CONCEPT: Faith stalks Wesley.

SETTING: Season Three

MY NOTES: I'm obsessed with F/W. Can you tell?

I know you.

You don't think I do, but I do. I know you in ways you can't even imagine. Little thoughts and bits of you, written down on scraps of paper you leave around your apartment. They tell me the story of your life.

I know you. And you have no clue how well.

It all began when I got out. Out of the big house, for those of you keeping score at home. First day out I commit another felony. Go fig? I shimmied up the drainpipe to your apartment and pried the window open.

A little grunt work and I was in. In where? Your bedroom of all places. Just standing there with my duffel bag slung over my shoulder wondering where the hell you were at two in the morning. Wondering why I cared, why I was there, why a whole lot of fucking things.

So I strutted around your little biege and cream apartment, wandering around in the dark and looking through your stuff. Looking at all your bills, the expired food in your fridge, and your bathroom. Oh, and your Playboys. Gross.

Went through it all and I left no stone unturned. Jesus Christ, you're kinda boring, you know that? Probably not, from the way you like to ramble on in your little journals like you're someone important.

Shit, maybe you are? That's why you're never home...you're out saving the world, helping the helpless and doing other white hat crap like that. I gotta respect that though; it's a good gig and I won't blast you for it. I kinda want to join up.

Yeah, I know. I'm trying to be all good-goody now. Fuck, that's a new one, eh? Don't laugh.

But I know you will, cuz I know you. Know that sense of humor behind those blue eyes. Know a lot of things.

Like you eat cottage cheese and pineapples in the morning. You hate the peel on kiwis. You currently have two overdue books from the public library, and I don't think you even realize it. Maybe I should leave them out for you, see what you'll do. See if you'll wonder how the hell they got on your coffeetable.

Might be fun. Might get me in trouble, but you know me. I love trouble.

Or maybe I'll just go down and return them for you. A nice little gesture for you, cuz I haven't done anything nice for you while I've been here.

How long have I been here, you ask? About two months. Two months of creeping in your window and puttering around in your apartment while you're gone. Two months of learning you. Bit by bit. I know you almost better than you know yourself now.

Like you read in the bathroom. You have a whole stand of books in there. I like to thumb through them when I'm in there, makes me smile when I see you've marked your place in a dozen different books with scraps of ribbon. Bright red ribbon and I can't help but think of blood.

It makes me smile again.

I'm reading one of those books right now. The same one you're reading I guess, because whenever I come back to it, the ribbon's been moved. Sometimes I have to hurry to catch up with you because I'm not as smart as you are, I guess. You speed-read and I plod along, trying to remember that Porthos is supposed to be the funny one.

Sometimes I shower here too. I like using your soap (Zest) and using your shampoo (Thermasilk?) and your razors. Like looking at your toothbrush and thinking you need a new one, badly. Maybe you're just too busy to care. Or you have a new one at work that you use. Like picking up your brush and seeing little hairs in it and thinking maybe you're going to go bald when you're old. I like the way your brush makes my hair feel. I'm going to have to buy one just like it.

Like using your gel in my hair. Like using your towels because they're fluffy and a bright blue that matches your eyes.

When I leave the bathroom, I like to dress up in your clothing because mine suddenly seems too wrong for this apartment. I need a sweater or a tie to wear when I'm in here. No leather for me....although you do have a pair of leather pants I'm raising my eyebrows at. Makes me wonder what else you have hidden around here.

So I go looking. Under the bed, in the closet and through your dresser drawers. I found some interesting stuff. Handcuffs? Naughty Watcher. Condoms, as to be expected. Again, more Playboys. Gross. Love lotion? Man...if I'd known you were a bad boy in the sack, I might have tested those waters instead of torturing you. Although looking at this stuff makes me think we could have done both.

I take what I said back. You're not boring at all. You're an interesting parallel, Wes. Naughty and reserved all in one breath. Why do you hide what you are behind a stack of books and a fruity little tea set?

Maybe you do it because you don't want anyone to see your heart. You're afraid of getting hurt. Damn. I know that feeling. We're a lot alike, you know that? Probably not. You don't know much about me at all.

But that's okay, cuz you will. I'll make you discover all the little things about me, like I've done with you. Maybe you won't hate me as much if you learn the reasons behind those horrible things I did.

I've read your journals.

Sorry about that smudge on one of the pages. I tried to get it before the tear soaked up the ink. Fuck. I didn't think you'd ever make me cry. I deserved it though. Shouldn't have read your journals, especially when I see the words "I hope that bitch dies a horrible fiery death!!!" written in thick black letters across the page. And of course, what followed was an account of everything I did to you.

Fuck. You had to be so damned detailed about it, didn't you?

I'm not going to read your private stuff again. Well...maybe just the juicy parts. Virginia, eh?

Blegh. I hate redheads. But hey, I won't judge. Of course, she broke your fucking heart, so I might just have to pay her a little visit. Hell, she isn't even worth it. Unless you want me to....

Where the hell are you?

It's nearly four in the morning and you're not home. Usually I see you pull up in your SUV around three and I have to hurry out of the window. But you're not here yet.

I can't help but worry. I feel like a mother....or maybe something more.

Fuck, I'm nothing to you. You don't even know I exist.

But still....I'm worried.

Walking through the darkness, little bits of grey daylight slowing showing through the blinds, I lay down on your bed. The mattress is soft and feather-filled. The comforter all downy fluff and sensible colors. Just like you.

I slip in between the sheets and curl up in the depression you've left behind. I've done this so many times before, it's more familiar than my own bed. I've slept here a few times, sputtering awake when I realize I've been asleep for far too long and that you're bound to come in and catch me. I wonder what I'd do if that ever happened.

Can't help but smile. I wonder if you'll even know who the hell I am.

I know you so well now. And I'm learning more as I lay here. I know you by the curve of your spine. The depression in the mattress that you've made. The spot you sleep in, curled up in the middle of your huge bed as if you're afraid of the world and can only show that weakness when you're asleep.

I know all this, just by one deep depression in the bed. I'm good, aren't I? Any of this hitting home? Any of it making sense? Probably. I know you catch on quickly.

Rolling over, I look at the window and see that morning is well on its way.

Where the fuck are you? I can't leave until you're safely back in this apartment, a new scar added to the collection I gave to you. In one piece, I'd prefer, but I'll take wounded if I can get it.

Suddenly, the phone rings and I jump, clutching at your fluffy comforter and listening to the machine pick it up.

"You've reached Wesley Wyndham-Pryce. I'm not home right now. Please leave your name and number and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Thank you."

So fucking polite. BEEP.

"It's your father. Why aren't you home? Out saving the world again, I suppose? Or are you looking for yet another job?"

Fuck. Must be Watcher Senior. I listen as he goes on to insult you three times in as many sentences. Who the fuck does this guy think he is?

I take if for two more of those sneer-inducing sentences and leap up from your bed and grab for the phone.

"Listen up. I'm trying to fuck your son right now and listening to you yammer on about what a screw up he is, is really killing the mood. So kindly call back after he's done giving me the best orgasm I've ever had. Thank you."

Okay...feeling vaguely smug for about two seconds. And then it hits me. FUCK.

I gotta go. Wherever you are, you're going to be mightily pissed off when you get back. Sure, you're not going to know it was me, but you're going to be suspicious. Maybe I shouldn't come back here.

Maybe I won't, but I bet I will. Shit, are you even going to suspect me? I know a lot about you, but I don't know that. Fuck. I think I ruined everything.

Ruined what? I was living on borrowed time here. I know that, and I knew that it couldn't last forever because I couldn't keep it one-sided forever. I want more, damnit.

Maybe I'll just stop by when I know you're here one night. If you ever come back, that is. I'm still worried about you and about where you are. Fuck.

So here I go, walking out the front door because who cares if anyone sees me now? I've fucked it all up and it doesn't matter.

But I'll be back. When I do, at least invite me in for tea, okay?

How 'bout it, Wes? You and me?

(end)