A/N:  Implied rape, don't read if that disturbs you.

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Wesley's dreams were troubled, which, in itself, was not unusual.  But in past nights the dreams had been focused on him.  His father yelling at him, berating him for not living up to the family's high expectations.  Cordelia and Fred and Gunn, turning their backs on him.  Angel coming at him with something more deadly than a pillow.  And his personal favorite, Justine slitting his throat every time he closed his eyes.  The event that began this vast downward spiral.

            But none of those were included in his nightmares this night.  Tonight his dreams were directed outward, and filled with blood.  Blood covered the floor of the Hyperion, the corpses of his once-friends on the floor, their necks bearing the same mark his did.  Gunn and Cordelia stared at him through glazed, dead eyes.  And Fred, little, lovely Fred, she was dead too, blood coming from cuts all over her face and body, her eyes purple and swollen, her dress torn.  Blood on Wesley's hands.

            Blood on his hands as they constricted about Lilah Morgan's lily white neck.  He contemplated taking advantage of her for the briefest of seconds, then decided that he just wanted her dead.  He could hear her screams, her cries as she pleaded with him to let her go.  And in the dream, he enjoyed making her suffer, making her beg, and then breaking her neck, watching the body fall lifeless to the floor of her corner office.

            Blood on his hands as he drove a sharpened wooden stake through Angel's heart.  Ashes were everywhere, Wesley breathed them in, choked on them.  Blood and ashes on his hands, lives in his hands.  He had never felt so powerful, or so righteous.  But it was only a dream, it wasn't like he'd ever do those terrible things in real life.

            He awoke with a start, hardly surprised to find that he had kicked all the covers off himself while he'd slept.  He reached to the foot of the bed and grabbed his slacks, and, pulling them on, went to pour himself a drink.  His dreams had troubled him.  Not with their violence, but with how good it had felt to do those acts, to have revenge on those who had betrayed him, used him, turned their backs on him.

            "No," he croaked, his voice harsh from disuse, "don't worry about Wesley.  Just leave him to wallow in his own self-pity.  After all, he deserves it doesn't he?"  Wes gave a bitter laugh.  That's what they'd say, that's what they probably were saying right now.  He deserved his life because he'd been trying to protect Angel, to save him from murdering his son.  Now Connor was back, and Angel probably as happy as he could be without breaking that damned curse again.  And any word to him?  None.  He doubted that any of them would ever talk to him again…unless they needed something, and then he'd just have to refuse to help them.

            They'd be using him for his knowledge and skills, not trying to forgive him for doing the only thing he could see to do.

            He brushed through his bed-mussed hair with his hands, and walked to his liquor cabinet which he kept fully stocked.  The room was dark, but Wesley had memorized the layout of the room.  He rarely had the lights on in the house anymore; the light was too bright when one had a hangover.

            "Hello.  Wesley Wyndham-Price, I assume," called a voice from the darkness.

            "Who are you?" asked Wesley harshly.  He could see the outline of the man sitting on the couch.  Someone had broken into his house, and yet was not taking anything, or making a move to hurt him?  Peculiar.  "And what do you want," he added suspiciously, eyes narrowing.

            "I apologize for my rudeness.  My name is Morpheus."

            Wesley knew that name.  It had come to him in his dreams, and he knew somehow, that Morpheus was a vampire, and that Wesley had invited him into the house.  He tried not to show his fear, merely asked: "Would you care for a drink?"  And then realized it was probably the worst thing he could have said in the situation.

            "You don't beat around the bush, do you Wesley?"  The man must have smiled, because suddenly Wesley saw bright white in the darkness.  "Don't worry, I'm gonna make you a star."

            The man lunged with such speed…even a vampire couldn't be that fast, could he?  Wesley barely had time for that one stray thought, and the vampire was upon him.  He tried to fight, but his every move was countered almost before he made it.  He tried a punch to the face, but the vampire stepped back, and the force of Wesley's blow spun him around.  The vampire could have grabbed him then, but he didn't.  This Morpheus was drawing out the fight.  Wesley was dangerously off-balance, but tried to kick the vampire's legs out from under him anyway.  The vampire jumped, and Wesley fell to the ground.  My coordination is shot.  If I'd known I'd be fighting for my life, I'd never have had that last drink, he thought wryly.

            Wes rolled backward, and stood, grabbing the leg of the dining room chair and breaking it off as he rose to his feet.  "I think you should leave," he said with all the confidence he could muster.

            "Nonsense, you invited me.  Now, how about that drink?"  The vampire came at him with a flurry of blows, more than Wes could possibly hope to block.  A leg caught him in the stomach, doubling him over, then an elbow to the small of his back, and he fell to the floor again, the chair leg falling from his numb fingers.

            Morpheus picked him up and tossed him against the wall.  "Don't fight it Wesley.  I've been inside your dreams, I know your thought like they are my own.  Deep down, you want it," said the vampire as he closed the distance between them.  Wesley couldn't see his face clearly before, in the darkness, but in the passing of a car outside his window, he could see it now.  He had seen pictures of the vampire Buffy had referred to as the Master, and Morpheus's face resembled that, but much more lined and wrinkled.  And the teeth, if possible, were sharper.

            Such were his thoughts as those teeth entered the flesh of his neck.  It brought him back to a few weeks ago, when Justine had taken a knife to his throat.  And just like that, it did not hurt so much at first, but worsened over time.  The suction was the worst, made it hurt even more as the blood was being drawn out of him.  He remembered to fight, but he was too weak, he could barely even move in the vampire's grasp.  His vision began to go a little fuzzy, the darkness around him becoming even more so, closing in on him.

            He hit the floor shortly after.  He had no knowledge of time, a minute could have felt like an hour, or a second.  So how long he lay on the floor was a mystery to him.  He couldn't feel anything, physically or mentally.  Nothing touched him here…and he thought that this must be what death felt like.  It had been similar with Justine, but always he could feel the pain.  Now he was pleasantly numb, drifting away from the world.  And who needed it anyway?

            "There now," he thought he heard, from far away, "was that so bad?"  A laugh.  Wes could swear he had heard a laugh.  "Shh, don't worry, everything's going to be terrific.  See you when you wake, Wesley."