When he hit the boy, William feared him.
When he kissed the boy, William bit back.
When he threw him on the bed, tore off his clothes, tied his hands to the bedpost, slit open his back with lashes upon lashes of his whip, William screamed, tears rolling down his eyes, until one day he cried no more.
William would gasp for him, breathe for him, forgetting that he was dead.
So the boy would plead, at first.
The boy would whine and part of Angelus didn't mind.
Even if he did beat him for it.
Children need attention, right?
William would sit there in his wheelchair, broken, defeated; prey. Angelus would hunger for him, push him over the bed, touch his useless limbs and grab the boy's cock hoping for some kind of flinch.
So he showed his love for his broken little boy, haunting the slayer to make her pay for destroying his property. Taking Drusilla to his bed and playing harp strings he'd wound around them both like a noose, ready to be pulled. Playing daddy, loving papa, tasting his children's fear.
Angelus still thought that, as William's crowbar hit him again and again.
Et tu Brutus…