Disclaimer: I don't own the characters.  They belong to Joss Whedon and co.

Without Her

By Bohemian Storm

He's crashing, falling from the top story and plummeting toward the ground. He wants to brace himself, but his body doesn't want to respond. It wants to smash on the concrete like a rag doll, limbs and bones snapping. Wind rushes past him, his glasses are torn from his face. The scratches across his throat and chest burn. He doesn't remember how they got there. He only remembers being pushed. Strong hands on his shoulders; shoving him toward the edge, laughter in his ears.

The ground rushes toward him and he closes his eyes, waiting for the pain.

He lands gently on a soft ground. There is no concrete and his head barely bounces as he comes to a stop. He sits up and opens his eyes, his fingers clenched tightly in fists around wet leaves. He is in the middle of a dark wood, the trees towering over him and leaves dropping silently to the ground. He can hear the sound of a light summer rain, but he isn't getting wet. It's falling softly on the plants and trees around him, slicking them, making them look more vibrant and alive.

He stands slowly and unsteadily. There is almost no noise, save for the rain and a swishing in the brush on his right. Soft footsteps fall on the ground, coming closer to him in the dark afternoon. He wonders momentarily why there is no sun, then it bursts through the trees with such intensity that he has to shield his eyes from the light. The footsteps come closer, then stop just before reaching him. He blinks against the light.

She smiles. "You keep trying to escape me."

He beheaded her. He remembers doing it. The axe was sharp and heavy and he remembers bringing it toward her throat and listening to the sickening noise it made as it chopped through skin and bone. He remembers trying to keep down the bile that threatened to rise when he saw the severed head on the floor, ragged ends staining the concrete and huge eyes staring at him.

"I'm not-"

Her laughter interrupts him. "Avoiding me and lying to me?"

He studies her, then realizes that it was her that brought the light. Not in the luminescent way that he imagines angels must have, but just … bright.

"You're hurt," she says, her voice dropping slightly in tone. Her hand reaches out and cold fingers brush against the worst of the slashes. Her shirt is torn and bloodied, but where she touches him he heals.

"How did you do that?" he asks, staring at the place she touched.

"Benefit to being dead, Wes," she explains. Her fingers slide over his skin and he doesn't burn anymore.

"Why are you here?" he asks.

She smiles, backing away. "I think maybe the better question is: why you are here?"

"I fell."

"I saw that." She looks upward and he follows her gaze. Through the trees he can see the skyscraper buildings.

"Where are we?"

"Hell," she says softly.

He blinks. "This is a dream."

"Maybe." She leans toward him, her hands on his shoulders. Her mouth presses against his cheek in a chaste kiss, then she whispers in his ear, soft as the summer rain, "Or maybe it really is Hell."

Her fangs pierce his skin before he even realizes what's happening. He jerks away from her, his hand going to the place she bit him. She's a vampire and yet … she's not. It has to be a dream. Has to be. Must be. Has to be a dream. It can't be Hell. He isn't dead. Not yet.

Is he?

Her eyes are gold, but her face is the same, save for the bloody fangs. She smiles so prettily.

"Lilah ..." he murmurs, bringing his hand away and staring at the blood there. "You ..."

"I did," she says. "So maybe this isn't Hell after all."

"What is it?"

"Maybe it's Heaven. Free range," she says, opening her palms to the sky. The light is gone now and the clouds above them rumble with thunder before the rain begins to pour down upon them. "Want. Take. Have. Remember her? Remember Faith?"

I have no faith, is what he wants to say, but the words don't come. The rain drowns him.

"I kill whomever I want now, Wesley," she whispers. "Teeth and tongue. Rip and tear. Drink and kill. All part of the food chain. Even you." She laughs and he feels his legs go weak. "I lost my head over you, Wes. Get it? I lost my head over you. I lost it. Lost my head."

Her fist connects with his cheekbone and he feels the skin split, but it doesn't hurt. Nothing hurts.

"He did kill you," he whispers.

She grins, leans forward. Her tongue touches his throat. "Not Angelus. William."

"Spike wasn't there."

"William the Bloody snapped my neck and drank my blood."

He shakes his head. "Spike was in Sunnydale. He wasn't in Los Angeles. He wasn't anywhere near you."

"He steals from you. This is your dream, Wes." Her eyes light up. "Maybe he didn't steal me, but he's stealing someone right from under your stiff upper lip."

"I want to wake up."

She slaps him. "Wake up."

He opens his eyes to Caritas. He's not on stage, but rather he's staring up at it. It's empty. The spotlight illuminates only an empty chair. The microphone is lowered to the height of the chair, ready for the person who might want to sing next and needs a little bit of assistance for their shaking legs.

"Hey, doll face."

He turns to see Lorne, but it's not Lorne somehow. As with everything else so far, he's different. One of his horns is missing and in its place he wears a white bandage stained with blood. He isn't wearing a suit either, simply a pair of old pajama pants and a straight jacket.

"Vanilla ice cream?" someone asks and he turns to his other side to see Gunn standing there. He too is wearing a straight jacket, but the arms of his jacket are undone and in the palms of where his hands must be within the long sleeves, he holds a bowl filled with ice cream.

"Come here to sing?" Lorne asks. He flops down into the chair across the table. "Really, Wesley, I told you right after she died that there's no hope for it. I can't bring her back by reading your head."

He frowns. "Bring who back?"

"The one he yanked right out from under you, English," Gunn reminds him, still holding out the ice cream in some bizarre offering.

"Angel?" he asks.

Lorne chuckles. "Spike."

"Why does everyone suspect me?" Angel's voice booms over the sound system and he immediately looks toward the stage. It's still empty. The microphone shifts slightly and the chair scraps against the floor as if someone were sitting down.

"Really, what did I do? Okay, so I've lost my soul a few times. Big deal!"

The crowd in Caritas ripples with laughter.

"Open mic night," Lorne explains. He pauses for a moment, shaking back and forth as he tries to escape the straight jacket. The shaking stops and he smiles once more. "Angel-cakes always does standup."

"This is stand up?" he asks, watching the stage in confusion.

"Yeah, Wesley, this is stand up," Angel explains. He materializes as he walks down the stage stairs and crosses the floor. "Stop blaming me. I didn't do it."

"Do what?"

"I didn't kill her. I didn't push you off the roof and hope to God your bones shattered when you hit the ground," Angel says, slipping into the chair beside him. "I tried to stop it all."

"I don't understand," he whispers. "I want to wake up now."

"There is no waking up from Hell," Lorne hisses and the other echo his sentiments.

"Look what will happen if you don't stop him," Angel said. "He'll break her and then he'll break you."

He looks down and cries out, tears springing to his eyes. Where his feet and legs once were there are now bloody masses of bone and muscle. He's been torn to shreds, ripped apart by … he thinks maybe Spike. A muscle in his left thigh jumps and quivers and the sinewy white tissue that crosses it tightens.

"Oh, God," he moans, still staring at his legs. "I want to wake up now. I want to wake up now." He looks up and screams, "I want to wake up now!"

"Wesley, shhh," she murmurs, sliding her hands over his shoulders and down his chest.

He's back on the rooftop.

"Fred?"

She slips around him and looks up at him, smiling. "Yeah. What's wrong?"

"Oh … I just had the most horrible dream …"

She frowns. "You were asleep? Up here?"

"I-I don't know what happened. I must have dozed off while working and maybe sleepwalked out here."

"That's dangerous, Wes," she says, studying him in concern.

"I know," he says. "But I'm fine. Let's just go back inside."

"And what're you two doing up here on such a nice night?" Spike asks, coming through the roof hatch. "Watching the sunset?"

Fred smiles. "I just found Wesley out here. He thinks he might have been asleep and walked out here."

"Well, that's not safe, mate."

He looks at Spike, studying him carefully. "No, I don't suppose that it is."

"Good thing Fred here found you, huh?"

"Yes."

Spike cocks his head. "Something the matter, mate?"

"I don't trust you," he says softly.

"Wesley!" Fred exclaims, looking a little annoyed. "This is Spike we're talkin' about."

"I know."

Spike grins and walks closer. "Why're you so afraid of me? Think I might do something horrible, huh? Something like … this?" He grabs Fred before either of them can react and buries his fangs into her throat.

Wesley tries to grab her, but he can't move. He struggles, then looks down and finds that now he is in the one in a straight jacket. When he looks back up Fred's body is on the ground and Spike is grinning at him.

"She'll rise again," Spike says. "Thought I'd do it just to torture you."

"You have a soul," he murmurs.

"Oh, yeah," Spike says thoughtfully. "That pesky soul. Funny thing about a soul is that it's a lot easier to get rid of one than it is get one in the first place."

"Why?" he asks, shaking his head. He stares at her body. Her eyes are dead.

"Teach you a lesson," Spike says. "Give you a warning." He advances on Wesley, nudging him toward the edge of the building. A hand flashes out with a knife and a long, thin scratch appears on Wesley's throat.

"Give you a taste of what it might be like if you don't smarten up and take care of her," Spike continues. The knife flashes out again, ripping Wesley's chest. "So you better not take this for granted, mate."

"You?" he asks, struggling to breathe. It seems like there's no air. His lungs feel like they just want to give up and stop. "You're going to hurt her?"

"Not me," Spike says. "But don't I make for a bloody good warning?" The knife cuts Wesley once more before he drops it and puts his hands on his shoulders.

"Take care of her or something bad is gonna happen. Without her, life is Hell."

Then he pushes and Wesley goes tumbling over the side of the building, wind once more rushing at his face.

Her voice whispers in his ear, "Wake up."

*

He doesn't wake like he normally does from a nightmare, all jerky movements and racing heart. He wakes slowly, becoming aware of everything around him. Becoming aware of the night and the sounds of his dark apartment, his bed and the smell of breakfast from somewhere down the hall. The walls are thin here, he can smell coffee from somewhere as well. Slowly he becomes aware of her, sleeping contently next to him, curled up with her fist under his chin.

He sits up and touches her forehead gently. He doesn't know what the dream means, only that he has to protect her. He doesn't believe for a second that Spike would ever really hurt her, even if he didn't have a soul. They have a connection, he can see it when they talk.

She shifts in her sleep, hair falling over her eyes. He smiles, watching her. He really has no idea what the dream means, but he knows what it was telling him. She is sacred.

He'll do anything. No one will steal her from him. Not after all this time.

Without her, life is Hell.

He'll remember that.

End