Summary: He's been hovering on the brink for so long now that the fall is almost a relief. Wes/Lilah, Tomorrow.

Set during 'Tomorrow', pre-bedroom scene. I just had to write something about this sexy, sexy couple. What can I say? I have a perverse fascination with Angsty!Wes.

- Watching Me Fall -

Los Angeles. City of angels and broken dreams.

Wesley tries and fails to pick up those pieces of his shattered life, to make them fit, but he can never quite manage it. Time passes in a haze of city lights. The loneliness is crushing.

He drinks to soften the hard edges and sharp corners of the ceaseless, pulsing streets by night. He drinks until the world tilts and wrestles with the demons in his head. He walks home as the city hums like a summer storm and neon lights pulse across his vision. Electricity throbs through his body and whiskey burns through his blood and still he is empty, empty, empty. He sees amber and broken glass and the walking dead. Oddly enough, he doesn't fear them. It's the living he has more cause to worry about these days.

He stares into the swirling, nondescript colour of the drink before him. Beads of moisture run languidly down the slick glass. He can't even get drunk properly. Wesley idly wonders how he hasn't become an alcoholic yet. Unhappy home life, cruel father. The perfect Freudian excuse. Perhaps it might be better. Give him a craving, a hunger, needing that one more drink just as Angel endlessly thirsts for blood. After all, Angel is a hero ever on the verge of becoming a villain. Tightrope walking that thin line between sinner and saviour.

He reflects bitterly on the irony of it. Angel, the fallen hero who allows his personal obsessions get in the way of the mission and who harbours inside him a far greater evil than anything they've yet faced is also the one who is the true champion, tragic, prophesised, destined. Angel is the hero. Not him. A washed-up, damaged wreck of a man driven to drowning his sorrows in a haze of self-loathing. Never him.

He thinks about sin and death and atonement, and waits for an uncertain apocalypse that he may or may not be responsible for. Caught in a grim purgatory between darkness and disillusion.

Perhaps that's why he keeps coming to this wretched place night after night. Something about the shadows suits him. But there's one shadow that continues to trail after him, that he hasn't been able to shake himself free of…

He sits glaring at a spot somewhere above Lilah's head. The lawyer, who is clearly used to his intense dislike, remains serenely leaning back in her chair and takes a sip of her cocktail. However, he can feel her eyes fixed on him, a look of cool scrutiny.

"You didn't tell me your local dive was such a hole," she remarks conversationally.

Wesley finally deigns to glance at her. She looks stunning as always, thick dark hair waving slightly at the shoulders, striking an intriguing contrast to her wintry pale eyes. The Louis Vitton blazer probably cost more than the rent of this building for a year. He can't think of anywhere that she could look more jarringly out of place. A man from three tables away is openly staring at her.

He finds himself looking into her eyes, the shade of perfect monochrome: not quite blue, not quite grey, but some cold combination of the two. He speaks through clenched teeth. "As a matter of fact, I don't recall telling you I was coming here at all."

"What can I say? Gotta keep an eye on our employees – sorry. Potential employees, that is."

"You don't really think I'd ever come and work for you." There isn't enough emotion in his voice for it to be a question.

She flashes a brilliant smile, showing very white teeth. Wolfram and Hart clearly cover dental. "No," she says. "I don't."

"Good. Then perhaps you can oblige me by getting the hell out."

"No can do, Wes." He hates her calling him that. It implies an intimacy between them. "You're just too much fun to be around. 'Cause what woman doesn't want to be insulted and threatened… or chased down a corridor with an axe?" She laughs as he flinches at the cruel reminder of how those primal misogynistic tendencies had almost gotten Fred killed. "No wonder you've got 'em all weak-kneed at Angel Investigations."

"Whereas your cursory coupling with a body-jumping old man is the epitome of romance," he retorts, not troubling to conceal the disgust in his voice.

Lilah's eyes flare, a dark flush suffusing her powdered cheekbones. Wesley is briefly aware of a vicious satisfaction at having annoyed her, but she recovers almost instantly. "So you heard about that?" She helps herself to a sip from his pint glass and shudders slightly at the contents. Wesley can't blame her. Even he isn't quite sure what combination of drinks have gone into it. "But at least Marcus had the sense to do what Angel is too spineless to – he found he had power and he utilised it."

"Angel uses his power for good."

"Don't kid yourself. You've done the homework; Angel was ten times more powerful when he was Angelus – you know that as well as I do. And now all that potential… wasted. And we at Wolfram and Hart do hate to see good abilities go to waste." She leans forward. "You know, we have resources you've never even dreamed of. Don't tell me you're not even a little tempted?"

She looks at him challengingly and he gazes stonily back. "Not remotely."

"Why?" She looks irritated. "You think there's still a chance your friends will take you back? You know, the ones you betrayed?"

"No," he says with painful honesty. "I don't."

"So it's some lingering sense of loyalty, then. But surely you should know what it is you're turning down? And I'm not just talking about rare books and ancient scrolls. We have the kind of power that could alter the very fabric of reality itself. Imagine: if you could change events so the last few weeks never even happened. You could be back with your friends again, and they wouldn't even know the difference. And you can't deny that's a pretty attractive offer."

Wesley winces as her velvet words prod at that unclosed wound of residual pain. The memory of the five of them together flashes vividly in his mind's eye. He knows, try as he might, that he can never fully be free of the remembrance of their self-made family, just as a part of him will always be the awkward, stuttering boy who would never be good enough for his father's impossibly high expectations. He has always wanted to be respected, to be viewed as something more than the stuffy, bookish Watcher. Perhaps if he'd been more like Gunn, more of a man, he would not have lost Fred.

He has learned to be careful what he wishes for.

"What's done is done. We cannot change what is meant to be. And we shouldn't. If we could just arbitrarily alter reality to suit our own ends, we'd be no better than –"

"Lawyers?" suggests Lilah.

"Monsters," says Wesley.

"Well, your friend Sahjahn didn't think so. He changed the prophecy and his entire destiny with it. If he hadn't… well, it'd be you still sitting at that desk instead of Angel."

Those eyes study him, narrow and slanting. "They all hate you, you know. Angel. Gunn. Even Little Miss Polyanna –"

His hand tightens on the moist glass. "Leave Fred out of this."

"I seem to have hit a nerve." Blue-grey irises glitter with amusement.

He looks away. He doesn't like her talking about Fred. Fred doesn't belong in this part of his life; the darker, secret, smoky closed rooms where every encounter is a power play, every utterance a veiled innuendo. She is innocence and light, and Lilah has no business talking about her.

Wesley pushes back his chair. "I think you should leave now. And I'd appreciate it if you told Wolfram and Hart not to bother me with any more offers."

"Now don't go all high and mighty on me. Besides, they don't even know I'm here."

He regards her sceptically. "Personal project, is it?"

"Something like that. Come on, what are you gonna do if you go home? Sit in your dark, lonely apartment all evening?" She raises an elegantly pencilled dark brow. "If you stay, the next round's on me."

Wesley swirls his drink around, staring unseeingly at the clear liquid inside. His head swims with intoxication, or thick with misery, a murky haze. He isn't sure if it's his seventh or eighth – enough anyway to ensure that calling a cab will definitely be in order. He glances at Lilah, wondering whether she's yet feeling the effects of her unvarying Martinis. She's certainly in a more languid posture than he has formerly seen from the strait-laced lawyer, resting her head on one hand, while the other idly trails a slender finger around the grime-smeared rim of her glass. Somehow within the last half-hour she has also managed to undo several buttons of her silk blouse and he occasionally catches a glimpse of lacy black underwear when she leans forward. He tries his damnedest not to look, which has less to do with decorum than the unsettling fact that he likes what he sees.

"You know…" her voice is thoughtful, throatier than usual. "If you'd just done the dirty and screwed Holtz's Slayer-wannabe protégé, I'm betting she wouldn't have pulled a fast one on you and cut your throat."

Justine. Another name to add to his chronicle of failures. He had tried to be her saviour. Just as Angel had his damsels, so he would have had his own personal martyr, a Mary Magdalene for the modern age, battered and defiant, yet unbroken. It would have sweet to rescue her. Especially after Virginia. Angel was welcome to his blondes. Wesley would have his redheads. But Justine hadn't wanted rescuing. Instead of bathing his feet in hair and tears, she had bathed his throat in metal and blood. Ever since then, his grey eyes have held frozen a thousand tragedies. He should have died that night, his blood turning slowly black beneath the moon.

But he had not died.

No, he is alive, and hating every moment of his existence. He looks emotionlessly at Lilah.

"You seem to put a lot of faith in my abilities."

"I just always thought there was a lot more to that proper, bookish exterior than meets the eye. So I have to wonder… what could possibly be going on in that brilliant head of yours that drives you to push yourself so hard?"

"Don't pretend you've given me a second thought. You only want to get to Angel."

"Angel?" She laughs derisively. "You still don't get it, do you? Angel doesn't give a damn about you anymore. You made sure of that when you handed his kid over to his worst enemy. Besides, it's the Senior Partners that have made Angel their pet project. Right now, I'm more interested in you."

"Why?"

"Maybe I care."

Wesley knocks back the remainder of his drink and slams the empty glass down on the table with more force than he had intended. He feels the reverberations pass through the bones in his hand. He knows he's had too much to drink, though she might not realise it. He articulates his words more deliberately, becomes more cruel and cutting, saying things his usual reserved English restraint would otherwise prevent him from. "You, care? A cold-hearted, remorseless bitch? I highly doubt it."

"Ouch. And I am interested. Angel's drawn close to the line a few times… and I've got the marks to prove it." Slowly, she pulls back the collar of her blouse to expose the unhealed bite marks, silver pale against the column of her throat. "See." She smirks, a glimmer of irony peering through her lips. "I've got a scar there, too. But now Angel's back with the good and righteous, I'm far more interested in seeing just how much it'll take to tip you over the edge. And I'm not talking about the number of tequilas you've been knocking back, either – although that's gonna be one hell of a hangover in the morning."

"Will it block out the sound of your voice?"

"Oh come on, Wes. You might hate me but I think I part of you wants me to stay, just so you have someone to talk to. Admit it, I'm the only person now who will give you so much as the time of day."

His shoulders slump forward in defeat. She knows him far too well. And he hates that she's probably the closest thing he has to a confidant.

Satisfied, Lilah crosses her legs and leans back in her chair, an effortless image of vintage glamour. She looks no older than himself, but her knowing cynicism seems to belie her relatively young age. Perhaps she has made a pact. It wouldn't surprise him. Men have sold their souls for less than eternal youth.

She's an enigma. Not like Justine who's damaged and lashing out, or Holtz who's consumed by revenge, or Lindsay with his irrational desire to prove himself. Lilah seems removed from all such conventional motivations. It intrigues him, though he would never admit it to himself. But his thinking, analytical mind won't let go of this mystery she places before him. What is she really after?

Maybe he can save her from herself. If she wants him to.

Or maybe he just hasn't learned his lesson, after all.

"And by extension, one could ask what drives you to work for Wolfram and Hart? I can understand the appeal it held for Lindsay. So what was it, Lilah? Ambition? Power?"

Lilah draws back a little and surveys him. She doesn't seem remotely drunk anymore. Her look has become sharp and cold and calculating. "What is this? You think we're gonna talk and share our problems? I'm not some poor soul who needs saving. I made my choice. I work damn hard at my job and I reap the rewards. You can appreciate that – oh wait." She smiles coldly. "I guess you can't. All that effort to fight the good fight, you make one mistake and – damn. Thrown out without even a chance to explain to the very people you were trying to protect. And those good guys of yours, who supposedly 'help their helpless' – they don't even think your soul's worth saving. Go figure."

"And you don't even try to defend them." She raises her glass and cheerfully toasts him. "Now we're getting somewhere."

"I rather think we're going round in circles."

"Come on, Wes. You've figured it out in that smart head of yours. You know this isn't about good or evil or choosing sides. It's pretty simple. You want something and I can give it to you."

Yes, he knows what she's really offering him. Purpose. His existence is lonely and meaningless; he's been stripped of everything that mattered to him. He's been cast adrift in this chaotic, violent world and has no one to blame but himself. That's why she keeps coming here night after night. That's why she thinks she has a chance. She's getting confident and it bothers him. Everything about her bothers him. He'd never work for her and she knows it, but there's a reason why she keeps asking.

So he replies, the way he always does. "The price is too high, Lilah."

She scoffs. "Is that what you told yourself when you went to Angel's worst enemy? You're not the hero, Wes. You put the ends before the means and don't care about who gets hurt in the middle. And that makes you like me."

"Evil?"

"I call it realistic."

He bristles. "I did what I thought was right." But the words sound hollow. He's said them so many times, they've lost all meaning.

"Oh, please. Did you really think Holtz was just gonna let you skip out of town with the ace in his get-revenge-on-Angel pack? When you make a deal with the devil, don't be surprised when he turns up to claim his reward."

Wesley looks away. She's right, of course. He likes to think of himself as a rather elusive figure with an aura of intellectual mystery about him, but he knows Lilah sees through him clear as glass. He wonders if Fred would see through him, had she ever cared to try. Or perhaps she already has and just didn't like what she saw. Fred is too smart and pretty for her own good, and too damn nice to let you resent her for it. And she is lost to him forever.

Now all he's left with is someone he actively loathes. Wesley leans back in his chair and regards her dispassionately. There is no denying she's extremely attractive. She is, in a way that is very removed from Fred's sweet prettiness – a prettiness that mainly stems from the fact she doesn't seem aware of it. You can't call Lilah pretty. Her magnetism is an entirely adult one: an intriguing combination of steely ruthlessness and detached irony that seems to challenge you to surprise her. There is something about her that reminds him faintly of Darla: the same knowing sensuality and hypnotic pull that could drive a man to his own madness, to death and destruction. Perhaps, if he hadn't met Fred, he might have succumbed to the allure of that enticing darkness. Perhaps, even now, it isn't an entirely unappealing prospect.

"You know…" The Cupid's bow of her lips betrays the faintest hint of a pout, "This self-loathing Byronic thing you've got going on is actually kind of a turn-on. All tortured and brooding…"

Her silk-stokinged leg brushes against his under the table, possibly by accident, more likely intentional. Wesley pretends not to notice, even if his tightly-strung body is painfully aware of the fleeting moment of contact. He swallows hard, feigning indifference.

"It's no good, Lilah."

Her eyes widen in a good imitation of innocence. "What's no good?"

"This attempt to seduce me. Is this your deep dark plan? To sleep with me in the hopes that I would betray the secrets of Angel Investigations? A little trite, don't you think?"

She smirks. "Well, it was worth a shot. After all, it does seem to be the one thing you're good at."

"What does?"

Lilah leans in close, her scented dark hair falling down to brush against his skin. "Betrayal," she whispers.

Wesley jerks away from her. "Do you really think I'd tell you anything?"

Lilah speaks in a purring sort of voice. "By the time I was through with you, you wouldn't be up to doing any talking."

"That sounds like a challenge." He is suddenly very conscious of the way the silk material strains slightly across her breasts, the heavy scent of perfume, the slight dent in her lower lip, and… how much has he had to drink? Is he really… flirting with her?

She reaches her hand out, gliding the tips of her manicured fingers along his cheek and across his unshaven jaw. A deceptive mockery of tenderness. Wesley swallows hard. It's the first human contact he's had had in… God, too long to think about. "It's company policy," she breathes, "To maximise our potential."

Her touch skirts the scar across his throat, scarlet nails grazing the skin for the briefest of second and he draws a sharp breath, pleasure blurring with the pain of it. His own hand flies up, catching her fingers mid-motion in a tight grip that makes her wince. His voice is slightly ragged. "And will your endeavours be rewarded?"

"That all depends on you." Her other hand slides under the table, along the line of his inner thigh. He stiffens involuntarily. "If you're – up – to the challenge."

Whether it's her proximity, or the alcohol in his blood, every sensation is magnified until he's drowning in the tantalising completeness of her presence. He forgets the odour of stale cigarettes and old spirits, the monotonous drone of voices at the next table, the hard, uncomfortable chair he's gracelessly slumped in. He sighs deep in his throat, lost in distraction.

He briefly wonders whether this is all business for her. Then he realises he doesn't care. He doesn't like her, but somehow that doesn't matter.

Eyes never leaving hers for a moment, still gripping her wrist, he guides her hand to the parted collar of her blouse. Downwards. Her pulse throbs against his fingers, the fractionally speeding rhythm filling his senses.

Past her collarbone. Downwards. Her skin is warm, and God, that's something he's missed...

"They don't… appreciate you…" He's pleased to hear her voice is slightly breathier than usual. "All this… right under their noses, and they don't have the sense to see it."

His hand, still on hers, slides through the parted material like water, tracing the tantalising edges of her lacy undergarments. He feels the sharp intake of breath, the quickened rise and fall of her breasts beneath his fingers. He forces himself to speak with calm dispassion.

"They appreciated my work."

Her lip curls, though a shuddering sigh escapes her, belying her indifference. "I wasn't talking about your brain."

The tender, pale flesh is aggravatingly yielding to his ministrations, those decadent contours soft and warm, shrouded in shadow. She's not even trying to fight him. But her eyes… her eyes are so bloody impenetrable, razor edges cold as metal. Entirely unreadable. Maybe that's the appeal. There's no anger. No condemnation. If he wants absolution, she's the last person to give it to him, and it also means she's the last person who will ever judge him. Mere inches separating their faces, and all else receded to a distant haze -

No.

No, she won't have him that easily.

Wesley raises his languidly drooping head, a wave of tension stiffening his body. He sits up a little straighter, the clink of glasses at the bar and the hum of background voices rushing back into focus. Lilah is flushed and breathing hard, dark lashes brushing her cheeks as she still leans into the cruelly sensual touch. It's the closest thing he's seen to vulnerability from her, the closest thing to humanity. And for the life of him, he can't tell whether it's genuine or all just another game. Better for him perhaps, if he does not wait around to find out.

So, with an effort, he stands up, taking a moment to appreciate the shock on her flushed features.

"Goodnight, Lilah," he says.

Outside, the city lights throb and burn across his eyes. His vision is dazzled by it all. There's a dull, throbbing pain in his head. So many faces. So many souls. Wesley walks through the endless crowds of lonely people with a precise, almost too perfect steadiness. The sharp night air does little to clear his agitation.

She's gotten under his skin more than he realised. It's worrying. And it's not just the moments of physical electricity that spark between them in every encounter. No, it's the fact that she knows him, understands him in that maddeningly perceptive way of hers. She knows what makes him tick.

He's just tired. Tired of the moral chess, of the mind games, of the twisted dynamic between them.

I just want to forget. God, I want to forget.

Oblivion beckons. He sincerely hopes there's a bottle of scotch in the apartment. It's the one thought that sustains him as he half-walks, half-stumbles up the staircase, fumbling for the key in the pocket of his jeans.

The ceiling bulb flickers intermittently as he wearily enters the apartment. He throws the keys carelessly onto the table. That's when he notices it. A leather-bound tome sitting innocently on the table. He's always immaculate with his personal library; he never leaves his books lying around (unfortunately, the same can't be said for the spirit bottles cluttering his apartment).

Curiously, he picks it up. A neatly folded piece of paper slides off the cover. In the dim light, Wesley short-sightedly squints at the message scrawled across it.

Thought this might interest you.

She hasn't signed it, but then, she doesn't need to. The book is a copy of Marlowe's Dr Faustus. Wesley cannot help but smile at the bitter irony of it. Faust, the man who sold his soul to the devil for power and knowledge. Is this supposed to be her idea of a premonition?

Wishful thinking, more like.

"So, do you like your present?"

The low, desultory voice, spoken from the shadows, startles him. He spins round. The book falls against the oak wood table with a faint thump.

She's standing in the hall, looking like a succubus come to devour his soul. Wesley regards her silently. The make-up is slightly smudged around her glittering eyes, and her hair is let loose, tangled in stylised post-coital disarray as it falls around her face. She looks less polished than he has ever seen her, but the smirk is fiendishly wicked as ever, a curving red bow of triumph.

"Didn't think I'd give up that easily, did you? We had unfinished business."

Wesley leans back against the doorjamb and casts her a long, scrutinising look. She's almost an embodiment of this city. Ambivalent, dangerous, sophisticated, the darkness and corruption barely contained beneath the veneer of her polished, glamorous exterior. The hint of sensual curves provocative and promising in the dim light.

He knows he should just slam the door on her. It would be worth it just to wipe the self-satisfied expression from her face. But shutting her out stopped being an option a long time ago.

"I thought I'd gotten rid of you at the bar." That's a lie. He can't be rid of her, not anymore. He wonders which of them have made it that way.

"You gonna have me removed from the building?" That infuriating smirk is back in place. Wesley feels his jaw tighten. His pulse churns. He's wearied, furious, yet at the same time, oddly exhilarated.

"You think I can't?"

"No," Lilah says. "I think you won't." She moves towards him in a deliberated sway of hips and sensual elegance. The scent of her perfume seems strangely out of place amid the bourbon and old-book smell of his apartment. "Come on, Wes. Don't get all stuffy on me now. I think we both know you left the Watcher behind a long time ago."

When she kisses him, he's not surprised. Deep down, he's known for weeks now that it would come to this. Her mouth is hot and soft against his own, maddening, provoking, teasing him into responding. He tastes lipstick and vermouth, a heady cocktail of classy decadence in the press of her lips against his, her hands gripping his shoulders, fisting in the fabric of his sweater. Her assault is demanding - almost desperate - as though she's expecting him to stop her at any moment -

But he does not stop her.

Because it awakens something, deep inside. Like the release of a cruel drug, a hypnotic needle in his arm, drowsing through the blood. Every sensation is heightened, amplified, the duelling of their tongues in aggressive tandem, her heart thudding through his ribcage, the press of her stockinged thigh against his own building arousal -

When she draws back, the clarity of the moment is intense. It cuts through the haze of alcohol that has dulled his senses. Wesley tries to steal a breath but there isn't enough air between them. Not enough air in the world.

Neon bright lights reflect in the glazed depths of her eyes. That cursed, insatiable smile is as sharp as cut glass. "Well, that was certainly better than I expected."

"Shut up, Lilah," he says.

He pulls her towards him, closer, closer. Hands curling around her waist, feeling the heat of her skin through the layers of clothing between them. He feels her shudder slightly, an unexpected betrayal of vulnerability. He's tired of her having the upper the hand in all their exchanges, and this is… something else. Different. Thrilling. He wants to know what kind of reaction he can get from her, what it will take to break through the façade of cool arrogance and mocking contempt. Perspiration beads across his hairline as the sense of heated anticipation hovers between them. Lilah's head tilts back, dark hair falling back over her shoulders as she lifts her face to his, her cheeks flushed, surrendering, offering. She actually wants this, wants him to do it.

And God help him if he doesn't want it too.

He knows she's manipulating him. Using him. She's silk and velvet and cold as stone inside. Yet she feels so warm, curving almost too well into his body, hips riding against his, a sweet, tantalising friction that elicits an unwilling guttural moan from the back of his throat. Promising so much more. He's finally feeling something and he doesn't care if it's only momentary. It's something, and it's more than he's had in ages (ever).

He's tired of sitting alone, staring at the shadows. Nothing but languid memories of Fred, all the kisses she's never given him (never will, now). If he can't have Fred, then what does it matter who he has? He's alone, and there's no one to judge him.

Lilah breathes out shakily, a warm, unsteady exhalation against his mouth. Wesley realises a moment later that she's laughing. "I suppose this is the part where you tell me you're not so easily corrupted?"

For a split second, Wesley wonders just what level of screwed up he is. He takes a breath, stares at her.

"Clearly, you don't know me as well as you think."

And he crushes his mouth to hers.

Her response is instantaneous, almost brutal, and he vaguely wonders how long she's been wanting this or whether it really has taken her by surprise -

Blinding illumination behind his eyelids. He sees stars, neon lights. Innocence lost, and something else entirely gained. Guilty pleasure, remorseless pain. A vague, clogged euphoria pulsing beneath his skin. Whatever it is, it's killed all his self-control. His mind swirls, grasping at fragments, words, thoughts.

No.

Yes.

Why.

He frames her face with his hands, gripping her hard, trying to chain himself to something real in all this chaos. Every breath, nerve, strained -

"Don't go soft on me now, Wes," Lilah breathes, her voice ragged and strained, "There's no need to play nice -"

He presses her back roughly against the doorframe. No longer holding back in this violent clash of teeth and tongues, fingers flexing around her waist, pressing into the bones of her hips with bruising force. He doesn't know if this is hatred or revenge or some new form of self-torture and he no longer cares. No longer cares that they're still in his doorway and anyone could walk past and see them. He's alone and she wants him, and right now nothing else matters. She too is a creature of the shadows, caught in the ephemeral spaces of things. Oh, they're both so damaged and lost, that's the only reason why he's doing this, the only reason why - for the moment at least - it feels almost right.

She's the enemy. Working for Wolfram and Hart and everything he's meant to be against. But God, it's all such a mess and he doesn't even know what's right or wrong anymore. And he's been hovering on the brink for so long now that the fall is almost a relief. There will be a whole load of new demons to face in the morning, but right now that seems a fair price to pay. Nothing but this sense of cold, brilliant euphoria, drowning out all else. He gives up the fight and loses himself in the sensation.

He tastes her lips, her skin, kissing, biting, the heavy scents of sweat and perfume and sex fogging the air around them. Her breath hot against his neck, chestnut hair tumbling down, clinging to the damp skin. Lilah tugs his shirt loose from his jeans, dragging her nails across the exposed flesh, deep enough to leave gauges, and it seems to Wesley that self-destruction shouldn't feel half so good as this. Yet he's dragging her down with him, and there's a certain torturous satisfaction in the thought. Her blazer falls to the floor in a discarded heap and his hands are searing through her blouse as they travel up her spine, across her shoulders, pressing her burning body into his, impossibly close. She's as tense as a livewire, hips moving urgently against his now painful arousal. Her skirt has ridden up; he can feel the heated silk of stockinged legs pressing into his thighs, and Wesley needs more, more of this, more of her -

He works feverishly on the buttons of her blouse, wanting to feel her bare skin beneath his hands. He wants to make her scream, to feel her shake and shatter around him, under him. Her hands are clawing at his lower back, nails digging into the tender flesh, and he pins her harder against the wall in response. Hard to believe that this is really him, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, for God's sake, sleeping with the enemy, but maybe he did die the night Justine slit his throat, after all… Because this is heaven and hell and every dark corner in between... Her lips move down his unshaven jaw line, pressing open, wet kisses along his throat. Both a punishment and pleasure. He grips her thick, dark hair as his fingers curve around the base of her skull, pressing almost cruelly. The shudder of her laughter reverberates through his body - that the best you can do? - and he tugs her head back, catching her mouth violently with his once more, showing her his contempt, bruising them both. This isn't tender or romantic, they're certainly not making love. This is - to put it bluntly - fucking, plain and simple.

The blue florescent lights from outside his window slant across her exposed white skin as his hands fist in the expensive silk of her blouse, tugging it from her shoulders, only to roughly pull her towards him once more, unwilling to break their heated contact even for a brief moment. His hand slides up beneath the skirt raked around her thighs and Lilah lets out a broken, urgent sound, and for once their motives and desires are one and same, unified by insane need. But he's damned if he's going to give her what she wants so soon - no, he's going to draw this out, torture her for as long as possible. It's the least she deserves, his very own personal demon. She shifts impatiently against him, hips locked against his. Her thighs are tightening around him and it's exquisite agony... God, he can hear her, feel her moaning against him, for him -

Fuck.

How did they let it get this far?

Wesley tilts his head forward, his sweating brow colliding with hers as his hands tightly grip the bones of her shoulders. He bites her lower lip hard and without tenderness. The breath hisses through her teeth. "That's more like it," she says unsteadily.

Wesley pulls back slightly to look into her eyes. "You do know," he says harshly. "That this is purely physical. I still hate you."

Against his mouth, he feels her lips curve into a knowing smile. "Sure you do. Probably almost as much as you hate yourself."

And her high-heeled foot swings out, kicking the door shut behind them.