lifetime gazing into them, exploring them, forgetting my past, my life, my pain. I want...

But I can't. I can't risk letting myself getting too close. I can't tell him either. Better he doesn't know. Better he think my days are spent concerned with others, concerned with finding Darla.

Darla. My sire. What wouldn't I do for her? There was a time I thought I would do anything to please her. Now I know better. I am no longer who she wants, who she needs. I never will be again.

Wesley found a prophecy that claims I will become human again someday. I don't know what that is anymore. I haven't been human for so long, I no longer remember how to truly be one. I look at Darla, now human, and see how hard it is for her. Humanity is so much more than a soul. I don't think I could ever be truly human again.

Wesley would not understand. He does not comprehend what I truly am. I am a vampire with a soul. This does not make me a non-breathing human who drinks blood. That doesn't describe me. I am a demon with a conscious, a monster who cares. Not human, incapable of normal, human relationships. Buffy was an abnormality and never would have lasted. I don't date; I claim, I own. I've claimed Wesley. He doesn't know. I can only imagine that he would be dismayed to find out. He belongs to me. Not my associate or partner; he is *mine.*

Yes, I am possessive. It's a vampire thing. Darla was mine, Drusilla was mine, even Spike was mine. He was created because I allowed Dru to do so, I *let* her do it. Then I claimed his as my own so everyone would know to whom he belonged.

No, Wesley would not be happy if he knew how I see him. He is very independent. He should be pleased, though. I would kill for him, die for him, do anything to ensure his happiness.

Like allowing him to fuck my enemy.

He thinks I don't know. Of course I know. It is very important to me that I know who or what touches my boy. And he can't hide it by showering or sleeping with the girl or wearing too much cologne.

I know.

He could have had anyone. He is so beautiful, so inherently seductive that he could have drawn men to him with just a glance. I've seen the looks he gets even if he doesn't. He could have chosen anyone to fill his bed and satisfy his lust. He chose Lindsey. Or Lindsey chose him; I don't know which. I don't care which. All that matters is one simple fact.

Wesley chose to fuck my enemy.

I was angry. I planned to stake my claim, to tie him up, keep him from going back. Then I calmed and I decided, instead, to follow Wesley, watch them.

I am driving my boy insane. He needs this, needs someone who understands enough to fuck him senseless and satisfy his desire. For some reason, Lindsey can do this

I want to be that someone. I want to fuck Wesley, make love to Wesley, be with Wesley. But I can't. I don't know why. It isn't the curse I'm afraid of. I don't think *anything* can make me that happy again.

Wesley is too perfect, too pure. I don't want to defile him. I don't want to destroy him.

Like I did Doyle.

One night, that was all. It was a moment of weakness after weeks of longing.

I kissed him and he kissed me and we made love.

I loved him. Then, he was gone.

I can't do that to Wesley. He is, if possible, more precious than even Buffy. I can't take that chance.

So, Lindsey.

I watch them carefully. I need to; I can't risk allowing my enemy to hurt my boy.

A few weeks after their illicit affair began, Lindsey purchased an apartment. It was signed under Wesley's name. A more permanent location for an ongoing fuck fest.

Wesley is losing that terrifying look of perpetual hunger he used to walk around with.

I always follow Wesley home, just to make sure he is safe. He walks, always, slowly, elegantly.

He has no idea how exquisite he is, how perfect. He is like a rare bloom, one I must carefully guard and love.

Tonight, I go to Lindsey's as well. I tell myself it is because he is important to my boy's well being and happiness. I almost believe myself.

I stand in the shadows, watching my enemy through his window. He is sitting on his couch, hair mussed, the collar of his shirt open. I can see the steady pulsating of a vein under his skin as his blood flows through.

He is so alive.

Lindsey caresses his prosthetic hand, his eyes far away.

I remember the moment I sliced his hand off. I felt so powerful, strong. I had wanted to do more in that moment; I had wanted to fuck Lindsey in front of everyone, in front of Holland, and show them all that *I* controlled the lawyer.

I wanted . . .

I had wanted to claim him. Even now.

I want Lindsey McDonald.

He eventually falls asleep on the couch. He is still dressed and still smelling of Wesley.

I go home, my thoughts full of my boys.

I want them. They want me. They have each other. They belong to me.

A cycle of desire, a cycle of obsession, a cycle of possession.

My boys.

*end*