The Window


TITLE: The Window
AUTHOR: Fyredansa
EMAIL: Fyredansa@hotmail.com
SUMMARY: Someone is keeping an eye on Buffy...
FEEDBACK: Hey, if you like it, please comment. If not, I'll go and sulk in the corner.
DISTRIBUTION: Just here at the mo...but anyone can have it :-) Just ask nicely ;-)
SPOILERS: None as far as I know
COUPLE: B/A, S/W (implied)
RATING: Erm...A bit above PG13, but below the one above it...or something.
DISCLAIMER: Let me get this clear - if I owned these guys, do you THINK I would waste time writing? Ho no! ;-) These chaps and chapettes (chaps preferred) belong to Joss Whedon and all the other companies involved with the TV show. I should have asked for permission to use them, but I didn't and its too late now, so please don't sue me cos I'm poor!
CLASSIFICATION: Tis another one of a very dodgy kind :)
NOTES: Didn't end quite how I panned, but still...I think it works :-)
_______________________________________


Crouched on the narrow ledge below her window, he stared through the hazy glass and watched her, focusing on her as she crossed the room.

Watched her as he had done every night since he had identified her.

She was different.

Unique.

She had arrived in the town barely days before and he had been shadowing her ever since, making certain nothing would harm her.

He had met the ones like her before – the Slayer – the Chosen One. He’d seen them from all backgrounds, heard about them, wondered what they were truly like, but he had never been this close to one before.

Not before her.

Not before Buffy.

This Chosen One was more than any of the others had been. She had an attitude and a self-assurance that none of the other girls had come close to attaining in the past. A strength that suggested she could outlast them all.

An uncalled for gasp escaped his lips as she unbuttoned and slid her shirt off her torso, her smooth back a soft gold in the candlelight, his mouth growing moist as he imagined her taste on his lips.

He knew he shouldn’t be looking at this girl – this mere child – in such a way, but he longed to reach out and touch what he knew he could not possibly have. She would never accept him for what he was. He was beyond her years and understanding. It would never be a relationship that would work, but how he wanted her.

Crouching back, his taut fist tightened around the tree branch as he swallowed hard, watching her turn to carefully fold her clothing into neat piles, her profile perfection in every way.

Just as he knew it would be.

Ignoring the splinters of pain in his palm, his eyes never left her.

She was an innocent.

Pure.

Chaste.

That was another thing he had not seen, not for many years. Such a sweetness and innocence radiated through her.

She may have had a difficult attitude to fathom, but she was – to all intents and purposes – as full of sin and evil as a newborn baby.

As her clothes were neatly put away, she turned towards the window, leaving her observer revelling in her youthful glory, her silky skin a tawny gold from hours spent – carefree – in the warmth of day.

Without the usual, teenage gawkiness, she made her way across the room, her grace affecting him as much as her nakedness.

Seperated by barely feet beyond the glass, the temptation to tap and beg for entrance increased, his hunger and desire for this beautiful girl surging through his veins as she pulled on her nightware and slid into the bed, alone.

Biting down on his lip, he tasted blood, watching until her eyes fell closed, a tiny smile playing on the corners of her mouth as she curled into the soft expanse of the pillow.

With a pained sigh, he knew at that moment that he would never be able to do anything more than simply watch her, as he slowly climbed down from his precarious perch, his heart aching with a loneliness that had spanned far too many years, more than he cared to count.

Walking across the lawn slowly, the tall figure glanced back at the house once more, knowing that his fate was always to simply be the observer, never truly involved. It was his eternal curse.

Nothing could or ever would change what he was. There was no cure or solution or even a meaning behind it.

Except, perhaps, a destiny. A cruel destiny of solitude and isolation and the knowledge that he was in protective possession of the only thing he longed for and could never truly have.

Such was the life of a Watcher.


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