Summary: The sharing of life. Wishverse, Season 3.
Rating: NC-17
Story Notes: Flashfic Challenge response. Thanks goes especially to juliaabra and Zoriah
Disclaimer: All content not the property of the writer. No ME staff members were harmed in the writing of this story.

It begins, as always, with a kiss.

It's their homage to normalcy. Hi honey, I'm home. Only they're really not. They're strangers here. Aliens fused together by the fires of the Hellmouth. Watcher and his charge. It's forbidden, but that's half the fun.

She pulls his shirt off before he's even closed the door.

He doesn't love her. How can he? He doesn't even know her. Can't afford to. She's destined for death. Neck broken, throat ripped out, carcass despoiled, maybe raised and used against him. He can't give her love, but he can give her this, even if it goes against all his better judgment.

She doesn't love him. How can she? She doesn't even know what love is. Not really. Knows only that it can't be this. Desperation and need. Two frozen hearts warmed temporarily by the heat of sex.

No family. No friends. Liabilities. The Slayer works alone.

They undress each other quickly.

His hands trace her small breasts, gliding over pale skin and slender hips. Little waif. Boyish figure. This appeals more than he'd like to admit. His tongue traces a path across her scarred lips, down her neck, the sharp ridges of her collarbone, laves on her hardening nipple. She arches against him, moans softly, suddenly every inch a woman.

She loves the feel of his tongue. A warm, knowing, velveteen caress that sends shivers through her body. Alive, for now. But alive is not enough. She grasps his head, pulls him back to her. Much stronger, she is, and he follows helplessly. She kisses him, almost an apology, as her hands trace his cock. He's hard, always hard around her. Ready for her. Makes her feel like a woman.

They're making love, not war. Kind of.

He's learned to be a man here, as his father told him he would. The old man's immensely proud his son can disembowel a Tharnax Demon and hit a bulls-eye with a pistol at 500 feet. Prouder still that a Wyndam-Pryce's Slayer is the best there ever was. He came from England to train her, and for once he's truly excelled.

She knows he's a noble man, even if he doesn't believe it. Always does what he thinks is best, even if it pisses her off. Brave in his own way. In every way, now. God, he's changed so much. She knows he would die for her in a New York minute, just as she kills for him.

Hot, hungry, desperate. Her lips are on his cock, small hands grab his buttocks, caress his balls and the space between. His thighs tremble, hands clutching at her braided hair. It's familiar, practiced. They know each other so well.

A match made in heaven, passion born of hell.

She thinks he tastes of spices and whiskey and far away places, places more civilized than this. Places she'll never go. She tries to capture that now. Only England, hardly exotic. Still, she imagines Covent Garden, being free to shop for handbags and shoes, to wear nice clothing, to walk with him amongst the flowers. But it's all a distant dream, now. She'd never fit in.

He bought her pretty clothing once. Dressed her like a pampered princess and took her someplace fine. She'd almost smiled, as he'd pulled out her seat for her, yet, even feasting on truffles, her eyes had scanned the darkness beyond the glass. Always a slayer, always ready. The dress had been ruined in a fight on the way home. He'd torn the remains from her body when they arrived.

They're on his desk. Watcher's desk; just the right height. She's spread before him, visibly aroused, wet and swollen. He licks his lips, as his cock bounces against his stomach, body slick with sweat.

Need. Want. Now.

His hands trace the line of her soft thighs, and she whimpers and opens wider in invitation. Eyes take each other in, freeze-framed in their mind's eyes forever. Then she arches her back and cries, as he pushes in.

He has another picture of her, somewhere in his files. Buffy Anne Summers, freshman. Blonde, pretty, fresh-faced, wearing bright colors and indecent skirt. A tarted-up Beach Boys muse. Delicious, although he'd never allowed himself to think it. Now his cock's buried in her cunt. She's still barely out of childhood, his sole responsibility, and he's screwing her to pass the time while she waits for death in Cleveland, Ohio. How very Wyndam-Pryce. Wouldn't father be proud?

She knows there's an older photo of him in his office. Wesley as he was two years ago, a lifetime ago, when he'd made her giggle with his upper-class airs and prim, proper ways. He's dirtied now, sullied. Inner taint reflected in outward appearance, as if he can not bear to hide behind the polish. He tarnished, and now she wanted to fuck him. It's always the bad boys, isn't it, chica? The ones that make you scream.

He's liquid, intoxicating, slender muscles rippling. She wraps her legs around him and squeezes just enough to wonder whether she could break him.

She bit him once, smiled at him with red-stained lips. Looked like lipstick, like she'd cared a little. He'd rather liked it.

Harsh gasps, moans in the empty room. She grinds herself against him, small hands on her own breasts, as his thrusts grow harder. Power and pleasure rising toward their inevitable peak

And then, explosion, release.

In the afterglow, she touches his face, watches the surprise flit across his intense, dark eyes. Doesn't he know by now that she's always breaking rules?

They'd agreed there would be none of that, although maybe not in so many words. And yet he captures her hand, brings it to his lips, and kisses it gently. There's something in her face that stirs long suppressed tenderness.

She blinks beneath his scrutiny, gives voice to her fears.

"So, Sunnydale..." It's almost home. It terrifies her. "I want you there, not some Rupert Giles."

"I'll be there as soon as I can," he promises. And he means it. She's his Slayer. Only his.

"If I die there, I'll come back and haunt you."

"Better than nothing."

It's still not love, but it's enough to keep them going.

She kisses him then, and he swells inside her.

So it begins again.