He sat quietly in the library, lights off and the hallways beyond the doors still and empty. There were times when he thought that this was all he came here for -- the silence and the comfort of the smell of dusty books. There were times when he would sit there for hours doing nothing but staring into the darkness and believe himself to be doing nothing.

Other times he knew he was waiting. Sitting alone in the darkened library, he would know that every imagined sound would turn his head towards the doors and he would tense, and if the noise in his mind were loud enough he would rise to his feet. Once he walked towards the doors and told himself there was nothing there, that he was only checking because this was Sunnydale, and there was a Hellmouth, and unexplained noises in the night were usually dangerous.

But there would be nothing there. There was never anything there but his imagination and the soft whisper of his own body moving, denim brushing and shoes whisking across the floor. The only thing alive or undead were himself and his memories.

The library reminded him of a great many things. Friends, enemies, deaths, laughter. He could glance about the room and see the shelves of books, rows and rows of old, dry volumes. But it was only when he closed his eyes that he could see their faces and hear their voices, smell the musky scent of fear and sweat and anger. It was in those moments when he dared close his eyes that he could tell himself why he was truly here.

For whom it was that he waited.

His skin would crawl and he would shiver, not quite daring to hate the feeling of anticipation that crossed his chest and buttocks. Sometimes he would even dare lean forward and place a hand on his back, right above the hip, which he remembered most clearly from the very last time.

He would wish he dared more and he would keep his eyes closed and imagine that he dared touch himself where he had touched him. He would call up memories and let them flood his mind and he would be leaning forward, bent so far at the waist he could barely breathe. His legs would be trembling and his arms hanging uselessly at his sides for there was nothing before him to brace them on.

And remembered hands would caress him, touch his back and his legs and his butt-cheeks, and there would be harsh breathing and no words and then he would be fucked, fucked hard and silent and so completely. Driven nearly off his feet with the force of it and sometimes, when he got lost in those memories, he would come in his pants with just one hand massaging his cock through his jeans.

He would go quickly, then, and head for the lockers and change his clothes, wadding up his soiled underwear and stuffing it in a bag he pretended he did not keep there for just this purpose.

Then he would head home, to a silent and empty apartment, as lifeless and noticing as the hallways through which he walked. Testaments to his life, that such things which spoke of success and material wealth meant so little at night. At night, when he lay in his bed and dreamed about the library before, when the books were written in languages he didn't understand and the Hellmouth was right below the table, and a man who never said a kind word to him otherwise would pull him close and whisper words he knew could not be true.

The next day he would always forget, or tell himself that he did. He would go to the site early in the morning and replace an empty bag into his locker and when the whistle sounds he will have lost himself into his work. When it sounds again he will lose himself in the Slayer's work, and when that fails him too early into the night he goes back to the school which doesn't look right anymore and he sits in the library and he makes wishes in the silence and he wonders if there will ever be anything more than this.