Mentor means the same as its English meaning, coincidentally, menteur means liar. One letter means all the difference in the world… odd, that.

Set after the big scene in "Destiny". William saves Drusilla, but he can't look at her. He soesn't understand why she would sire him, if she was already shagging her sire. Oh, silly William, all is not as it seems. Genre: probably hurt/comfort. Writer: The Star That Lied (but the poem was by William)

Notes: this does rely on the established ideas of Stained Glass Saints, a published story, and my not yet published story, which comes after that… Either one is optional reading, but if you want the rest of the story, yeah, my stuff would help…

Warnings: it's set after the scene in Destiny (Angel season 5) where William finds Dru and Angelus... well, shagging, and with very, very dubious consent. But It's only mentioned looking back, in thoughts and a few lines of dialogue, and not so much that this isn't T any more.

Funny, how slight the difference, from trust to betrayal. His choice was live or love, and those were one letter and a world apart, his silent heart a testament to his choice. He thought he'd chosen his destiny, but William wasn't sure there was such a thing. Wasn't it nice to blame a force? No one was at fault, it was all destiny. It was human, even reminiscent of the poet in him to think that way. He was amazed Angelus hadn't beaten that out of him yet. Nothing was his, would ever be his, but he wasn't like her sire. He didn't just take. He wanted this to mean something, not that that seemed likely, as he trudged up the stairs, leaving a smirking Angelus and a baffled Drusilla downstairs and breaking into an empty room, shutting the door behind him. He couldn't look at either of them right now.

Not to mention, clearly, her bloody sire had not only been shagging her, but he doubted this was the first time either. What was he to Drusilla at all? Clearly, he wasn't even worth shagging. He wrote carefully down on his page live before he scratched out the i and wrote love—that was where he'd gone, trading in his life for his love. This was a game he used to play as a child, shifting a word letter by letter into another one. He proceeded to scratch the v out and wrote lose which became lost (which was how he felt now) and then loft, and lift, which became life. The differences a letter made. It became rift (like the divide between them) then riot, then the door creaked, and he cheated once, making riot into roil. Then he scratched out the a, turning it into rail, sail, said, laid, lair and finally, the word that had been burning as an accusation: Liar. So he had a strong of words that took him from live to liar. Well, wasn't that surprising to no one? That was his choice, en the end, he gave his love, and lost his life for this divide, a riot inside. Through things unsaid, he went into the alley that was her lair, and gave his life to a liar. Perhaps he'd use that somewhere.

He heard a knock at the door, probably Drusilla. She'd reached for him when Angelus had been holding her, almost tauntingly. He'd charged at Angelus, gotten her free because her eyes had begged him for it, and he was just ponce enough to not be able to leave her there. Angelus had thought he'd figured things out—taking what he wanted. He hadn't. He set Drusilla down wordlessly, not meeting her eyes and kept walking until he was up here in his room. He wasn't going to do this, not like this. If she didn't love him, that made him a fool and her a liar. Wouldn't shock him, that he was just another sodding fool for love. "Sod off!" he yelled in response to the knocking. He knew if Drusilla came in, he'd have to forgive her, once he saw that look in her eyes, how much this hurt her. He never could put his own bloody pain first, even when he was certain she was the cause of all of it. So let her sit out there. He shouldn't have to care, it shouldn't matter to him. He didn't owe her anything.

He heard a bit of a whimper, "daddy was going to hurt me," she said softly through the door. "He already has, so much. But my white knight saved me," William cringed, wondering if it was possible he'd misconstrued everything. It couldn't be. Drusilla was a sodding goddess, there was no way Angelus could make her do anything against her will. Could he? Was it possible that William really had saved her? He sighed, now his mind would never be at ease, she'd killed him and shagged another man, and somehow he was making himself the villain. He couldn't believe this. Odds were, she wasn't implying that she didn't want it. For all he knew, it was another vampire thing he'd never understand, and that was a good thing, being hurt. Maybe it was a euphemism. Why couldn't just forget the initial way he'd interpreted her words? And had he imagined the note of vulnerability there in her voice?

Just outside the door, Drusilla leaned against the wall, trying to stifle the tears, if she cried, pain would start. He didn't like weakness, unless it was giving him control, oh, he loved that. She felt sick, already a little sore from—oh, please don't think about it. He'd found her after he and William had gone on their little slaughter, and shoved her to the bed, a smirk at his lips as he lifted her skirts and took as he wished. She felt filthy, because she'd let him do it. She hadn't fought this time, nor any of the other times in these long two decades. Not since she was human, because she knew she wasn't strong enough to fight him. The best she could hope for was that if she just lay there and took it, he wouldn't hurt her any more than she knew this had to hurt. Hurting was just a part of it, something she couldn't escape, probably not even if it was with someone she actually loved, someone who wouldn't want it to hurt her. Maybe it hurt because it was wrong, she was wrong and deserved it, but the greatest pain had been while she still had that pretty little birdie that would later fly away. The birdie was white. It shouldn't have hurt by that logic.

William heard a light thump as she lay against the wall, and her words haunted him. Daddy was going to hurt me. He already has, so much… William winced, trying not to think about that. Did Drusilla think of what he was doing as violence? Love wasn't something Angelus was capable of, so he was certain it wasn't that. He'd assumed it to be mutually beneficial though, a sort of shared celebration of the killing they'd done tonight. Was it possible that Angelus had meant the line about taking as you wanted? Was it possible that "nothing is yours" applied to your own body? Did Angelus… No, William. That is quite improper to think. And given that he was a door away from a seer, he had to watch his thoughts. He could still see something in her eyes that contradicted his earlier thoughts, as his mind replayed the scene for him. The way she'd looked at him when he entered the room, almost pleadingly. Was she begging him to make it stop, or was she begging him to stop interrupting. And he wanted yet didn't want to believe the former. The former meant pain but honesty, and he wouldn't wish it on her, but f it was that way, she was the Drusilla he'd fallen for, he could still love her…

Drusilla caught the scene repeating in her William's thoughts. She lay there limply, obscured by Angelus, the bed screamed, and so did she, but her screams manifested on the inside, barely slipping through the dam as unshed tears. She could see her own pain, and she knew William saw it too, as she swam in his thoughts. He saw her pain. He was even beginning to ask questions she could never answer, or daddy would be cross. Daddy was already cross that she'd chosen a human poet for her own, maybe that's why tonight, to hurt both of them. Maybe this was punishment. He didn't understand it, why she chose William. William's mind was a starry night; his soul was a pure white birdie like hers was. She wondered if the birdies frolicked together, wherever they went now. "William?" she asked, barely raising her voice above a whisper, hating the weakness in her voice. What if her William was too much of a vampire to see her vulnerability as anything but pathetic?

William had written a line of poetry while Drusilla was gone: I gave my life for her lies, behind closed eyes, which he swiftly followed with: too naïve to realize. He sighed, continuing his writing, but finding no words. Then, Drusilla said his name, and he heard a note of fear in her voice. If it was… if Angelus was hurting her, he couldn't leave her in the hall. A rock and a hard place, her in the hall. "You can come in pet," he finally said. But I never could be her fall. He cursed himself for being just sappy enough to let her in. If there was even a chance that this wasn't what it looked like, he would jump at it, only to probably walk into an even bigger trap, and even more pain. Loving her was vaguely masochistic of him, it would seem. It was involuntary though. He saw her and suddenly, he loved her. It hadn't been a decision, or a choice, it had been a surge of something.

Drusilla carefully opened the door, sitting down on the edge of William's bed, leaving him at his best. Clearly, she was tainted, too tainted. Perhaps, William looked into the eyes of the stained glass saints, and saw something terrible, something not worthy of his love. She wouldn't blame him. She was tainted, broken. She hated it, but she was. The stars told her, even before she was broken that no one would ever love her. And William had defied them for a day, she'd felt it, but maybe a day was the only time he could hope for. Defying fate, if only for a day had already hurt him. She couldn't let it hurt him anymore, it was like screaming in her head though, trying not to care. She got up and stroked a bruise on his cheekbone, probably from his row with Angelus. "My white knight is hurt," she said softly, soothingly running a cool fingertip over the vaguely inflamed area.

William risked writing another like of poetry while her fingertip soothed his pain. I'm a white knight, but it's not right. Then he tried to rhyme something with right. Night perhaps? No, it was redundant, given that he'd already used knight, living like this, hiding from the light. That was better. He smiled at the line, fortunately, he had plenty of inspiration. It was far darker inspiration than he'd had in a long time. Not since his mum took ill, or the things he'd been mentally been writing as he'd left the party. Who would have thought? Drusilla was a double edged sword, either the best or worst part of her life, and he wasn't sure which. He'd given her his soul, and she'd just shagged another man, like it was nothing. Unless, of course, it was because she didn't belong to herself in his mind. Oh, this was giving him a headache. Who was the victim, himself, Drusilla, both of them? Did she want to hurt him, or was this outside her control?

She removed her finger, sitting down on the desk, looking at his book. "May I read?" she asked him. And he shook his head. She could tell he didn't trust her. Hadn't she told him not to trust her, two decades before this? How things changed. He'd told her that she couldn't be evil in that dream, but oh, was she ever. Evil and filthy, for claiming his soul and then letting her sire hurt her intimately. She sighed, putting a hand on his shoulder, trying to fight to be strong, but not finding any strength. She wanted to tell her William what she'd endured, and then he would forgive her, and all would be right in the world. Well, her sire would be alive and that meant that injustice would flourish, but she didn't care. She would have her William, and maybe he could take away the hurt. "Daddy, he's bad. He made the birdies leave and the scars scream until it stopped. And you made it stop," she kissed him lightly, on the bruised cheekbone, "no one has ever done that before," she added pensively.

William dropped his pen at her words. She'd practically answered his question right there. He teared up, not wanting to think about the implications of her sentence. She was a victim, and he'd almost left her in the hall to suffer alone. How could he not have seen it in her eyes, heard it in the metaphors she made? He got up, picking her up off the desk, and just holding her for a moment, not certain what to say or do. "I'll keep you safe, love," he promised her, something shining in his eyes as he said it, something honest. He meant it. Maybe, she was his destiny, and this had just been Angelus's attempt at changing fate. It had almost worked, but he wasn't going to let it work. He held her close, just trying to reassure her that he wouldn't leave.

Drusilla felt home here in the arms of her William, because he wasn't leaving. He didn't seem disgusted when he learned that she didn't even have control of her own body, that she couldn't even seem to stop her sire from taking as she wanted. She thought William would either be disgusted by the weakness, as a vampire or see her as tainted, as a man. Instead, he was berating himself for leaving her in the hall, for letting her suffer even a tiny bit more. In everything she'd lost, she'd never been kissed, and she'd always like the idea of having even some small vestige of innocence left, she looked at William for a long moment, and she realized that that meant there was still one thing she could give to the man she loved. Softly, slowly as though they would break if she went too fast, she pulled him in letting their lips gently meet. Kissing him made her feel alive again, particularly when one of his hands moved around her head, holding her there. Neither of them knew quite what they were doing, but they learned slowly together.

Her knight had saved princess from the dragon, and this is where they kiss. Eventually, they stopped, but she didn't leave. Her room was cold, and she wasn't safe there. Instead, she just lay there in his arms, deciding to sleep in his bed. William was amazed at the trust she'd bestowed on him, staying here, and the way her lips had danced with his. Yeah, it was a shock, seeing them, and another shock, learning that his dark goddess was a victim. He knew it was wrong for him to be able to love her still. Society certainly wouldn't approve. If a woman wasn't married and wasn't a virgin, there were two places she could go, the convents and the brothels, but William didn't want her to leave. It didn't matter to him, that Angelus had hurt her, taken things from her he'd had no right to take, William could still love her. He lay there, holding her sweetly until sleep found them, and then into the evening once she was awake. There was a minute difference between someone you loved, and someone who deceived you, and he was happy that she was finally on the right side of it in his mind.