To Take You In

by Jessica Walker

Rating: Usually R for language, occasionally NC-17 for slashy goodness.
Spoiler Warning: "The Initiative" for BtVS; after "Heroes" for Angel.
Couple Pairings: Spike and Angel-y goodness, with references to Spike/Dru, Spike/Harm, Angel/Darla and Angel/Buffy.
Disclaimer: Spike is MINE!!! (Oh, I wish. pant, pant, drool.) The plot is mine and nothing else, blah blah blah, Joss is God and the "Grrr, Arrrgghh" monster could kick my ass. Don't sue, I'm broke.
Feedback: "To coin a popular Sunnydale phrase, 'duh.'"
Dedication: Kita, oh, Kita, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways:
1) "I love reading S/A, but I'll never write it." "Yes, you will."
2) "I'm writing an S/A fic. It has no plot." "Yes, it does."
3) "This S/A fic will never see the light of day! It's hopeless!" "No, it isn't! Here, let me become your beta slut and help you every step of the way."
In other words... thank you, O SlashMaster, Co-Author, Co- Webmistress, Luscious BetaReader and Keeper of the Killer Chickens. I could never have done this without you.

'Home is the place where, when you have to go there,
They have to take you in.'
'I should have called it
Something you somehow haven't to deserve.'

Who is this specter before me?

Who is this frail, broken ghost on my doorstep?

He teeters in the doorway, paler than pale, hollow-eyed, unwilling or unable to meet my gaze. One hand shoots out and clutches the frame in a desperate attempt to steady himself.

He doesn't want to be here.

He doesn't want to be.

He wants to die.

I can see it. It's in his eyes. There's death there, and surrender. The Spike I know would never have appeared on my doorstep, no matter what kind of trouble he was in. *Never.*

I barely recognize him. The hyperactive child-vampire, all chatter and movement, long, languid limbs, bright eyes, chain-smoking, ever-ready laugh, is gone. In his place stands this new creature, silent, sullen, starving. He stares at me with empty, hate-filled eyes, daring me to invite him inside.

The last time I saw him, he chained me to a ceiling and had me brutally tortured over the span of several hours. He doesn't like me. I don't like him. We're mortal enemies, and with damn good reason too. He's been a walking liability since the moment I turned him. And I know perfectly well what Wesley and Cordelia will have to say about it when they get here in the morning.

I step away from the doorway and gesture towards the apartment. "Come inside."

What else am I supposed to do? He's my misbegotten, half- assed responsibility. He's my duty. My burden. My childe.

He pauses for a long moment. What does he think- the once he comes inside he won't ever be allowed to leave? Does entering my apartment somehow compromise everything he is, everything he's ever been? But of course, of course it does. He takes a single step over the threshold, pulling his duster close around his body, as if he is cold here in the relative warmth of the apartment.

"Take off your coat, Spike," I tell him. I can smell blood on him, and for once it's his own, not someone else's. I need to see if he's injured.

He ignores me, paces across the room, his step shaky and uncertain.

"Spike," I say, more gently this time, "I need you to take off your coat." I reach out towards him and he jerks away from my hand. The sudden movement seems to overwhelm him in his weakened state and he starts to sink to the floor. I manage to catch him before he falls and I lift him to his feet again.

I can feel the pointed bones of his ribs and shoulders through the layers of leather and cloth.

"How long has it been since you've fed?" I ask, half guiding, half carrying him to the couch.

My only answer is a careless shrug.

I don't like this. I don't like this new Spike. He's too quiet. He's not nearly obnoxious and annoying and insufferable enough for my comfort.

I reach for his duster again and he shrinks away. Hell, this isn't Spike. I'll tell you who this is. This is a mortal boy, a pickpocket and highwayman with a taste for violence, scarred with a lifetime of poverty and abuse. This is William the Bloody. The fearless criminal who didn't shrink from any fight but pulled away like a frightened child if you tried to touch him.

I changed him. Drusilla changed him. A century of life at the top of the food chain changed him. But life has a funny way of knocking you on your ass and depositing you right where you started.

"Spike," I say gently, "I need to see if you're hurt."

I tug at his arms and he relaxes slowly, as if forcing himself to acquiesce to me. I remove his duster and move to pull the tattered, filthy t-shirt over his head, but he draws away again, arms tightly wrapped around his chest.

"I'm not going to hurt you," I say patiently.

Finally, that voice. A hoarse whisper, hesitant, afraid. "It's cold."

"Of course you're cold. You're skin and bones." I can count his ribs through the thin material of his shirt. His skin is marred with cuts and bruises. They're not healing as quickly as they should be. "Why haven't you been eating?"

No response. He leans his head back against the couch in an attitude of exhaustion.

Fine. Okay. Fine. I'm gonna do what I usually do in situations like these... I'm not gonna stop and try to figure out what the fuck is going on, because... I don't know what the fuck is going on. I'm just going to fix the problem.

Well, part of the problem, anyway.

I resist the urge to keep one eye on him as I remove a Tupperware container of blood from the refrigerator, pour it into a mug, and put it in the microwave. No reason to keep one eye on him. He's not going to dissipate into dust if I turn my back.

His eyes stare at the wall, unseeing. There is a dark bruise decorating his cheekbone, a laceration cutting through his lip. His hands are trembling slightly. I can't bear to look at him like that; I turn away.

I start the microwave and turn to look at him again. He hasn't moved; maybe he's asleep. I turn to the phone and pick up the receiver, dialing Giles' number from memory.

"Hello?" That familiar, bumbling, refined English voice.

I don't even see Spike come up behind me. His hand darts out and he slams his palm against the phone's cradle, cutting off the connection abruptly. His eyes burn into mine, famished and furious and not quite sane.

We stare at each other for several moments in voiceless confrontation. I should call Giles. I should get to the bottom of this. I should find out what the hell happened to my Childe.

My prideful, arrogant, stubborn boy clearly does not consider this an option.

The microwave dings loudly, shattering the silence between us. He starts and stares at it in surprise, as if he'd forgotten it was there. He seems half-delirious with exhaustion and hunger.

I withdraw the mug from the microwave and hold it out to him silently. His nose twitches as the smell of blood hits his nostrils and he vamps out immediately, clutching the cup in trembling fingers and gulping the liquid as quickly as he can. I don't even have time to tell him to take it easy, slow down before he makes himself sick, because the cup is already empty. Then a nauseated expression crosses his face; one hand presses against his concave stomach, while the weakened fingers of the other hand are not strong enough to keep the mug from slipping from his grasp and shattering on the kitchen floor.

I manage to get my arms around his waist and hold him over the sink before he vomits.

When it is over he collapses, exhausted, against my shoulder. He's shaking so hard. His features are smooth now, human, the expression of a frightened child. But his eyes are older, tired, dead.

I carry him back to the couch, lay him down against the cushions, and wrap an afghan around his frail, trembling form. I go into gameface briefly, just long enough to unsheathe the razor-sharp fangs that slice through my wrist, and I offer my blood to his parched lips. His mouth fastens weakly around my wound, the sips hesitant. He hasn't been allowed to drink from me since the night he was turned. That's simply something that Angelus wouldn't allow. What's more, Angelus certainly wouldn't have wrapped his Childe up in blankets and hand-fed him like an infant.

Then again, William the Bloody would have been too arrogant and stiff-necked to turn to his Sire for help.

"Fuck off," he whispers when he has the strength to speak.

Same old Spike.

He sits up weakly and leans his head against one hand.

"You're tired," I say gently. "Come on."

I stand and hold my hand out to him, but he pulls away again. Unwilling to accept any help unless it's absolutely imperative. I kneel in front of him; he avoids my gaze.

"Stop it," I say, a bit impatiently.

He glances at me, quirks an eyebrow.

"You don't want to be here. I get that. You don't want to have to take handouts from me. That's fine. You don't need to get an attitude to make your point." He blinks, looks away, eyes and expression shattering.

"You're safe here," I say softly.

"Why are you doing this?" he whispers.

I shrug. "For the same reason you came here, I guess."

"Blood to blood," he murmurs, almost inaudibly.

"Come on," I repeat. He glances up at me; his eyes are filled with tears and this almost undoes me. "You need rest." I lead him into the bedroom. Yes, there's a perfectly serviceable couch on which one of us could sleep. No, Spike probably doesn't have any desire to share my bed. I don't care. I'm not leaving him alone tonight. He hovers nervously, eyes and feet never staying in one place for long.

I pull back the covers. "Sleep."

He glances at the bed hesitantly, as if he isn't altogether sure he's willing to sleep in the same zip code as I do, much less on the same piece of furniture.

"Where do I-"

"The bed," I say flatly.

He nods silently and draws off his ragged t-shirt.

I knew that he was injured and I knew that he'd lost weight but I was *not* prepared for the sight before me, the livid bruises, the pale, jutting ribs. He looks like several very large Someones got together and used him for a punching bag. He notes my horrified expression and smiles mirthlessly.

"That bad, huh?"

I chew on my lower lip, struggling to retain my composure. "You've looked better."

He shrugs carelessly, kicks off his boots. Ragged black jeans, the button missing, hang low on sharp-boned hips. Spike isn't one for undergarments; he never has been. I can almost see... I can almost see more than I probably should. I swallow nervously, turn away. I shouldn't be thinking about that sort of thing.

Because even if...

Even if he wasn't in a vulnerable position... even if it wouldn't be wrong of me to take advantage of his weakness, his desperation, his relative youth...

Even if I didn't know that he'd simply close his eyes and see someone else in my place, someone with dark curls and sea-storm eyes... even if I could admit to myself that these days I don't mind the idea of being second best...

Even if there wasn't the risk of me getting too close, getting too comfortable, losing my soul and reverting to that which he wants and fears, his greatest nightmare, his lost love, his Sire... hell, even if the mere prospect of getting laid wasn't enough to induce a state of perfect happiness...

Even so, it couldn't work. Too much has changed. It's been too long.

He smirks at me, hands on hips. "I haven't been here an hour and you're already brooding."

I sigh. "Go to bed."

He holds his hands up briefly, the gesture half defensive, half indifferent. "You're the boss."

I cringe. I was afraid of that.

I don't wanna be the boss.

He crawls under the covers and turns away from me.

Darkness descends.

Minutes crawl.

There is a stillness to vampires that humans cannot possibly understand. The absence of breath, of heartbeat, of the pulse of blood in veins. The sound of internal organs functioning, of lungs inflating, of years withering away. Humans are astoundingly noisy, busy creatures, full of breath and scent and fear and memory. There is a stillness to vampires that they cannot hope to attain.

He lays next to me, his gaunt form barely denting my bedsheets, turned away, facing the opposite wall. He's only inches away from me, so close that I could reach out with one hand and stroke his pale hair or run a careless finger down his spine. But I won't. I can't. There is a distance between us. There are miles here that I can't cross.

So he stares at the wall, and I stare at the back of his smooth, perfect neck, and we both pretend to sleep. And it's bullshit. It's such utter bullshit.

Because we both know that no one's sleeping.

Sixscore years ago he would have rolled over and looked at me, lashes fluttering, blue eyes gleaming in the darkness. Sixscore years ago we would have stayed up all night laughing or crying or fucking. Sixscore years ago neither one of us would have pretended to be fucking *asleep* just to avoid conversation.

But that was then, this is now; Honesty is dead and Nostalgia is on the critical list.

If I don't speak soon I won't speak all night. And if nothing is said tonight, than nothing will continue to be said tomorrow night, and the next night as well, stretching on and on ad infinitum into weeks and months and years of meaningless, stupid, terror-stricken silence, and we will continue to whisper, speak, and scream of nothing, again and again, until the end of time. And perhaps that would be fair, perhaps I don't have any right to expect any more than that from him, but goddamnit, I can't just lie here anymore, it's like suffocating.

I can feel something shatter in the air when I speak. The expectation. The pretense.

"Why are you here?"

A silence follows that lasts for centuries.

His movement is sudden and unforeseen. He is a jungle cat, a creature of deadly stillness and rapid speed. He sits up, pulls his ragged t-shirt over a painfully lean frame, and then draws on his boots. He is dressed, standing, and almost at the door before I realize what is happening.

"Spike-"

((Is this my punishment? I leave him, so now he gets to leave me? Is this your balance, my redemption? Is this your fucking idea of *fair*?))

"Will?"

He stops, runs one hand shakily through short, messy hair. His movements are awkward, unnatural. His body screams torments, choices, decisions of which his voice cannot speak. He glares at the door as if that will help him walk through it.

"I'm sorry," I whisper hoarsely. "I won't ask again."

He turns away from the door slowly, as if every muscle in his body is screaming at him to leave. He crosses the apartment, not looking at me, not even glancing towards the bed. Sitting on the couch, he curls himself up tightly, forehead against his knees. He will stay in that position, unmoving, nearly until dawn.

Thus ends the first day.

***

"You're insane," she says flatly.

"I know."

"This is a *bad* idea."

"I'm aware of that." I will remain calm and collected. I will make everyone happy. I can take care of my evil vampire roommate, please my long-suffering associates, and save the world from certain destruction.

I need a drink.

"Have you forgotten everything? Parent-Teacher Night? Yucky worm guy? The arm-in-a-box?"

I close my eyes. "I haven't forgotten."

"Then why-"

"Cordelia," Wesley interjects.

"I just don't-"

"Cordelia!" he says, more forcefully this time; a rare moment of autonomy from Wesley. "It's late and we're all extremely keyed up. Perhaps this would brook better discussion in the morning."

"Fine, whatever." With a gesture of dismissal, she grabs her bag and rushes from the office as if she's being chased by the Hounds of Hell.

He stands at the doorway and I wait for Wesley Wyndham- Pryce, the Rational Ex-Watcher, King of Controlled Circumstances, to jerk a knot in my ass.

He says nothing for a long moment, only watches me from his vantage point by the door, head slightly tipped to one side, as if he's trying to figure me out. Finally he speaks.

"He was the Favored Childe, wasn't he?"

I stare at my hand, which fiddles nervously with a nearby pencil. "He was."

"What did you do to him?"

I look up in surprise. "How do you know I-"

"Because I know you," he replies, interrupting me. "I know you'd only do something this stupid out of guilt."

My pencil-twirling reaches a point of agitation before I finally send it shattering against the desktop.

"Does it really matter what I did?" I snap.

But Wesley, knowing almost as much as I do how much it matters, simply raises his eyebrows.

"Will- Spike- was something of a... a Problem Childe," I begin slowly. "He couldn't be controlled by... well.. traditional measures. His human life had been unpleasant to the point where... let's just say that pain didn't deter him if he'd set his mind to do something. So, at length, I discovered the only way he could be controlled."

I turn my chair away and stare resolutely at the heavily curtained window.

"Drusilla."

Her name shatters in the still air. Her name sounds like sanity breaking.

"I used her against him. And I destroyed both of them in the process."

"Angel- the past in the past, and there are simply some things that can't be put right again. After so long-"

"I betrayed him once, Wesley," I snap angrily. "I'm not going to do it again."

"He's tried to kill you, Angel. More than once, I believe."

((all we need's the full moon tonight))

"Yes. I know."

((too bad angelus looks like you go the hard way))

"But it was for her."

((sorry baby gotta go hope that was enough))

"Always for her."

"That doesn't justify any-"

"Do you know what I did when I found out he loved her?" I cry, leaping to my feet. "I would... do things to her, Wesley, I would hurt her, and I would fuck her, and I made Will watch. I made him *watch.* And when that wasn't good enough anymore I... I made him do the same, only I watched instead... I made him hurt her, Wesley. He loved her and I made him hurt her, so what about that, does *that* justify it?"

"Be careful," he says. "Just... be careful, Angel."

I nod, rise from my chair, and leave my office.

We're already way past careful.

Descending the steps slowly and carefully into the apartment, I can see him without exciting his attention. He's curled up on the couch, staring at the TV; I do not think he hears my entrance over the blaring sound. Cocooned in his duster, skin pale, eyes hollow, he looks broken and small. Nothing like the vicious vampire I created or even, bleached and leather-clad though he may be, the fierce enemy I have come to blows with so many times in the last few years.

((you think you can come to *my* town and pull this crap? you never learn, spike))

Is Cordelia right? Should I tell him to leave on account of the risk he presents, the amount of harm he's caused me as of late? There are things he has done that I won't forget, I can't forget-

((nobody gets out! especially the girl!))

((look at you. shaking. terrified. alone. lost little lamb. i love it))

((you're not clear on the concept, pal. there is no instead. just first and second))

((painful, isn't it?))

((well, what's say i'll grab a pair of needle-nose pliers and give a hand?))

And yet: he certainly doesn't look very threatening right now. And there's been a lot of harm on both sides. And-

((you were my sire, man))

I've done a lot of terrible things in the last few centuries. Most of them, of course, can be chalked up to soullessness. If not exactly an adequate excuse, it's a trespass that some, at least, have been able to forgive, if not forget. But Spike is the only person on earth that fosters a passionate hatred for both Angel and Angelus. Because I was selfish enough to leave him with nothing and cruel enough to return, a hundred years later, to take all he held dear.

So yes, this is typical of me; this is Angel feeling guilty, Angel trying to atone. I am aware of what a caricature I have become in the eyes of those closest to me.

((you got a real addiction to the brooding part of life. anyone ever tell you that?))

But it's a very rare occasion when one is given a second chance with someone a second chance with someone they've wronged, a chance to try again, to truly make things right. And I don't think it's a chance I should let pass me by.

"You look like you're feeling better," I say, coming up behind him. My hand rests on the back of the couch, only inches away from his unnaturally white hair, and I pull it back self-consciously.

"Don't worry," he replies, eyes never leaving the screen. "I'll be gone by sunset."

"You shouldn't."

He puts down the remote, looks up at me, and takes an unneeded deep breath. I suspect that he's been planning the upcoming speech all day.

"I'm not staying, Angelus. There isn't any sodding point. I came here last night because- well, because there wasn't anywhere else. It doesn't *mean* anything."

He looks back at the TV and doesn't see me cringe.

"I'm not one of the good guys, all right? I'll never be your bloody sidekick."

"I know all that, I know. But- look, we don't exactly get along. We've fucked each other over more times than I can count." He grins as I sit across from him. "And I don't have any right to tell you what to do. Not anymore. But- you are my Childe. You were my-"

He groans. "Don't give me that Favored Childe bollocks, Angel." He changes the channel again and purses his lips in a familiar expression of annoyance. "We're too good at being mortal enemies for that."

"All right." I raise my hands defensively. "Fine. Look, I know it's stupid and outdated and doesn't really apply to our current situation-"

"-what with you being SoulBoy and all-"

"-but I still feel responsible for you-"

"I can take care of myself!"

"Like you did last night? Just because you can manage to stand on both feet today doesn't mean you're healed. You're in no shape to go out there, Spike. Whatever happened to you before, it's gonna happen again."

"It's happening now," he mutters cryptically, raising the mug and taking a sip. He doesn't even grimace. I don't get it. Spike *hates* reheated blood. When he was stuck in the wheelchair, he made Drusilla bring back live humans for him to snack on. I still can't figure out what the hell is going on with him. And I can't ask him and I can't ask anyone back in Sunnydale.

Shit.

"So you'll stay?" I ask, trying not to sound too eager.

He shrugs, takes another sip.

"There's one rule."

"No feet on the coffee table?"

"Besides that."

"Figures."

"Cordelia and Wesley-"

He rolls his eyes. "What about them?"

"Look, I know how you feel about humans in general-"

"-and those two in particular?"

"They mean a lot to me, Spike. Not just as employees."

"I'm not going to hurt your pet mortals," he says snidely.

"Look, Spike, you're not famous for keeping your promises-"

"Yeah, well, fuck you if you don't want to believe me," he retorts, changing the channel again. "Throw me out if it's such an issue."

That's what he wants, I think. For me to throw him out. Because William the Bloody isn't supposed to go looking for handouts. And Angelus isn't supposed to give them. And... my head is spinning.

"It's just that- well, Cordelia would try the patience of a saint. And you're no saint."

"We can't all be perfect little Angels, can we?"

I ignore the insult. "If you lay a hand on them, I'll kill you."

"Of course," he sighs. "You've already staked your Sire, what's to keep you from doing the same to your Childer?" He takes a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and taps one out. I briefly consider the pros and and cons of instituting a third rule- no smoking in the house- but I know how to pick my battles. Spike would rather be tossed out on the streets than go without his nicotine fix.

"Then again, you've already crossed that bridge, haven't you?"

"What are you talking about?"

He lights the cigarette and glances up at me, speaking out of the corner of his mouth. "What do you think I'm talking about, you stupid ponce? I'm taking about Penn." He sees the look on my face and chuckles. "What, you thought I wouldn't find out? You're a fucking legend in this town. Bloody Dark Avenger and all."

"I didn't kill Penn."

"No, you just held him down while some mortal cop did the dirty work. That's heroic." He takes a deep drag, expelling smoke into the still air.

"Why are you so concerned?"

He shrugs. "I'm not. No love lost between me and that insufferable Puritan wanker- you know that, Angelus."

"You would have done the same thing in an instant," I say defensively. "Probably quicker. You hated Penn."

He waves his cigarette at me. "Well, yeah. But so what? I didn't make him. I don't owe him anything."

I begin to see where this is going. "And what about you? What exactly do I owe you, Spike?"

"Not a damned thing, mate." He stands and goes into the kitchen, where he proceeds to raid my refrigerator. "Once upon a time... maybe. Even then, you're weren't all that dependable." I cringe inwardly at the subtle bitterness in his voice. He has so many perfectly good reasons to hate me.

"But, you see, once you got your little pet soul, all bets are off, y'know? You're just some wanker who continuously seems to get in my way." He unearths a six-pack of beer that Doyle had stored there, ages ago, and begins to work his way through it. "And that's why your "Sire-Childe responsibility" riff is bullshit, and you bloody well know it. Fuck all is what we owe one another, after this long. Only reason I'm here, Angelus, is because I knew that you wouldn't turn me away. And the only reason you're taking me in now is because you're the bloody Dark Avenger, helper of the hopeless, and your sodding conscience can't handle one more black mark against it. So spare me, okay?"

I hold up my hands defensively. "Fine, whatever."

He shrugs. "So, do they know yet?"

"Does who know what?" His whiplash changes in conversational topic have always had the power to throw me off.

He nods towards the upper level of the building. "Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Do they know that I'm here?"

"Yeah, they know."

"So, which one threatened to quit first?"

"Cordelia."

He chuckles, settling back down on the couch. "I guessed as much."

The phone rings suddenly, startling me; it is Wesley, on the office phone. There's been a vision, there's a crisis, and I am needed. Business as usual.

"I have to go," I say, a little helplessly.

He picks up the remote again. "Yeah."

Before I leave, I turn to him again. "Spike," I say, "is this going to work?"

He changes the channel, eyes never leaving the screen. "No," he says, "no, probably not."

***

Some days he's unbearable. Inconsiderate, obnoxious, loud, messy, rude. Some days I want to snap his neck and leave him out in the sunlight. Some days I wonder what the hell I was thinking to let him into my home in the first place.

Those are the rare, blessed days I pray for.

That's when he's William the Bloody, the unscrupulous mortal boy who met my adoration and obsession with careless sarcasm, never letting me get the upper hand. That's when he's my Will, the impertinent child-vampire who brought me so much joy and grief for decades. That's when he's Spike, the ruthless Master Vampire, Slayer of Slayers, Big Bad extraordinaire, who fought me in every way possible: with his fists when he could, with his mouth when he couldn't. That's when he's the Childe that I've grown to desire and adore and detest. And true, that's when I most want to drive a stake through his heart.

But I know how to handle that. I know how to match Spike's quips blow for blow and I know how to kick his ass when I have to.

I don't know how to react to the other Spike. The one who lives here now.

He wanders around the apartment like a ghost, refusing to meet my gaze. If there was anything that characterized the old Spike, it was the straightforwardness of his gaze, a tactic he has always used to fool potential victims. Spike would always look you right in the eyes. Just before he ripped them out of the sockets.

Now he shuffles from bedroom to kitchen, never acknowledging my presence. He tosses and turns in his sleep, gripped by nightmares we don't talk about. He still jumps if I try to touch him.

His feeding habits have changed most of all.

Back in the days of a mortal ruffian and pickpocket named William the Bloody, sometime in the winter of 1873, I bought Spike a meal. A real meal, a human one, at a restaurant far too expensive for the likes of him. Steak, if I remember correctly. Medium-rare. Baby carrots, new potatoes, asparagus stalks. And wine. Lots of it, a nicely aged burgundy. I admit to trying to wear down his defenses a little.

I'd had to buy him a decent suit of clothes and spent well over an hour combing the tangles out of his unruly brown hair in order to make him presentable, but it was worth it. Well worth it to see the look on his face when the waiter set that repast before him. The way his face lit up and his blue eyes widened. Hell, it was probably more food than he saw in a month.

He wasn't able to finish that enormous meal, but he tried his damnedest, stuffing himself until he was nearly sick. That was always the way he ate- like an autumn squirrel, preparing for lean times ahead.

That didn't change. Even as a vampire, strong, powerful, self-assured, Spike was never one to sit back and sip reflectively. Twenty-six years of mortal life, living hand to mouth, had left their indelible stamp upon him. He gulped, he guzzled, he devoured life in greedy swallows. He consumed every drop as if it might be his last.

He doesn't do that anymore.

I made the mistake of assuming that he would eat properly. Once the initial pangs of starvation pass, however, this proves not to be the case. If left to his own devices, Spike simply forgets to feed. The question of keeping himself alive, much as the question of getting off the couch or changing his clothes once in awhile, is met with supreme indifference.

I make him breakfast every morning and set it in front of him, on the coffee table that faces the couch where he has taken up permanent residence. He stares past me, his eyes never leaving the television, pointedly ignoring his morning meal. I go upstairs into the office. A few hours later, much to Cordelia's chagrin, I return to check on him. By then sometimes he has draped himself over the couch in a different position and the ashtray is usually overflowing. But the mug of blood, now chilly, remains untouched.

I reheat it and set it in front of him again.

My only response is usually a raised eyebrow and a stream of expelled smoke.

If he hasn't fed by afternoon, I say something. I threaten, I whine, I cajole. And then, usually, he'll pick up the cup and take a couple of halfhearted sips. If he hasn't finished it by sunset, I suggest crude and inventive methods of intravenous feeding. Sometimes this compels him to complete his meal. Hell, sometimes I even get a smirk and a sarcastic comment that likens me to an overbearing Jewish mother. But sometimes he simply stares through me as if I don't exist.

I can't figure out why he's here... I can't figure out why he stays when he clearly hates me so much. Hell, I can't tell who he hates more... me or Angelus... but does it matter? Spike has never been one to differentiate. Truth be told, neither have I. Back in Sunnydale the lines were always clearly drawn; Buffy always spoke of "then," of the things "he" had done to her. Here in L.A. it has been much the same: "you're not him," Cordelia tells me. Aren't I? Those boundaries aren't so firm. Not inside, here, where I am.

Spike has always known that. My guilt might change me, but I'm still the same demon. Hell, I'm the same man. Half the time he calls me "Angelus," as if the reminder is needed. Frankly, I'm not sure which side of my demeanor he loves- or hates- more... who it is he adores and resents enough to stay here, lingering, scowling. He misses his Sire; of that much I am sure. And I'm personally convinced that sometimes he thinks that if he just annoys me enough, I'll revert to true form. But at the same time, he never would have come to me in a state of need back then; he was too afraid of my disapproval. He would have run and hidden, concealing any and all weakness from Angelus' unforgiving gaze. And when I think of that, I start to wonder if it's *me* he wants. Angel. His sodding poof of a sire, the Dark Avenger, his own personal Scooby, formerly known as the Slayer's bitchboy. Someone to take care of him, the way he once took care of *her.*

He needs my help right now, and he'll tolerate my fathering, but he resents it like all hell. Because I wasn't there for him when I should have been. I wasn't there for him when he killed his first Slayer or survived his first century. I wasn't there for the endless days, locked in some house or crypt or factory with Drusilla and her hallucinations; I wasn't there for the endless nights, nursing her back to health from the life-threatening injuries she received in Prague.

And I wasn't there for him when she left him. No, I certainly wasn't there then.

And thus the weeks pass, and we tolerate each other's silent presence, and we continue to speak of nothing. Conversations are rare and physical contact is kept to a minimum; I'm not sure whose fault that is. He's jumpy under my hands, his injuries still healing, his mind bruised my trauma that I still don't know about. And as for me... but what am I supposed to do? It's been to long. Too long since the days of Sunnydale, the days of casual touching, easy affection. And here with Cordelia, sophisticated, aloof, and Wesley, reserved, still nursing his terror and awe of me, I'm not likely to get a lot of practice. I don't remember how to touch him; lately it feels like I don't remember how to be in the same room with another person, how to look them in the eyes. Some days I feel like I'm carved out of ice- if I touch him he might freeze or I might melt; I don't know which and I'm not willing to take the risk. Some days I feel like I've got razorblades underneath my skin and anything I touch can't help but bleed. And isn't that the way it's supposed to be? Bad things happen when I get close to others, and Spike can't afford any more badness right now. I don't have anything to give him anymore. Anything but my own guilt and pain. I'm not what he wants anymore; I'm what he needs, which is a good deal less enticing. What's that line from Ginsberg? "Teacher/ bring me to heaven/ or leave me alone." I haven't been bringing Spike to heaven lately. Not for a long time.

So we creep around each other in this small apartment, and we resent each other's shortcomings, and I take care of him as best I know how. Despite the pain it gives me to look at him. Despite the hatred in his voice and eyes when he spares me a word or a glance.

And I'll admit it's easy when he's in my bed, trembling from nightmares. Easy when he mopes around, refusing to eat, staring sightlessly into the television. Easy when he gets that look of death in his eyes.

But Spike's getting better. And those times are becoming few and far between.

And so every evening becomes an echo of the night before: two mugs of blood, remote control, beer and cigarettes, our seats on respective ends of the couch. And popcorn. Spike, for no apparent reason, eats a lot of popcorn. I don't like television and he doesn't like me commandeering half of "his" couch, but it's a compromise. It's the halfway point at which we meet every evening before turning in for the night.

He flips through the channels quickly, never satisfied with any one program for long. We see the flash of fake fangs and the pouring of stage blood, and he pauses briefly. We grasp at the straws that bring momentary cohesion: we cannot agree on politics, religion, music, or basic moral issues, but one thing we can agree on is how terrible vampire movies are.

I tip my head to one side in addled recognition. A brutal, short, blonde vampire and his taller, darker, more anxiety-driven companion. A childlike third, their porcelain doll. Apt.

He moves to change the channel, but I stop him, snatching the remote from his hand, characteristic of the boyish horseplay we display, the only relief for the constant tension between us. "Oi," he says, reaching for the remote, "give it back."

"Wait," I retort, holding it out of his grasp. I've seen this movie somewhere before. More than once, in fact... I can anticipate each overwrought line before it's said, but the memory is hazy, half-real. *Where* have I seen this movie before? In Hell, perhaps? It's entirely possible.

"I hate this movie," I say. "I mean, they're so..."

"Change it."

I look up in surprise. This is the sort of movie Spike enjoys: sex, violence, soap-opera dramatism. "What?"

"You heard me." He clenches his cigarette in tight fingers, his jaw set, his eyes narrowed, and suddenly I remember. I remember the factory, lit with obnoxious fluorescent lights, hung with steel and lace. I remember the appliances, the Playstation, VCR, stereo system, hell, even a cappuccino maker. Each machine had half a dozen remotes that she could never quite control. I remember the televisions, sixteen or seventeen of them, piled on top of furniture or suspended from the ceilings. A TV in every room; soap operas, shoot-em-up Westerns, Bogart films, children's programming. "Spike, I can't get it to work."

She didn't ask me for help. She never asked me. She knew better.

"Spike, I want to watch the vampire show."

A patient sigh, the squeak of wheels. Princess gets what Princess wants. I don't remember much from that time; my thoughts were half-mad, elsewhere, dreams of blood and bone and little blond Slayers. But I do remember the days, sunlight outside, nervous, pacing, caged. And I remember Drusilla watching *Interview with the Vampire* every fucking day.

An angry growl, my demon impatient after a century of imprisonment. "Dru, if I have to sit through that overblown piece of shit one more time-"

Languid, long, useless legs dangling from that hated contraption, the wheelchair where he spent most of that year. I found it, upon returning from Hell, still in my house, knocked over on its side, dented from the fight. "Leave her be, Angelus," he snapped, extending the remote and starting the video. "It's her favorite."

She sat on his lap in rapture, her eyes wide, laugh like shattered music. In the beginning. Before I abandoned my obsession with Buffy in favor of systematically ripping them to pieces.

What a pair they were. Mayhem and madness. Sid and Nancy, they were always Sid and Nancy. Their love stronger than Death. But Death was not half so determined as I was. And this is what he had and this is what I took away from him; this, like so much else, is all my fault. So, for the first time since my arrival, I find myself apologizing aloud for those unspoken transgressions.

"Spike, I'm so sorry, I didn't-"

"Goddamnit, Angel, don't apologize." He stabs the cigarette into the ashtray, more angered by my admission of guilt than by the sin itself, the brutally honest word that dares acknowledge what has just happened. "Just turn off the fucking film."

"Okay, fine," I say defensively, pressing the button. "Look, I didn't mean to upset you-"

"I know." His words are forgiving but I cannot ignore the anger in his voice.

"Well, I didn't!"

"Angel, will you SHUT THE FUCK UP?" he shouts, hurling the remote across the room.

From here on out things begin to change.

***

Where once I found meek, startled deference, weakness, vague sarcasm of wounded pride, post-traumatic stress, now I find anger and hatred and blood and a quarrel a century old. I blame that goddamn movie; it resurrected images and memories that both of us were hoping to avoid. It dared speak of Her. And She is a topic that neither one of us are ready to confront.

But I can see it in the hateful blue glare of his eyes, hear the angry edge in his voice. He cannot, will not forget. And in a thousand small ways he strives to show me that things are not right between us, they will never be right. Some days he won't speak. Some days he won't do anything but scream. He threw my desk through the window today, seemingly on a whim.

It made a terrific crash when it landed.

When it is over I survey the damage in its wake. Shattered glass and ripped curtains, sunlight streaming across the floor through the gaping hole in the wall. Broken mess of wood on concrete. Possible casualties on the sidewalk below.

I look up at him, across the office, over the rivulet of sunshine that separates us. He peers out the window with widened eyes and chews on his lower lip anxiously. He looks surprised and a little nervous.

I take a deep and, although biologically unneeded, completely necessary breath. Voice even. Manner stoic, calm.

"You're trying to pick a fight with me."

A careless shrug. Expected behavior. Spike playing Spike. "Well, yeah."

"Why? Why are you doing this? To get me worked up? To make me tell you to leave? So things can go back to normal between us?" My voice raises slightly in pitch and intensity. My control is rapidly slipping. I really liked that desk. "Can you just not handle us getting along?"

Pause. Silence. He looks up at me, his expression uncertain.

"It's not supposed to be this way," he whispers.

He turns away, begins to pace restlessly along his side of the stream of sunshine. His voice is soft and tremulous; he will not look at me. "You're supposed to lose your patience, beat me senseless, screw me into the mattress and make me come until I *scream.*" He runs his hands through his hair; they are trembling slightly. "That's how it's supposed to work."

I close my eyes. "And you want that back?"

He shrugs. "Well, at least then I know what to expect."

I turn away, pressing my fingers to my temples. How this is supposed to work. I remember how this is supposed to work.

I remember a spacious cottage just outside London. Few travelers dare stop there; none make it out alive. Quiet hallways and tightly curtained windows. He is chained to the ceiling, thin rivulets of blood running from ragged wrists and the sharp lacerations that decorate his chest and torso. He does not look at me when I enter, only stares at his tormentor with hatred and contempt.

In the halls of my memory she lowers the bloodied whip to her side for a moment, preternatural stamina tested by his stubbornness. Exertion has ruined her perfectly coifed hair, pale strands tumbling around her face.

"I don't like this one, Angelus," she says impatiently, turning when she hears me enter. "He won't even scream. Why won't he scream?"

((where'd you get the scar?))

((thrown into a table))

"He won't." I say this with so much certainty that she looks up in surprise.

"Everyone has a breaking point."

((bar fight?))

((hardly))

"He doesn't."

((I was six years old at the time))

I shrug; Darla was never one to be swayed by reason. Out of the corner of my eye I catch Drusilla, dark-haired, huge-eyed, bound and gagged. She is tied to a chair facing the action; house seats. She sits still, as a good girl should. She is Darla's plaything, her china doll.

"And her?"

Darla chuckles. "I thought she might like to watch. She seems to fancy the boy; I thought she would enjoy seeing him in a compromising position."

"Ah."

My Sire grins and raises the whip again.

"Leave him alone," I say sternly.

A direct rebellion, unheard of, insane. She raises an eyebrow in shock. "*Excuse* me?"

I pull a pocketknife from my trousers and sever the ropes constraining Drusilla. "These are my Childer. These are my *property.* *You* will leave them alone."

She pouts. "So you can use him any way you wish, but I-"

"There's no point," I say tiredly. "He can't be broken." I turn to Drusilla and smile wickedly. "Not that way, anyhow."

I blink once, clearing my mind, and look up at him. He still stands on the other side of a stream of sunshine that divides us like a battlefield. He crosses his arms and stares at me, daring me to remain silent, daring me to scream.

"Wesley," I call into the outer room, where my associates are cowering by the coffee machine.

He dutifully approaches my office, but lingers hesitantly by the doorway, every muscle in his body clearly screaming that he will throw himself into a pit of wild dogs before he enters a room with two angry vampires and a scattering of broken glass.

He clears his throat nervously. "Y-yes?"

"Please see about getting the window replaced."

"Yes, of c-course," he stammers.

"And a new desk would be nice, while you're at it."

"Right away." He darts from the doorway and hurriedly closes the door behind him.

When he is gone I turn away from Spike, slowly, deliberately. First I pull the torn curtains over the gaping hole in the wall, guarding us both from the fierce sunlight. Then I take a dustpan and broom from the closet and start calmly sweeping up broken glass.

He stares at me in amazement, eyes wide. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Cleaning." Voice tight, controlled. I don't trust myself to say anything else.

"Why?" he sputters.

I stand up, deposit broken glass in a nearby trashcan, and turn to face him. "Because there's a mess."

"So... that's it?"

Angelus would have thrown him out the window by now.

"Yes. That's it."

I know how this is supposed to work.

((he can't be broken... not that way, anyhow))

I will not let this go back to the way it's supposed to work.

In response he strides across the room and kicks the trashcan over, sending glass, crumpled paper, pencil shavings scattering across the floor. Then he grabs me by the collar and forces me up against the wall. I make no move to stop him. Am I amazed? Apathetic? No. Perhaps simply tired.

"Why the fuck are you doing this?" he storms. "Why the hell won't you throw me out? Because you're the bleedin' Dark Avenger and it's your job to take in every fucking stray that happens across your doorstep? Because you made me this way and now you have to fix it? Is this you being masochistic again, Angel?" He says the name derisively. Angel. His mortal enemy. The great sodding broody ensouled poof.

"You know perfectly well what it is," I say quietly.

He releases the front of my shirt, backs away two paces, and stares at me with utter hatred. "Don't."

"Don't what?" I respond confrontationally. "Don't feel bad for doing a lifetime's worth of harm to you? Don't feel guilt about things that you clearly hate me for? Don't make any attempt to make it right?"

He grimaces and actually claps his hands down over his ears. Denial. Desperation. The road of least resistance. Make-believe and pretty play-pretend. Drusilla taught him well.

"Shut up, shut up, shut up."

I approach him quickly, before he has a chance to pull away, and forcibly tear his hands from the side of his head, crushing them in my own, my eyes boring into his. "Spike, you've got to listen to me, you've got to understand-"

"Understand what?" he retorts, attempting futilely to twist out of my grasp. "That you create quarrels when none are meant? That you can't simply leave well enough alone?"

"That I'm SORRY!" I shout, taking him by the shoulders and shaking him hard. "For what I did to you, to her, to us!"

He pushes me away violently, shoving me against the wall again.

I continue to shout, shoving back, losing control, desperate to make him understand. "Is that what you want back, Spike? The days when I tied you to a chair and made you watch me fuck her until she bled? The days of screaming and bruises and betrayal? Don't pretend you want that back, Spike, I *know* you. You hated it for me then, and you hate me now."

"Maybe," he growls, "but at least I have the balls to stay and admit it. At least *I* didn't grow a conscience and sneak off in the night, leaving someone else to pick up the pieces."

"You expected me to stay? With the knowledge, the understanding of what I'd done to you? I couldn't even *look* at you, Spike, and I can't look at you without remembering now!"

"So don't look." A whisper, an accusation, a challenge.

I know what he's saying. He's telling me to leave again. Or to let him leave, which is really the same thing.

"I can't do that."

"So do the same thing you've been doing for a century, Angelus," he retorts. "Do nothing."

"How can you say that? Do you think I haven't tried-"

He laughs derisively. "Yeah, you've tried, right." He goes to stand by the window, peering through the curtains at the brightness outside. "What about the letter?"

"What letter?"

A mirthless chuckle. "The one you never sent, you stupid pillock! The letter, the telegram, the bleedin' passenger pigeon! The one that said "dear Will, dear Dru, sorry I haven't written. Darla's doing well, Budapest is lovely. I seem to have come down with a case of soulfulness, and so you'll never hear from me again. Have a nice eternity." What happened to that letter, Angelus, did it just get lost in the post?" He paces frenetically around the room. "Nothing, Angel, you've done *nothing.*" He looks up at me, hesitantly, eyes screaming of brutal honesty. "Did it ever occur to you to come back to us? To even bother to tell us where you were?"

His eyes blaze into mine, begging me to tell the truth.

((sometimes the truth is worse... you live long enough, you find that out))

A memory. Best forgotten. Quiet high-school halls. The tension of age-old battle. Two lovers, both with fair hair and sparkling eyes. One future, one past. One good, one evil. And here in the middle I stand, gamefaced, trembling with the pulse of Xander's pounding heart.

A game of make-believe. Pretending to be my own worse half.

Playacting for his benefit. Does he buy it?

A pain at my jaw, well-deserved. Sharp blue eyes, cold, angry. The stab of betrayal.

"You think you can fool me?"

I can lie to myself and I can lie to the world, but I've never been able to pull one over on my Favored Childe.

I turn away, running one hand nervously through my hair. "Spike, you must understand, I wanted to put it all behind me, forget about my old life-"

He bites down on his bottom lip, clenches his fists convulsively. "That means 'no,' doesn't it? It means you didn't miss us at all, you never even considered coming back, and didn't give us another thought for the next century." He glares at me, his stare infuriated, his jaw set. "It means 'no.'"

I don't answer, because I don't have to, because

((you think you can fool me?))

it won't do any good. And something in his eyes, something inside him, breaks into pieces as he stares at me in horror and disbelief.

"Fuck you!" he screams, snatching a few relatively priceless objects off the shelves and sending them shattering against the wall. "Fuck you! I hate you!"

I move towards him again- I don't know why- to stop his tantrum, to embrace him into calmness, to beat some sense into him, who cares? But being touched by me is clearly not an option, and he storms from the apartment, not to return for three days.

By that point I shouldn't expect him to come back. But I do. So when I awake one morning to find him in the kitchen, jabbing buttons on the microwave with one black-tipped finger, I am not even surprised.

"Good morning," I say.

"Yeah."

"How are you?"

"Stellar."

I take a deep breath. "Right." I start towards the stairs. "So, I'll be-"

"Yeah. Later." He pulls his bag of blood from the microwave and heads towards the couch.

"Yeah." I turn and climb the stairs into the office.

"Morning," Wesley says pleasantly.

I growl in return.

"Right," he says briskly. "And a good morning to you too."

"Sorry," I say, as apologetically as I can. "I'm just... a little on edge this morning."

"Anything you wish to discuss?" he asks, handing me a cup of coffee.

"It's never been this hard before," I sigh.

Wesley looks up at me over the rim of his coffee cup, his expression quizzical. "What hasn't?"

"Helping," I say, my tone just a little bit whiny. I sit behind the desk and attempt to comb through the unorganized pile of files that Cordelia has deposited there. "I mean, I came to Sunnydale four years ago, and I worked with Buffy and Giles, I fought evil, I helped people. Same thing out here. It was tough, at first. I wasn't used to being around- people- and not-"

"Snacking on them?" he quips.

I close my eyes briefly and remember my first months in Sunnydale. Humans, faceless behind that scent, that enticing pulse of racing hearts, warm bodies brimming with blood. That temptation. That constant struggle.

I open my eyes. "Well, that too."

"The thing is, I didn't always get along with the people I was working with, or helping. Like Xander..." I glance up at Wesley, who is already wearing an ironic little smile. "And yes, like you." I throw the files down, exasperated by Cordelia's interpretation of the phrase 'alphabetical order.' "But still... you know, Xander and I hated each other, for half a dozen perfectly good reasons. But if he was in danger..." I shrug. "I never thought twice about helping him. But Spike..."

"Is rude, insensitive, exasperating, and ungrateful," he replies, a bit sharply.

"Well, I was going to say a soulless killer."

He shrugs. "Well, yes, he's that, as well." He takes a sip of coffee and then looks up in surprise. "I thought you'd said he'd gone."

"He's back." I chuckle joylessly. "And you know what? I knew he would be. And I don't know why. No fucking clue." I knock back half the cup of coffee in one burning swallow. "We're currently defining the phrase "not getting along." Cordelia and her killer ghost had nothing on us. I mean, you saw what he did to my desk..."

"Go talk to him."

I look up in surprise. "What?"

"Go. Talk. To. Spike."

"But-"

"Have you even said a word to him since he got back?"

"Yes... well... yes... a word... maybe even two or three..." I say, stalling for time.

He points toward the elevator. "Go."

I hold my hands up defensively. "Fine."

((take care of her, Spike. The way she touched me just now? I can tell when she's not satisfied))

((i said SHUT UP!))

((or maybe you two just don't have the fire we had))

We're gonna talk.

((you know, i'm suddenly liking this plan))

((fortunately, nobody cares what you like, mate))

((Oh, yeah? Let's ask Dru))

I'm gonna talk to Spike.

((you're an idiot, spike))

((you think? because i'm not the one chained to the ceiling with hot pokers in my side))

Because Spike and I are *so* good at conversation.

I enter the apartment to find my closet door wide open, boxes pulled out of the way. My closet. Spike is going through my fucking closet.

I take a breath and try to remain calm.

He's been through a lot. And I want to make things right. And... who am I kidding? Spike is a jerk. I can chalk up a lot to traumatic experiences of both mortal and immortal life, but the fact remains that Spike has always *been* a jerk, and he's never going to be anything else, and I might have the complexion of a martyr but I certainly *don't* have the patience of a saint, and I cannot *believe* he has the balls to go through my closet at a time like this.

"Spike, I've asked you not to mess with my stuff."

"Your stuff, my arse." There is a growl of barely hidden anger in his tone. I come into full view of the small room and find him seated on the floor, crouched between shoes and underneath the curtain of hanging clothing. The heavy steamer trunk, which had been shoved out of sight along the back wall, lies open in the center of the floor, objects scattered around him. Velvet, lace, pressed flowers, leatherbound spellbooks, porcelain dolls. She's been gone so long now that she seems no more than a formless ghost, visible only in the objects she collected, existing nowhere outside our memories.

A mutter, a quiet enraged growl. "*Where* did you get these things?"

"That's all we managed to get out of the factory," I murmur, remembering how Drusilla, after wheeling Spike out to safety, had rushed back inside for Miss Edith. He had reached out and taken my wrist in a bone-crushing grip, his voice laden with a rage and authority that even I found unmistakable. "Go in there, you stupid bastard!" he shouted. "Go in there after her!"

And remembering that this was William the Bloody- the Slayer of Slayers- killer of the Anointed One, leader of the Master's men- knowing that, if his beloved was lost to the flames, broken spine be damned, I would greet the next sunrise- I ran inside.

I found her crouched over her steamer trunk, which held all her most prized possessions, hurriedly stuffing dolls and dresses inside. Taking her under one arm and the trunk under the other, I pulled both from the blaze, depositing a frightened and confused Drusilla at Spike's feet.

He reached out and gathered her into his arms, hands stroking the dark curls of her hair. "Spike," she murmured pitifully, settling into his lap, "all our pretty things are gone."

"Ssh, pet," he whispered reassuringly. "Ssh, I'll buy you new things."

He opens the envelope with shaking fingers. A letter of thin parchment, scented with jasmine

((night blooming))

tumbles out, followed by a handful of dried rose petals.

"Dearest Spike

It has been 100 yrs and still I love you muchly. I am your Princess and you are my Little Spike. Always and forever I love you & kiss you & hope to be yours every day for ever and ever my sweet.

With many many kisses

Your Kitten."

"January," he says softly. "Cold that year. Our anniversary, our centennial. Only a few weeks before-"

((angel))

((yeah baby I'm back))

I nod silently. His eyes begin to fill with tears. ""She loved me," he says defensively, as if he's trying to convince either me or himself. "She loved me. Things were good then. Before-"

((yeah baby I'm back))

I close my eyes briefly. "I know."

He gives me an incredulous look (well, I'm glad you do mate, it says, 'cause I'm sure as hell not buying it) before reaching out and tracing his fingers over the spidery handwriting. "She wasn't stupid, you know," he says reflectively. "She knew more than she let on. But writing was... difficult for her. She got confused, forgot what she'd been doing." A sad smile steals over his lips. "I sat outside the door and watched her write this. Took her nearly an hour, she started over six or eight times. She'd get all frustrated and start yelling at Miss Edith." He wipes his eyes clumsily with the sleeve of his duster. Standing, he paces out of the closet, wandering back and forth across the living room, eyes never leaving the page in his hand, never turning to face me. "It's not much, you know?" he chuckles. "It reads like a demented greeting card. But it took her nearly an hour." He bites down hard on his lower lip, struggling to keep his composure. "Then she plucked the petals off her favorite rose and put them in the envelope. She was so proud of herself! Sealed it up and came to the door with a big grin, like a child with a secret. She had no idea I'd been watching. She just wanted to give me a nice surprise." He buries his face in his hands and his shoulders begin to shake with silent sobs.

I stand here, helpless, stupid. If I try to touch him, he'll pull away. If I even acknowledge the fact that he's weeping, he'll dart from the room. And if I point out the fact that it's my fault, all of it, her absence, his grief, the fact that she was too fucked up to construct a simple sentence, he'll beat the shit out of me.

And I'll sit here and let him.

His lowers his head to his arms. "Leave," he whispers brokenly. "Just go."

Uncertain, confounded, I start towards the door. But where am I supposed to go? If I go upstairs Wesley will just send me down here again, and he'd be right to, because things can't continue this way, silent, painful. I can't win.

I walked away from him once.

((you were my sire... things change))

I will not do it again.

"We could... talk about it," I stammer nervously.

He raises his head and stares at me. I shift back and forth uneasily under his gaze. "*What?*" he says incredulously.

"We could... talk about it?" I repeat, even more uncertainly.

In response, he strides over to the trunk and pulls out one of her dolls. Taking it back into the kitchen, he dashes its head brutally against the tabletop.

"It's over."

The porcelain shards scatter across the floor, crunching beneath my feet.

It's never over.

"I'm sorry that he came back."

He rolls his eyes. "You're sorry *you* came back."

"Yeah."

He shrugs. "Forget it. It's not like you hadn't fucked up things long before then, anyway." He stuffs the letter back into the envelope and tosses it in the trunk.

"I know. The way I treated her... treated both of you..."

He looks up with a sharp glance. "That's *not* what I'm talking about."

((you were my sire))

((things change))

"Yeah, well, I'm sorry about that, too..."

"Oh, shut the fuck up." He whirls around angrily, grabs his duster, heads for the door.

"Spike, no, wait-" I say, clutching his arm.

He begins to laugh as he jerks back angrily, dear pestilent gods, the boy begins to *laugh* at me. "Let's what? Fucking chat some more? Let's share? Bloody therapy? Have you lost your mind fucking mind?" Tightly clipped lines, more growling than speech, behind hysterical giggles.

I swear to God this is the last time I ever listen to Wesley. What the hell was I doing, taking his advice on relationships? Is Spike right, have I gone insane? But he's staring me down with that familiar challenging glare and it's too late to back out now.

"So what do you want to do, mate? You want to bloody well talk about it? Remember it? Relive it? As if *this* time the ending will turn out differently. Well, fuck you, Angelus. You had your chance. You made your choice."

"I wasn't given a choice!"

"You always had a choice!" he shouts angrily. "Since eighteen hundred and ninety-fucking-bloody-eight, you have had a choice. You think we wouldn't have taken you back? Soul or no soul, brooding and all? But it wasn't enough. You had to choose between us and your guilt, congratulations, you chose, and you keep making that choice every day. So stop telling me you're sorry as if it does something, means something. It's nothing. I'm nothing. To you I'm nothing. I'm just another excuse to feel bad... *don't* look at me that way," he snaps as I start to protest. "I'm not. You can lie to the Slayer, Angelus, and you can lie to your pet humans, and you can lie to yourself, but you'd bloody well better not fucking lie to me."

((you think you can fool me?))

"I thought I was doing the right thing," I whisper helplessly. "After the things I had done to you... to her... I thought it was best if I left."

"You left?" he growls back. "That's news to me. When were you ever gone, Angelus? When was there ever a single fucking moment when your shadow wasn't hanging over our bed, your voice whispering in our ears? When was there ever a night she didn't scream your name while fucking me, whimper it when she was afraid or murmur it in her sleep? When did we ever get a moment's peace away from you? She wandered around the house for months, up and down the stairs, moaning and crying. Calling for you. "Angel, my Angel." Do you remember that house? You remember the high ceilings, the way it echoed? Even the slightest murmur reverberated. You used to call it the "Hall of Whispers." You remember?"

I remember.

"Can you imagine what it sounded like, after you'd gone? Her screaming? She wouldn't speak anymore, only scream or cry, and I- I didn't know what to say to her, what could I possibly say? Where there once had been Us, now there was only You. The air was thick with the sound of your name, choked with it, it took days for the echo to die down. "Angel... Angel..." It was all I could hear, all she would let me hear. It's all she's let me hear ever since. Is this what you wanted to talk about, Sire, is this what you wanted to hear? You didn't lose me, you fucking bastard, you threw me away and now I'm stuck here with your memory, your shadow, and I can't escape. Angelus is the beginning and the end, Angelus is the Blood and the Life, and home is the place where, when you have to go there, they bloody well have to take you in. God, I fucking hate you so much!"

"I know you-"

"Stop it! Jesus fucking Christ, stop it! Stop looking at me with big doe eyes, wearing your guilt like a sackcloth and ashes, feeling sorry as if it means something. Nothing's different; nothing's changed."

But he's wrong.

He's wrong and, for once, he is the clueless one here, and I am the one who laughs at him, and I begin to speak, and for once, he falls silent and listens. I choose my words carefully, and I do not reveal all- neither of us are ready for that- but I speak nonetheless, and although he cringes, winces, weeps silently, balls his hands into fists, and paces restlessly around the room, he lets me have my say.

I speak of his miserable human life, of his Becoming and tutelage. I speak of nights of blood and battery, of screaming and distress. I speak of a relationship that was birthed in violence but fed on domination and submission, the age-old rules of Sires and Childer. I speak of all the things that he dared not do, the words he dared not say, for fear of the price she had to pay for his misdeeds. I speak of my ensoulement, of my disappearance, and of the resentment that he carries with him from that day.

And finally, carefully, at great length, I speak of Sunnydale.

Of the Slayer that both of us, for our own vastly differing reasons, could not overcome.

Of the Father that he thought he wanted back... until he returned.

Of the fragile, crazed Princess who loved us both.

And he begins to realize, to understand. That things *have* changed. After a century of resentment, confusion, unspoken hate that erupted occasionally in violence- violence committed under the pretense of the age-old battle of good and evil, but violence for its own damnable sake nonetheless- all that has melted away into an uneasy camaraderie, an awkward truce. In the space of a few short weeks, everything has changed.

"Well?" I finally say, exhausted. "Does that change anything?"

He glances away, shifts uneasily, rubbing the palm of one hand on the back of his neck. "Yeah," he concedes. "Yeah, I guess it does."

I nod. We stand there for a few moments, tired enemies, uneasy allies, and there is an unspoken mutual agreement between us. An acceptance of new rules. A starting over.

"I have to go to work," I say, "but... you'll be here tonight?"

He nods.

"All right," I reply. "I'll see you then."

***

If there's one thing that I've learned that Cordelia says I would have found out a lot sooner if I watched more "Batman" episodes, it's that evil doesn't take weekends off. But today has been a rarity: a quiet day. A day we can spend together. Granted, there's not much we can agree on in the way of entertaining activities. So we sit quietly in the living room, and I read a book as Spike watches television. I watch in awe as, with a combination of vampiric speed and a skill borne of decades of remote-control usage, he flips through ten channels in half as many seconds.

"Angelus, why the *fuck* don't you have cable?"

"What would I do with cable?"

"Watch it, you ponce! Movie channel, Discovery Channel... MTV is the bloody bollocks."

"You could read, you know."

He rolls his eyes. "Oh, please."

I taught Spike to read in 1874, the year following his turning. Quick- witted and eager to please, it didn't take long for him to pick up the skill. And it isn't as if I haven't seen him pick up various reading materials over the years. He reads the newspaper religiously; he's had a subscription to *Rolling Stone* since the magazine's debut (his subscription is mysteriously renewed every year despite his refusal to pay the bill). The factory back in Sunnydale had a bookcase where one could find, crammed in next to Drusilla's spellbooks, various manuals on computer programming and web design, several comic books, a few issues of *Guitar World* and a biography of Johnny Rotten. I know for a fact that the only piece of real literature he ever attempted to read was *Othello,* and I don't believe he finished it.

"Since when do you hate reading?"

He cocks a scarred eyebrow and gives me an incredulous glance.

A heavy volume flies across the room in my memory, shattering an expensive Ming vase. His only punishment, for now, is a warning glare. He couldn't care less about my anger as he leans his dark- curled head on one hand.

"Goddamnit, Angelus, this doesn't make any *sense.* All the fucking letters look the same."

All right, so perhaps I'm exaggerating a bit. He never really *enjoyed* our tutorials.

In my mind's eye I rise patiently, gather the book from its place on the floor, and place it in front of him for the third time this hour. He sighs, chews on his lower lip, and hunches over the pages again.

"One more time. Sound out every letter."

He groans and mutters something offensive under his breath, but persists all the same.

"Hello? Angelus? You awake?" I open my eyes to face the now- blond vampire before me, his sarcastic voice shattering my memory.

"You never tried to get out of it. I made you read every day for nearly a year, and you bitched and moaned and threw things-"

He grins. "Hey, you remember that Ming vase you liked so much?"

"-but you never once tried to get out of it."

He shrugs uncomfortably. "Yeah, well."

"Well?"

He looks up at me, then quickly away. "You were always hunting with that wanker or off God-knows-where with that stupid chit... or... with Dru."

((sounds like your boy could use some pointers... she likes to be teased))

He stubs his cigarette out in a nearby ashtray. "It was the only time... that you... you know. It was the only time where it was just you and me."

"What?" I murmur, confused, surprised.

He gives me a look of utter annoyance. "You just don't *get* it, do you?" he snaps. He jumps off the couch, tossing the remote to the hardwood floor. Plastic shatters at our feet as he starts to leave the room.

I grab him by the sleeve. "Spike-"

"Don't touch me!" he shouts angrily, pulling away. "You have *no idea.* You'll never understand how I feel about you. You'll never understand how much it makes me hate myself."

Stunned, my hand falls, helpless, to my side.

"I didn't know..."

He chuckles mirthlessly, turns to face the wall, arms tightly wrapped around his chest. His voice is nearly inaudible; his shoulders tremble slightly.

"There's so much I never told you," he whispers. "The things I saw... the things I remember. The strength in your hands when you held me as I died... the look of pride on your face when you saw me kill for the first time. You remember falling asleep on the couch at the townhouse after our first meal together? My head rested in the hollow of your shoulder as if it belonged there, as if my body and yours had been built solely for that moment... like I'd been born to fall asleep in your arms. I felt full... sated... safe for the first time I could remember." He looks up at me with anger in his eyes. "But I don't tell you about those things, Angelus, because you don't deserve to hear them. Because you gave them up."

He strides out and goes into the bedroom, shutting the door loudly behind him. When I enter silently an hour later, he is already asleep.

-----------

I still get nightmares sometimes.

Not surprising, I suppose. I did, after all, spend half a millennium in Hell; what did I expect, pleasant memories? I've forgotten most of it. Fortunately. But when I dream, I remember.

I'm being crucified again.

They say that Hell is to live in despair of eternal salvation. They say that Hell is the utter and total absence of God. As with most things, They don't have the slightest idea what they're talking about. In Hell, God is alive and well and not in a very good mood.

So I'm being crucified again.

Darla stands at the foot of the cross, staring up at me with a smirk on her face. Flames play at the ends of her hair and the corners of her lips. She shakes her head in dismay.

"You never understood, did you?" she quips. "Darling boy. Darling, stupid boy."

"I tried," I gasp. "I got confused. I can't remember who I'm supposed to be."

((It's a son I wished for))

"What we have been informs what we will become," she says. There are gaping holes where her eyeballs should be. They'll grow back. They always do.

((and what a man you were))

"I was nothing," I reply weakly.

((God's gift all right))

She smiles. There are worms where her tongue should be. "Exactly."

I try to look away but I can't. It hurts... so badly. I don't understand, it didn't always hurt this way. There used to be something else. There used to be Someone who made it better. "Where is she?"

Darla nods in the direction of the next room. "She's in there. Where they keep the children."

I've heard about that room. They make them old there. It isn't fair. No one should ever have to feel this old.

She shakes her head censoriously. "You can't go in there."

"Will she be all right?" I ask. Stupid question. No one is ever all right here.

She shrugs. "She's get out alive. Brave little Slayer and all. You get to stay, though." Another hollow chuckle. "We're not quite done with you yet."

They drive a spike through my ankles, the final blow that effectively staples me to the cross. I don't know why it still hurts so much. It happens all the time. I've been crucified every day for centuries.

I can hear a racket in the next room. I blink in surprise. Humans don't fight back.

((everyone's who's not having fun here, come with me))

Oh, I think I'll stay. I'm so good at this.

"Tell her to wait for me," I whisper.

Darla crosses her arms and laughs derisively. "She loved you as I did, and you betrayed us both. No, Angelus. You're not worth waiting for."

I close my eyes, but her fiery visage torments me from behind closed lids. No words of comfort for me; I deserve this. Images dance around the periphery of my vision, voices echo in my ears. I can see his bright blue eyes, hurt, betrayed. I can hear Drusilla laughing. I can hear Jenny Calendar scream.

... and then someone slaps me across the face and calls me a stupid poof.

No, wait. That's not right.

"Angel! For fuck's sake, wake up, ya bleedin' ponce!"

I feel my shoulders being shaken roughly and my eyes snap open.

"About bloody time," he snarls.

Spike prides himself on keeping his sarcastic cool. Not many things make him break that facade. But right now he looks concerned, even alarmed. His bright blue eyes, usually hooded by long lashes, are wide and startled. All the borrowed blood has drained from his face, rendering him so pale that here in the shadows the planes and angles of his face look as if they were carved in ice. He chews on his lower lip nervously as I pull myself into a sitting position.

"Spike?" I mutter, confused. "What-"

"You were screaming," he says wrathfully.

"I was?" I murmur.

"Yeah," he retorts. "So cut it out. It's pissing me off."

"So that's the only reason you woke me up," I say wryly. "Because my screaming annoyed you."

He blinks once, purses his lips, and gives me his best "Are-you- challenging-my-Big-Bad-image?" glare. "Well, yeah," he says, and rolls over again, pulling the sheets close around his naked form.

I wish I could touch him like that.

***

And perhaps it is that inability that is driving me mad the next day, the distance between us that I still cannot breach. Perhaps I am tired and pissy from my night of broken sleep. Or perhaps it's his fault this time, the blood is too cold or the television is too staticy, or perhaps the anger and the fear and the god-awful sexual tension- because yes, it is there, lurking constantly, whether I am prepared to admit it or not- are simply getting to us. Perhaps we don't need a reason to bicker.

"I don't see why you always have to pick a fight with me," I shout as he smashes something breakable yet again. "I mean, today, of all days, we're working on a *very* difficult case right now-"

"Yeah, yeah, I know, proper little Bruce Wayne you are, up goes the Bat Signal and you're out the door-"

"My job is very important, Spike! We do a lot of good- but you, of all people, would not understand that-"

"Right. Fat lot of good it's doing. L.A.'s hardly runnin' out of demons, is it?"

"Well, I didn't say it was easy, but that's why I should be concentrating on my work and not down here yelling at you and watching you break my stuff! Jesus Christ, I hardly got any sleep last night as it is, and-"

"Yeah, well, it's not *my* fault you spent all night takin' it up the ass in the demon dimension, so don't bloody well yell at me."

My mouth falls agape. I didn't tell Spike what I dreamed about. I'm sure I didn't. And he has the audacity to-

"You don't know what I dream," I snap. "You don't know anything about me."

He gazes at me for a moment; I can see the anger melting away from him. And he chuckles.

"Don't I?" He shrugs languidly and lights a cigarette. "I know that you can't download a file or use a cellphone to save your life," he says. "I know that you jerk off in the shower every day and right now you want to fuck me so badly that you could scream." I look up at him in alarm and he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. He begins to count things off on his fingers. "You still miss the Slayer. You dream badly. You blame yourself for that Irish wanker's death." He nods towards the ceiling, the office above. "I know that you care about them... you'd die for them."

I don't think he realizes that I'd die for him.

He stands and strides into the kitchen, where he pours himself a shot of my very expensive Scotch. "I know you're lying when you say that you don't remember Hell," he says flatly, knocking the shot of liquor back in one fluid motion. "It pisses you off when I call you Angelus. On any given day you apologize for real or imagined transgressions at least six times. You scorch your fingers trying to touch the sunlight coming through the office window when you think no one's looking." He pours himself another shot and rolls the glass back and forth between his fingers, sightless eyes fixed on the opposite wall.

"I know that you were fucking her when I was trapped in that chair."

The air in the room seems very cold. He swallows his second shot and turns to face me.

"And I know that I spent a hundred bloody years campaigning for president of the We Hate Angelus Society, only to find that you had usurped the position." He laughs bitterly. "You're better at everything, aren't you? Even that."

"Don't say that."

"Why not? It's true. You're older, smarter, stronger than I am. You're better at being evil and better at being good." A sardonic chuckle. "And you sure as hell fuck a lot better than I do, according to Dru."

"Stop it," I growl under my breath. "That's enough."

He lifts his eyebrows in surprise. "What?"

"I *said* that's enough!" I repeat, more forcefully this time. "You tell me to get over it, you tell me to let it go, and I'll admit that I can't, but what about *you,* Spike, what about the way you throw it back in my face at every turn? Why can't *you* let it go?"

"Because it's all I've got!" he shouts furiously, tears glistening in his eyes. "Because she's moved on, the whole world's moved on, and so have you, you've got your nice little apartment and your worshipful pet humans and your Angel Investigations and your *fucking* sense of purpose and I've got nothing, do you hear me? Nothing!" He snatches a vase from a nearby shelf and dashes it violently against the wall.

I am afraid to breach the silence that follows, yet the question must be asked, as palpable in the air between us as her ghost.

"Where is she?"

He shrugs, wipes his tears away clumsily with his sleeve. "Who knows? I went back to her. Last spring. Did all sorts of terrible things to her... you would have been so proud of me." He chuckles mirthlessly. "Once upon a time, anyway. Oh, you should have seen me, Angelus! I was a perfect carbon copy of you. Every word, every gesture, every carefully applied stroke of the whip. And she was happy. For awhile. But it didn't last." Suddenly he rounds on me, irate again. "It's not fair!" he screams, angry tears spilling over his lashes. "I gave her everything she ever wanted and you destroyed everything she ever had! It doesn't make any *sense!* She was the world to me. The whole fucking world. But all she wanted was you... and *you* want nothing to do with the both of us! It isn't *fair!*"

"Is that what you think?" I cry incredulously. "That I want nothing to do with you? Why the hell do you think you're here, Spike? Because I can't turn away from you. Do you think this is easy for me? To look at you every day and see the hatred in your eyes and know that I can't do anything about it? To remember the way it was between us- in the beginning- do you remember, Spike?"

He nods. He remembers. The days when Drusilla was merely the subject of a schoolboy crush, a beautiful, broken oddity. The days before he fell hopelessly in love. And he and I then-

"Do you remember?"

The night I turned him, the night he died in my arms, heartbeat slowing to a stop as he collapsed against me. Nights of blood and wine and starlit skies. Nights of Sire and Childe. Nights of Us.

He looks up at me. "I remember."

He stands across from me and he is so beautiful. My nemesis. My burden. My Childe.

The only one who matters.

The only one who can make me as angry, as miserable, and, dear Gods, as aroused as I am right now.

The only one who knows me.

They see me now, the harmless vampire puppy, their Angel, and they love him, and they trust him, but every time I vamp out, every time my past comes up, every time I feed, I feel them draw away from me, because they don't want to remember Angelus, they don't want to admit that he ever existed and still exists now. As for Darla- my Sire, my Creator, the one who should have been as devoted to me as I am to him- I got my soul, she threw me out. End of story. And Drusilla- broken-minded, child- simply didn't understand the difference. She only knew how to adore.

But he- he is the only one who has always known me, always understood me, always loved and hated me with equal passion in any incarnation. He knows me. And here, now, with him, for the first time in a century, I don't have to pretend.

And I realize that this is inevitable, this is That Which Must Be, this is all that is. I realize it, now, in this moment. I realize that prophecies falter and civilizations crumble and promises break, but this is forever.

There is only us.

It is all that has ever really existed, no matter how much we try to claim otherwise. We have looked elsewhere, and we have been torn to pieces in the process. She is just a spectre; whether fair-haired or dark-curled, super- or sub-human, mortal or ancient; She has left him, as She has left me, She fucks soldiers and Chaos demons, She is fragile and will fail you. There are only the Two, Sire and Childe, the call of eternity, the passing of blood to blood, that which cannot be conquered, cannot die, and we cannot fail each other because there simply isn't anything else. And we can hate each other until the stars go black and the sun explodes but that won't change the fact that He and I are all that exists on this lonely mortal plane.

And I want to tell him this.

But he knows.

He knows this as he stares at me, leaning back languidly against my weapons cabinet, lithe body perfectly outlined in black. He tips his head back slightly; his eyes are locked on mine, and in spite of the words we've just spoken, in spite of the tension still in the air, he understands.

Prophecies falter, civilizations crumble, promises break, and this is quite probably the stupidest thing we could possibly do.

But he knows as I take two steps towards the center of the room without even realizing I'm doing it, and he straightens, and begins to move towards me. He knows that this is inevitable. That the world does not exist outside of this room. That love and hate and passion and death do not exist outside what is about to happen between us.

A few feet between us, and, then, a few inches.

He knows as he glances up at me, lashes casting dark shadows over his glowing blue eyes, hesitant, eager, his coyness only half-real. He knows, as I do, that this is probably a mistake. Unlike me, he doesn't care.

He raises his head, just slightly, and he is close, so close, as close as two can be without actually touching, without melding into one.

I start to say something, about what's happening or what this means. Hell, maybe I'm even about to tell him that I love him, that he is so beautiful here in the shadows, that if I can't touch him soon I'm going to go insane. Perhaps I'm about to tell him that this moment is the closest that I've ever been to that godforsaken perfect happiness in a long damn time.

It doesn't matter, because whatever I say, it's guaranteed to be stupid and awkward and completely inappropriate for the moment.

Which is why, in the split second before air can become breath and breath can become word, he stops my mouth with his own.

And I'd forgotten. I'd forgotten. I'd forgotten that it was... that it was this... oh... God.

And I'm not perfectly happy. I'm not perfectly happy as his lips press against mine, insistent, self-assured, as if they had been crafted for the express purpose of meeting mine in this ancient communion, claiming my mouth as if it were his God-given right. I'm not perfectly happy as his tongue, exquisite, skilled, slips past my teeth and begins to carress as if he were trying to memorize me from the inside out.

Even as he grinds his hips against me, assaults me with that beautiful body through layers of clothing, presses his crotch against mine, and purrs into my mouth, I'm too nervous, to anxious, too overwhelmed, and yes, too guilt-ridden for that. I adore him too much to ever be perfectly happy.

But I'll be damned if this isn't a perfectly acceptable substitute.

His hands slide down my body, over my chest, tracing the lines of my ribs and muscles, past my hips, lower, lower, ohhh...

And he hates me. I can taste it on him. But it doesn't matter anymore.

"Spike," I say uncertainly, "I-"

"Ssh," he whispers desperately. "Shut up, shut up, shut up."

I half-lead, half-carry him to the bedroom and deposit him on the bed like a fragile gift. He's wild-eyed, trembling, half-panting. I can't tell whether he's nervous, scared, or simply overwhelmed with desire

((he has every right to be scared every right you remember last time you had him in this position you remember the way you))

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.

But he tosses off his t-shirt in one fluid movement, reavealing lithe, long torso, and I don't care. I don't care about what a bastard I am. I don't care about what happened a hundred and twenty years past and I don't care about what happened ten minutes ago. There is only now. Now. Me inside him and him inside me and I want this, I need this, I

((deserve this?))

Dim shadows playing on his face as he stares at me through the darkness, eyes glowing, begging me to hurry, hurry, faster, faster. Boots with too many snaps and laces, my hands shaking so hard, button-fly resisting me as I pull and tug, exposing pale skin, smooth lines of hip and thigh, hardening length beneath my hand. He gasps at the light touch of my fingertips, at the cool sensation of my lips against his inner thigh. But I can't wait. I don't have the patience for foreplay. It's been so long, so long and he's shivering beneath me, perfect skin pleading to be touched, and I fasten my lips around him- -and then he's gone, smooth skin disappeared beneath my lips and fingertips, backed away in shock and confusion, staring at me in alarm, as if he suddenly remembers where he is, who he is. Because it isn't supposed to work this way, the Scourge of Europe never fell to his knees for any of his Childer. I'm supposed to fuck him until he can't walk and maybe if he's lucky he'll get off on it too. I'm not supposed to give a damn about his pleasure. And here is my reminder, if one were needed, that the past isn't dead, it isn't even past and I do not deserve this, I do *not* deserve this, but he does... please, my dear, my darling boy, my nemesis, the beautiful tragic fucking bane of my existence, please try to understand that Angelus and Will and Angel and Spike are dead, dead, wicked lovers, immortal enemies, whatever, please forget about them, they don't exist, they never existed, there is only you and I and the passion that fuses us together through decades of time and experience. Please, just give me this, this moment, I know I don't deserve it but I want it I need it because it makes me feel almost as if

((in you I become Liam again))

as if it were all over or as if it had never begun almost as if there were nothing to forgive and nothing to deserve... "William," I whisper hoarsely. "William, please."

He stares back at me, blue glare sharp in the darkness, and I watch the fear in his eyes melt into understanding and, finally, acceptance. He accepts this as he lies back again, chest hitching with unneeded breaths, hair and skin blending perfectly with the white sheets here in the dim light. He accepts me.

I fasten my mouth around him and he throws his head back, moaning. Oh, I've missed that sound. I start to move around him, slowly at first, gently, then faster. Deeper, deeper, I want to take all of him, swallow him whole until we both disappear. He feels so good, so cool and silky-smooth in my mouth and hands and this must be what redemption feels like-

((in you I become Liam again))

He murmurs something that may or may not be English but is nevertheless an encouragement to continue doing exactly what I'm doing right now.

And, in a display of autonomy that he never would have shown a hundred and twenty years ago, he digs his fingers into the mattress and begins to fuck my mouth.

He begins to fuck me *hard.*

He thrusts up against my lips, again and again, harder, harder, and it's almost choking and almost painful and I don't care. Because he's screaming now, breathless, throaty yells, and oh how I've missed that sound-

I wonder how long it's been for him; he pounds into my mouth so desperately that it seems it's been eons since he was last touched. A year, at least, since Drusilla left? A few months since the nameless girlfriend he left behind in Sunnydale, the one referred to only by a string of expletives and sarcastic comments. But she was just a child. She didn't know how to touch him. She didn't know him.

And I'm not stupid enough to honestly think that one blowjob is enough to make up for more than a century of hurt and hatred. But here, now, in this moment, I could almost believe it. I could almost believe that this is what redemption feels like.

His fingers clutch at the bedsheets and his hips buck wildly; a great shiver runs through his body and I know he's nearly there. He climaxes inside my mouth as he screams "Angel" in strangled tones.

And then there is stillness. Silence.

He stares blankly at the ceiling as I wrap my arms around his waist and press my face against his thigh. I think we have both begun to weep.

"Don't stop," he whispers hoarsely. "Don't, don't, don't."

So I don't. I can't. My lips move, of their own volition, across sharp hipbones, my teeth nipping gently at his flat stomach, tongue tracing the pale contours of his ribs. My fingers dig desperately into his sides. He is so beautiful. He is so beautiful lying here on my bed, sightless eyes fixed on the ceiling, trembling with need. Lips, tongue, teeth fasten around one nipple and he moans and I am grateful for fluttering lashes that hide empty eyes. Grateful for the breathless voice that whispers my name again and again. Grateful for the body beneath me that has been preserved for all time expressly for this purpose, this piece of living art, this frozen flower, this ancient, immutable child. And I want him, I want him so badly, I'm aching for him, every inch of me begging silently in desperate desire, but I wait for his assent. I don't have a right to take him without his permission. Not anymore.

It's so different this way. No longer my Childe. My equal, my nemesis, this pale-haired punk that takes me for his own pleasure without trepidation, without shame. It's like meeting him for the first time. It's like memorizing his body all over again. I wish I could maintain some small measure of control but those pale, slim- fingered hands begin their delicate dance all over my body, stroking, touching, pulling. I'm aching for him, heavy and hard. He places a light kiss against my hip and I can feel his eyelashes against my skin and my hips buck hard, ready to claim him. Please God I don't want perfect happiness anymore, I'd settle for remembering what it feels like to be touched... his hungry mouth claims mine again, tasting, impatient, quick tongue darting, taking all, leaving me nothing, claiming me entirely and leaving me shaking and helpless in his grasp. I'm gamefaced now, fangs gnashing at the empty air, desperate to be inside of him, and-

((in you I become Liam again))

"Now," he gasps. "Now, please, now."

I sit behind him on the bed, sheets pooled in his lap, my arms wrapped loosely around his waist. He leans back against my chest, moaning softly, and bends his head back, exposing that long, perfect, snow-white neck.

I don't take much.

Just enough to feel a shiver run through his body when my fangs pierce his skin, enough to make his back arch in pleasure and pain.

Just enough to trickle down his spine, a bright stripe against the pale expanse of flesh, and run between my fingertips, enough to make me slick and smooth, easing the passage as I enter him slowly. He takes me inside himself with a delighted moan. With one hand I hold him close, pulling him towards me again and again; with the other I take him into my grasp, stroking, pulling, feeling him become hard beneath my touch once more. Close to me, so close, and I can't quite remember where he lets off and I begin, inside each other, so deep and close and

"Ohhhh... Spike..."

He nuzzles his pale head against my neck and I clutch him to my chest, stroking him, faster, faster, and he begins to breathe in sharp little gasps. I'd forgotten how human he could be... Darla was the first vampire I ever had and I'll always remember the vampire she was in bed: perfect skin never flushed, cold blood in quiet veins, breath silent, as still as the grave. Her arousal was not something that could be perceived with the five senses; it was an unseen preternatural presence that threatened to tear you apart. But Spike was always human this way, mortal boy with a vampire's stamina, hands trembling, voice purring, chest heaving with unneeded breaths and sighs and screams, body creating a white-hot friction between us. And when he thrusts his hips against me and make me gasp in astonished pleasure again and again, I could almost swear I hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.

((in you I become))

I'd forgotten how good it felt to be inside him, this temple crafted for my pleasure, this body that knows the secrets of the ages, this Elysium, this place of forgetfulness and belonging. And I am helpless beneath him, a child in his hands, driven by desire, consumed by need. I need, yes, I need this. I've spent too long going without and I can't do it any longer. You can tell me that worse things have happened to better people and that it certainly won't kill me; you can tell me that perhaps no man is an island but that I, certainly, am no man, but I: I will tell you that there is no agony more excruciating than living out an immortal life trapped alone and untouched inside this prison of flesh. And I wish that I could be noble and I wish that I could simply go without and I wish that the idea of becoming my own worst nightmare and quite possibly destroying the world in the process was more important than the prospect of getting laid again but it isn't, it isn't. Because he has the bluest eyes and the most flexible torso and the most talented tongue and the most fuckable ass that I've had in two and a half centuries of sexual experience. So it doesn't matter, because his lips are at my neck, nipping gently, just breaking the skin, making my blood sing, my nerves alive with electric sensation. It does not matter that I do not deserve this I want this, I want it, his body clutched close to me and his legs entwined with mine. And there are a lot of things I want- sunshine and home and peace and a chance to rest and for him to look at me with clear blue eyes and tell me all is forgiven- but I know that I can't have those things.

But I can have this. I can have this forever, this rhthym, this ancient rite of Sire and Childe. So close your perfect blue eyes and think of her if you wish, my darling boy but at least give me this... I'm shaking, we're both shaking so hard. His hands leave trails of cold fire on my chest. And I would not give up this feeling for anything in the world, the feeling of Spike, my Spike, my boy, my Childe, wrapped so tightly around me... I was born to be here, inside him, and I can't imagine being anywhere else. This is my destiny and the world has ceased to spin, nothing exists but he and I, our bodies locked in this ancient communion... Oh, God, oh, God, I'd forgotten, I'd forgotten what it felt like, this union, this synthesis, the knowledge and the certainty that nothing else exists. He leans his head back against my chest and moans and I smell it, so familiar, that smell of him- William, leather and alcohol and nicotine, the smell of blood and memory and the passing of the years. He smells like hate and sex and death. I thrust into him again and he bends his head back, looking up at me, blue eyes glaring in the darkness, eyes of eternity, eyes of childhood, eyes of shattered innocence and pain and drink and starvation, of going without, William with his eyes of devotion and betrayal, William with his body of forever, William with his body of pleasure, William and his body of elsewhere, William with his body of taking without asking, William and his complete and utter lack of guilt or shame or consequences. And I could lose myself inside him and never be heard from again, fuck life, fuck destiny, fuck redemption, fuck Angel Investigations, fuck Cordelia and Wesley and the constant worry that I'll get them both killed, fuck Kate and the way she makes me hate myself for what I am, fuck Doyle's death and the merciless unjustice of life and death and karma, fuck Angelus, fuck the havoc he caused, fuck Jenny Calendar and her gruesome bloody death and the suspicion I find in Giles, the hatred I find in Xander, the fear I find in Willow, fuck Drusilla and Penn and the disservice I did them, fuck Darla and the disservice she did me, fuck the future, fuck the past, fuck Sunnydale, fuck Buffy, fuck her and her destiny, fuck her and her dreams, fuck her and her innocent eyes and hesitant hands and her storybook lover that I could never be, fuck the hope that I'll ever get a chance to see the sun again, fuck it all, let it go. There is only this inside him inside me and this is my redemption, this is pleasure, this is taking what I want, this is about me for a change, this is me not caring, this is me not brooding, this is me saying that I might lose my soul tonight, right now, and I. don't. care.

((in you I))

He screams my name when he comes and it is enough to send me right over the edge, enough to make me feel my soul tugging at its constraints for just a moment, enough to make me climax inside him, weeping in ecstasy, and collapse against his cool body, panting for unneeded breath.

When it is over I reach out for him, but he rolls away from me and takes his characteristic place on the edge of the bed, the spot where he spent his first night here. And I feel like we're back at square one: Spike staring at the wall, me staring at the back of his head, both of us voiceless in the darkness.

Finally, exhausted, I fall asleep.

I awake to find him gone. Staving off sudden panic, I climb the stairs. I find him in the office, standing before an open window, smoldering cigarette jutting from his lower lip. He is staring out over the lights of evening Los Angeles. He does not turn when he hears me approach.

"This changes nothing, you know," he says flatly.

I nod my assent, descend the stairs, and crawl beneath the covers.

This changes everything.

--------------------

I hear him try to leave.

He is silent, stealthy; almost as much so as I. But not quite. I do not hear him creep across the floor; he has learned the squeaky parts of the wooden flooring. But he doesn't leave the apartment often enough to plan around the creaky doorknob. I wake to find him silhouetted in the doorway, bag of meager possessions in one hand.

"Spike?" I ask, sitting up. "What's going on?"

He starts guiltily, looks up. "I- I'm- I was-"

"Leaving," I say tonelessly. "You were leaving."

He shoves his hands in his pockets, shifting back and forth from one foot to the other. "Yeah. Yeah, I am."

"Why?" My voice is flat, emotionless, so dead I barely recognize it as my own.

He shrugs. "Well, y'know, I'm... I'm better now. I'm stronger," he says anxiously, as if defending his manhood... or his pride.

"Yes," I concede.

"And I don't need you... babysitting me anymore."

"True enough."

"And you don't need me here. I'm just in the way."

There is a long pause and he picks up his bag, turning towards the door.

"I like having you in my way," I whisper.

He stops short, the dim light playing on his pale neck as he cranes his head and looks back at me.

"What?" he murmurs softly.

I lift my head and look up at him. "I said I like having you in my way."

He runs one hand through his hair nervously. "Angelus... I'm not..."

"You're not a brainless fledgling anymore. I know." I sigh. "You can take care of yourself. I mean... whatever trouble you got in... before... you managed to get yourself out of it. I worry about you- I can't pretend that I don't-" A small smile flits briefly across his face. "But you're right. You don't need a babysitter anymore. And I'm not going to make you stay." I glance away, unnerved. "I don't have that right."

Another endless pause. I can't look at him. Why the hell can't I look at him?

"But I'd like you to."

"Why?" he says flatly. It sounds like a challenge.

It's an excellent question, you know. Why? Why should he stay? Because, truth be told, I could come up with a hundred or more perfectly logical reasons why he should go.

I shrug. I'm not quite sure I can talk. I feel so strange. Like I'm about to cry. For no apparent fucking reason, I feel like I'm about to cry. Maybe it's the sight of him, sillouetted against that doorway. Maybe it's the knowledge gained, as of this evening, of what it feels like to be close to him again, only to see it slipping away under my grasp. Maybe it's the sudden realization that I could lose him again. I could lose him at any moment. And I very well might, just because my stupid, panicked, overwhelmed brain can't come up with a single practical reason why he should stay here with me.

But do I need one? What was it that Spike said to me once? "Love isn't brains, children, it's blood. Blood screaming inside you to work its will." Odd, that Spike should refer to me as a child- but he always understood love far better than I. Of course, he was speaking of he and Dru then, and of me and Buffy- no matter. What holds true above, so below, and there is no stronger tie in this world or the next than the bond between Sire and Childe. Blood screaming. I can feel my blood screaming inside me right now, begging not to let him go.

Finally I look up at him. He stands in the doorway, hands on his hips, eyes unforgiving. Daring me to give him a reason not to leave.

I speak, and my voice is hoarse. "I don't know why. Is that all right with you?"

He looks away, as disconcerted as I am, and blinks his eyes rapidly. "Yeah," he whispers. "Yeah, that's fine."

"Come to bed?" I ask.

"Yeah." He puts down the bag and peels off his duster, climbing into bed beside me. Instead of turning towards the wall, as he usually does, he rolls over to face me.

I reach out, hesitantly, and place one hand against his shoulder.

He doesn't pull away.

I run my hand down the length of his arm.

He doesn't budge.

My fingers reach up to trace the sharp lines of his cheekbone.

Dear sweet gods, he still hasn't pulled away from me.

I reach out, draw him to my chest, clutch him to me, and he nestles against my chest. He fits so well there. He always has. I can feel his cool, silent tears dropping against my skin. But he doesn't pull away.

And we fall asleep together.

***

"It was the Initiative."

He stands before me, mug of pig's blood clenched tightly in one fist, stance nervous. I put my book down, sensing a confession of sorts. Months have passed since his arrival and still not a word has been spoken of the circumstances that brought him here... but something has changed. Whether we are willing to admit it or not, something has changed.

"The who?"

"Soldier boys. In Sunnydale." He paces away, draining the mug and placing it dutifully in the sink. "GI-Joe types. You saw them?"

I nod, remembering my confrontation with Buffy's new boyfriend and his gun-toting pals.

"What happened?"

He cracks his knuckles nervously, shuffles his feet. "They captured me. Locked me up. Like a lab rat or a bleedin' circus freak. There were- experiments-"

I close my eyes briefly. No. Not this. Not to my boy.

"Don't worry, Angelus. I don't remember 'em. I think I was unconscious."

I let out a breath that I wasn't even aware I was holding.

"But they- well, when I woke up, I found out-"

"Yes?" I press gently.

"They- did something to me."

The air grows cold and still as I am overcome by a wave of memory.

(("What happened to you? Angelus, what happened?"))

That feeling. Invasion. Violation. Rape.

(("That gypsy girl you brought me - her people found out. They did something to me."))

The feeling of choices being stripped away.

(("They did something to me."))

The feeling of autonomy, of independence, of your right to make your own decisions suddenly winking out of existence and leaving you helpless and enslaved.

"What did they do?" I ask hoarsely.

He shrugs, eyes fastened to the floor, unable to meet my gaze. One fingertip traces random patterns on the polished surface of the desk.

"Put something in my head. A chip. It hurts when I try to bite, or fight-"

"Spike, you've been fighting with me for months-"

"Demons. I can hurt demons. For all the fucking good that does me." His voice is toneless, dead. "But I can't hit humans or, or-" Something in his expression shatters and he buries his head in his hands. "Angelus, I can't even *feed.*"

Suddenly everything makes sense, everything is clicking into place. All those little incidents that didn't seem quite right. His sudden taste for refrigerated blood. His general unease around humans, and the unforgiving violence with which he fights demons. The way he seemed to disappear into the shadows every time we faced the occasional human enemy.

My boy. My beautiful, ruthless boy. Unable to prevent his own starvation, unable to defend himself from his enemies. Unable to keep himself alive.

Part of me rejoices at this news. The logical part. The professional part. Angel, P.I., protector of the kind of hapless mortals that William the Bloody has terrorized for decades. And another part of me is glad, too, because as long as he's not posing a threat, then he and I don't have to play at mortal enemies anymore. As long as he's harmless, he can stay here with me. A bumbling pair of impotent former Vampire Masters. That's the part of me that, in spite of what's best for him or for me or for anyone else, cannot bear to let him go.

But the part of me that loves him knows that this isn't what I want for him. You'll never hear me admit it- not to Wesley, who is already suspicious of my demon, and not to Cordelia, who considers me a White Knight of selfless sacrifice and nothing but the best intentions- but I've felt this kind of violation before, and I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. I certainly cannot wish it on my darling boy.

Everyone assumes that it's easy, you know. Being souled. Going from being a powerful, deadly Vampire Master one day to an ineffective puppy the next. Because most humans, with their souls and consciences, would never consider doing the things that I did during my Reign of Terror. Add one soul, and suddenly all those desires, those violent tendencies, those voices inside that scream for blood and mayhem, are silenced. Right?

No.

I'm still a vampire. I'm still a demon. I still want to kill and torture and maim, and I fight that. I fight it every day.

I have my soul and I know it's wrong and that makes it easier. Easier to fight the urges. Easier to keep my self-control. I spend my days with my mortal friends and I drink my reheated O negative and most days I don't even think about biting humans. But it will never be easy.

But Spike...

Spike was violent and remorseless even as a human. His instinct to survive is the strongest I've ever seen. Spike doesn't care about what's right or wrong and he never will; his only concern is what will keep him alive. When life doesn't give him what he needs or wants, he takes it without a moment's compunction. He takes care of himself and he always wins. He does not suffer and he does not starve.

Until now.

Until now, when the demon that has kept him alive for the last century is captured, entrapped, howling and rattling against the bars of its cage, screaming to do that which comes naturally.

Until now, when his hunger, his drive, his instinct to survive is quelled by a mind-numbing pain and he is weaker than the humans that he once devoured and annihilated without mercy.

Until now, when, rendered unable to take care of himself, unable even to feed, he has been forced to show up at the doorstep of the one person that he hates the most. The one who betrayed him. The one who robbed him of his choices and his independence and his pride in the first place. Most vampires enjoy their vampirism and don't stop to regret their choice, but I understand what I gave up, and I, for one, resent Darla like all hell. Spike has no reason to look back on his mortal life with any sense of nostalgia, but the fact remains that when I drained him and turned him in that back alley a hundred and twenty-six years ago I

((did something to him))

took away his choice in the matter, and I continued to do so every day for the next twenty-five years. And now, when he has sworn to himself that it will never happen again, that he will never again be the victimized Childe, he is forced to turn to me for help.

No wonder he wanted to die.

He sinks to the couch next to me, trembling. I put my arm around his shoulders and he presses his fingertips to his temples, desperately staving off tears. "It's wrong, everything's wrong... you remember how it used to be? We used to hunt together. Everything you taught me... you must be so ashamed. I'm... I'm not a vampire anymore. I'm not sure what I am."

((guess what, precious? you're not one of them. are you?))

((no. but i'm not exactly one of you either))

"Come to bed," I whisper.

----------------

Two hours later he bolts upright in the bed with a strangled gasp.

I make a lot of noise in my sleep, apparently. According to Spike, who is the first person in a long time to be in the position to tell me one way or another. I moan and screech and whimper and giggle, whether my dreams are pleasant or horrid.

Spike isn't like that. He's as quiet in sleep as he is talkative during his waking hours, as silent as death. But he charts out his dreams in movement. When he is dreaming well he smiles in his sleep and nuzzles his bleached head against my neck, his chest rumbling with a deep-seated purr. When he dreams violently, of fighting demons or killing slayers, his fists punch and his feet kick wildly, his teeth gnashing as he unconsciously goes into gameface. Once he knocked the mattress clean off the bed.

But when he dreams badly...

When he dreams badly it is painful to watch.

He tosses and turns compulsively, the bedsheets twisting and tangling in his wiry limbs. He thrashes about, his jaw clenched. Finally he wakes with a soundless cry and sits up. I don't know what he dreams of; he won't tell. I know that his human lifetime provided him with an eternity's worth of bad memories; I know that his guilt from Drusilla's injuries in Prague haunts him still. I know that this Initiative, whatever it is, probably provided him with a wealth of unpleasant experiences.

And I know the anger and fear he carries from the tortures and torments I inflicted on him during my soulless days. Perhaps that's why I never ask him what he dreams; perhaps I am afraid he will turn those accusing eyes on me, and I can do nothing for his pain. My nights are spent saving hapless humanity to make up for Angelus' crimes. But my days are spent with Spike, and I cannot find redemption in his arms. He loves me, and he fucks me, but he does not forgive me. In a thousand words and glances he makes it clear that my regret accomplishes nothing. There is no atonement there.

How can I save Spike from his demons? I *am* Spike's demon.

But I still keep trying.

I roll over and look at him. "Spike?"

He lightly muscled arms are wrapped tightly around his chest, his torso gleaming whitely in the dark room. He's trembling all over, his blue eyes staring sightlessly into the darkness.

"Spike?" I whisper, my voice sounding hollow and uncertain to my own ears. He pulls his knees up and clutches them to his chest, his throat working nervously.

He never tells me what the dreams are about; I know better than to ask. We don't talk about it. Tomorrow we'll pretend this never even happened. But for now there is only the darkness, the tears that soak into my shoulder and scorch my cold skin, and our fear. The fear that grips him now. The same fear that overwhelms me when I stare into those terrified, sightless eyes.

"Sleep," I whisper.

Eventually, he does.

***

The next day he is bleary-eyed, difficult, testy, and common sense tells me to be patient with him. But common sense never got me anywhere as far as Spike is concerned. Soon we at each others throats- now metaphorically, now literally- and soon we are rolling around the apartment in a bizarre wrestling match and there is only *one* way this can end up.

When it is over we lay in silence on my bed, spent, exhausted, our clothes scattered haphazardly around the apartment. I am on the cusp of sleep when his voice cuts through the darkness, hesitant, quiet.

"Angel?"

"Hmm?"

"How come you only fuck me when we're fighting?"

I don't have an answer.

----------------

After that it becomes our routine. We fight, we fuck. Why? As with everything between us, there is no easy answer, but its basis comes, as usual, in my guilt.

Global atonement is easier than it seems. Most of my victims are, of course, dead. A few of them, like the Gypsy girl that doomed me, had devoted families who were willing to carry the torch for them, but by and large, human memory is brief and fallible. A few remain: I leave them to Sunnydale, with their painful memories and suspicious glances. Wesley fears Angelus but, truth be told, he has seen only shadows and glimpses of him. And Cordelia- there was never any question of forgiveness with Cordelia. She has utmost faith in the perfect duality of Angelus and Angel. I let her believe that.

Otherwise, it's been easy. Exchange one faceless humanity for another, these helped for those harmed, and hope that somehow, in the end, I can balance the cosmic scale. But for the first time, one of my victims has invaded my inner sanctum to tell me in word, in glance: I do not forgive you. Pretty words and perfect actions do not sway him: Spike will not forgive.

So is it so wrong, for me to seek his good will by fucking him until he begs for more?

Of course it is.

I am loathe to admit it; I was never one to take the easy way out. I know it doesn't work this way. It's cheap and it's dirty and it isn't real. But when I clasp him in my arms and he screams my name- not Angelus for once, not Sire, but *Angel*- it almost feels like forgiveness. Because it has nothing to do with *me* then, nothing to do with my own pleasure. I am so terrified of that elusive impossibility, "perfect happiness"- partly for the damage it would cause, partly for my own certainty that I deserve no such thing. And so sex, as does everything else, becomes a tool to assauge my guilt. And Spike, as does everything else, becomes a place to disappear.

But in doing this, I make a very great mistake. I forget one crucial factor.

My boy isn't stupid.

And so, after a day of argument and bickering and general bad will, I bend Spike backwards over my bed and prepare to give him the best blowjob he's ever had.

"No," he says, his tone whiny but unmistakably firm.

I look up in surprise, and he thrusts his lower lip out in an adorable pout. "It's *my* turn. Remember? You promised."

And I am so stubborn, so goddamned determined to make things right with him, so blind to any semblance of normalcy by this point, that the first words out of my mouth are: "You don't have to."

He shoves me back roughly. ""I don't *have* to? What the hell is that supposed to mean? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Nothing... I just..."

"Is this your fucking idea of redemption, Angel? Do you do this so the scales can come out tipped in your favor once in awhile?"

"Of course not." But of course, of course.

((You think you can fool me?))

"Isn't it? Because from where I'm sitting it would seem as you're using my orgasms as an antidote for your guilt." He paces away from me, eyes angry. "You do this every fucking time. Every time we fight you just want to fuck me until I scream and you won't let me touch you back. Do you honestly think I don't know what you're doing? My body is not a means by which for you to acheive your half-assed atonement, Angelus. I'm a way for you to feel better about yourself, a way for you to forget. What the hell are you afraid of, Angel? Perfect happiness? Lemme guess... 'I don't deserve it... I've got to bloody well *atone*'?"

"Do *you* think I do?" I challenge.

"No one deserves *anything,* Angelus! No one deserves to know what love and sex and perfect bleedin' happiness feel like. We're just a bunch of sad, hopeless wankers wandering across the surcface of the earth and you have to fight tooth and nail for everything you can get. So I haven't forgiven you! What fucking difference does it make? It doesn't change what you did then or what you are now. Do you think I fuck you because I've forgiven you? What does forgiveness have to do with anything?"

"If forgiveness doesn't matter to you, then why do you care if it matters to me?" I retort. "Just continue to fuck me meaninglessly as you always do and let me deal with it in my own way!"

"Is that what you think?" he exclaims, horrified. "It was never meaningless, Angel, but for fuck's sake, it wasn't supposed to mean *this!* This is *not* what I wanted!"

"Then what do you *want?*" I demand, flustered, angry.

"I want something *normal!*" he shouts. "I want whatever I lost when you took my life, whatever I lost when you took Drusilla, whaever it is you won't let us have now. To you it isn't real if it's not complex but you forget, Angel, that as with everything else, I *cannot* love with complication, I don't know how. You wanna look at me with big dark eyes and make me melt? You wanna handle me with kid gloves? You wanna hear me scream your name? Fine. But do it because you want to do it *now,* not because you should have done it *then.* It's not the *then* that needs taking care of, don't you understand? You can't do a goddamn thing about the *then.* But you *can* do something about the *now,* and you're doing an unbelievably good job of fucking it up!"

"Well, I'm *sorry!* I shout in reply. "That's the *last* thing I want to do, that's why I do it, Spike- in case you haven't noticed, I'm trying to make things right, I'm trying to keep them from getting even more fucked up than they already are-" I reach out and he jerks away from my grasp.

"I am not your fucking redemption!" he screams, shoving me away roughly. "I will *NOT* be your redemption!"

And I can feel everything that could have been shattering into pieces, I can feel the end of an ending as he snatches his duster and cigarettes in angry hands. And I know he means it, I know he means it this time because he cannot love with complication or act without impulse and he isn't even bothering to pack.

This isn't happening. This isn't happening. This isn't happening.

And there is a loud noise and a sharp pain, wood to bone, as I drop to my knees before him. No words; none would service my purpose even if I could quarry speech from this enormous lump of stone pressing down on my chest. Only a pair of upturned eyes, a simple humility that he cannot possibly misinterpret.

I am begging.

He stands over me, hands clenched tightly around the cigarette pack, jaw set, and he stares at me, his Sire, his Angelus, trembling, on my knees.

And for a long moment he does not move.

Finally he places the cigarettes on a table and walks towards me. He's got tears in his eyes but he's too angry to shed them. I'm so afraid.

"If I had begged you to stay that night," he asks, "would you have?"

I remember that night. Darla was standing at the doorway, suitcase in hand, impatient expression on her face.

((come with me my darling boy I'm sure you'll love Budapest))

He stood by the fireplace, a dark silhouette of trousers and waistcoat. Dark curls pulled back with a bit of ribbon, revealing the pale planes and angles of his face in the trembling firelight. He wouldn't face me, fingers curled tightly around the mantlepiece, blue eyes burning into the coals.

((no kiss for Daddy))

There was a pocket of empty air in the room, the missing Fourth of the motley crew. Her sobs echoed through the house.

((what, she won't even come down to say good-bye?))

"She's afraid," he said abruptly, kicking at the embers with one booted foot. "She's been seeing again."

"Angelus," Darla said testily.

((so lovely this time of year I'll bring you a gypsy girl of your very own))

"You shouldn't go," he said, finally lifting his head to look at me. "She says something's gonna happen."

"Stuff and nonsense," Darla snapped. "The train won't wait, Angelus. Not even for us."

((you shouldn't go))

((if I'd begged you to stay))

((would you have?))

"No," I say simply, lowering my eyes.

"So I'm better than you. Soul or none. I'm better at this."

I know what he means by "this." Love. Obsession. Devotion. The two of us, here in this room, the tension and the yearning and the despair. This.

"Yes. Yes, you always were."

"Souls don't make any difference," he says, almost conversationally. "Stupid things that they are, anyway." He crouches down to the floor before me and his face is level with mine and he cannot love with complication. I understand that now.

His fingertips cup my cheek gently. I'm shaking so hard. His voice is soft. His eyes bore into mine. "You're a pillock in every incarnation, Angelus, and no matter how evil either one of us gets, I'm still gonna come back to you. Do you believe me?"

My eyes fill with tears. "I believe you."

"There's three of us in your bed, mate," he says tiredly, settling on the floor. "You, me, and your guilt. I'm a selfish bastard, Angelus, and I'm not willing to share." His fingers trace over mine absentmindedly. "I can't do it anymore. You've gotta let it go."

"I promise," I whisper brokenly. "I promise."

"Good." He thumbs away a tear that trickles down my cheek.

"Is it that easy?"

"For you? Probably not. But you'll learn."

"You're sure?"

I hear him chuckle softly in the back of his throat. He traces the line of my jaw with a fingertip and draws my face close to his. Close. So close. I could die in those eyes. I can feel the whisper of breath as he speaks against my lips. "Do you think you've got the market cornered on regret? Come down off the cross, Angel. I can't fuck you up there."

I nod silently as he stands and helps me to my feet. "Now," he says firmly, "lie down."

I blink in surprise and my boy grins at me. "Lie. Down."

I lie prostrate on the bed and he gently tugs off my pants, stroking me to fullness with careful fingertips. I gasp. So this is what he wanted.

((it's *my* turn. remember? you promised))

And dear heavenly gods, if I'd known it was going to feel like *this* I might have gotten over my guilt complex a little sooner.

He traces the lines of my ribs with his tongue, moving slowly, painstakingly, agonizingly downwards, teeth nipping at the flesh of my stomach, lips fastening firmly on the curves of my hipbones and making me arch in delight, before finally moving between my legs. Hands clasped firmly around my buttocks, he draws me forward and takes me into my mouth. I can hear myself gasp in the silence of the room. His talented tongue moves up and down my hardened length and I draw a hissing breath between my teeth, one hand clenching tightly in the stiff locks of his platinum hair, the other wrapped around a bedpost that threatens to splinter underneath the pressure of my fingers. His throat takes me in my entirety, his nose pressed against my stomach, and I can feel myself being driven closer and closer to climax. The world spins dizzingly as he takes all of me, swallows, wraps his arms tight around my waist as my wildly bucking hips ride out the throes of orgasm. And for awhile afterwards, as we lie here in silence and darkness, he lays his head against my chest, and I wrap my arms around him.

I don't believe in perfect happiness anymore.

But I believe in Spike.

--------------------

Later, the words of our argument come back to haunt me. Because things might be better now, but I know that they are far from fixed, and I know that I'm still not what he wants or needs. Is that all it is to him? A quick fuck? Worse yet, is that all it is to me? Because I somehow instinctively know how meaningless this is to him, and I let it happen anyway, and I still don't care?

"Do you love me?" I whisper.

He looks at me incredulously. "Do I *what*?"

I swallow, gather my composure, and try again. "Do. You. Love. Me."

"Oh, shut up," he says derisively, and lights a cigarette.

I'm gonna take that as a yes.

------------------

When I awake he is upstairs again, on his now-familiar spot on the roof, staring out over the city sky, cigarette clenched in tight fingers. I come to stand beside him and wait for him to speak.

"What about you?" he murmurs.

"What?"

"Do you?"

He's not going to say the word. He's never said it to me before. As far as I know, the only one he's ever said it to in his entire lifetime is *her.* And that's all right. Perhaps that's as it should be.

"Of course. Of course I do. Didn't you know?"

He takes a deep breath, lets it out uneasily. "Well, I mean, you never said-"

No. That means 'no.'

"Well, I do."

"Did you always?"

"No. No, not like this. I was a selfish bastard... the soul changed that, not me... that's the difference between us. *You* know that, Spike."

"Yeah, I know." He expells a stream of smoke into the still air. "That's the only thing I was ever better at, y'know."

He's right.

I never killed a Slayer; truth be told, there simply weren't any convenient. To each generation there is only one, so chances of running into her are pretty slim. Like so many other things in the course of his education, I taught Spike about Slayers. The idea obsessed him; wouldn't it be a great notch to add to any vampire's belt? No coincidence that he turned up in Beijing in 1900, Paris in 1943, Sunnydale in 1997. I know why he did it, why he deliberately sought out so many Slayers, intent on destroying them. I might have been out of commission for over a century, but I'm still know far and wide as the Scourge of Europe. And unfortunately, however many Slayers he kills or Hellmouths he controls, no matter what he does to make a reputation for himself, he will always be known as the misbegotten brat of the Scourge of Europe, the final and favored of my Childer, the last protege before I became something that other vampires are ashamed to call their own.

And he will never have the heart of his beloved as I do. It pains me to say it, for Drusilla loved Spike, deeply and truly. In her childlike innocence, it never occured to her that she could not love us both. Doesn't every pretty girl have a daddy and a lover? So she went to both of our beds; incest means nothing to the undead. But to watch her best beloved raise a crowbar over the head of her darling daddy was more than she could bear. Like Ophelia, whose innocence and sanity were shattered by the death of her beloved father at her lover's hand, Drusilla broke into little pieces. I am not surprised that she left Spike. I am surprised she didn't kill him.

He's spent a century trying to prove to the world, to me, to himself that he's better than me, that he can escape from my shadow. And here, for a moment, he is victorious. Because he is the one in charge here, and I am helpless in his hands and beneath his gaze. Because as much as I adore him, I will never be strong enough, unselfish enough, fearless enough to love with half the devotion and fierceness that my Childe does. He is better than me.

That night we both sleep without dreaming.

-------------------

Perhaps I simply woke up this morning horny.

His fault, of course. I make him wash his clothes once a week, whether he wants to or not. On this rule I do not budge. And since Spike only owns one outfit, that means that once a week I get to watch him do the laundry naked.

He comes to stand by the bed, ever-present cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. "You want to fuck me, don't'cha?" he quips.

I raise my eyebrows slightly. "Not necessarily."

He chuckles. "Come off it, Angel. I can smell it from here."

I smile. "Maybe."

He shrugs, pulls back the covers, and hops into bed. Today he is playful, leaping under the touch of my fingertips, laughing with delight, and it makes me feel much the same. I can't remember seeing him smile this much since he first got here. He looks so much younger today. I feel so much younger.

"Hurry up," he moans, dropping the childlike pretense. "Fuck me already, you stupid ponce."

Happy to oblige.

His eyes are tightly screwed shut, fangs slicing through his lower lip, hands tightly balled into fists, hoarse voice screaming my name again and again with fierce abandon. And I love him, I love his smooth neck and pale skin, trim waist, graceful spine, tight ass; I love the way he feels against my cock and in my hands, I love the primal rhthym we create as I pound into him again and again, the white-heat of friction our bodies kindle between us. I love that familiar voice and the brutal manner with which he screams my name as I bring him to climax. I love the way he makes me feel alive.

It is not until we've finished that I realize that for the first time, we have made love without some fucked-up psychoemotional ulterior motive.

It's a nice feeling.

------------------------

Spike has never had a bit of patience for the afterglow. His languid muscles soon betray the fact that he has fallen fast asleep. I lie behind him, chest pressed against his smooth back. With one hand I trace the smooth lines of his shoulders, the nape of his neck, where pale skin meets pale hair. He moans in his sleep and bends his head back, nuzzling against the side of my neck.

"Love you," he murmurs sleepily.

And suddenly I am sure, for the first time, that everything is going to be all right.

---------------------

I awake to the sensation of his hands all over me, now on my hips, my ribcage, my shoulders. Spike would never indulge in such affectionate touching if I were still awake. I open one eye and he grins uneasily, realizing that he's been caught in the act. He settles beside me and fixes his gaze on my chest.

"I've been thinking about it. It's so strange, y'know?"

I raise one eyebrow, unsure to what he's referring.

"It makes you so... different," he muses, tracing one fingertip across my bare chest. "Where is it exactly, do you think?"

I suddenly realize what he's talking about. My soul.

"I wonder where it sits. Could you feel it? Could you feel it come and go?"

((killed? i... i don't... no, no, no))

((the pain is gone))

((buffy? what's going on? where are we? i don't remember))

"There was a sudden pain... then warmth... a chill when it left." I roll over, facing him. "What about you? Did you feel anything?"

"I was *dead,* you nonce," he says, settling back against the pillows. "I wasn't exactly paying attention at the time." He looks up and gives me a wry grin. "Besides, you remember me, Angelus. Not much changed."

The night I met Will, he raised his pistol and demanded my purse with self-assured authority. I refused and found myself the proud owner of a new bullethole in my chest. He didn't even blink when I struggled to my feet; he merely aimed the pistol in my direction again.

I laughed derisively. "Don't you understand, boy? That won't kill me."

"Probably not," he replied, almost conversationally. "Suspect it'll hurt quite a bit, though."

When I awoke the next morning, moments before sunrise, I found that my collarbones and kneecaps had been shattered by his devestating aim. My purse was gone.

I wince at the memory. "Hell, Spike, you were probably easier to get along with *after* I turned you."

He chuckles.

I briefly recall the fragile innocence that was Drusilla, the gentle deference that was Penn. I recall the horrific speed with which goodness transformed into deadly violence.

Then I think of Spike. My Will. William the Bloody. Ancient and unchanging. Brutal and beautiful in every incarnation. And when I lie here next to him now and recall the boy who surely would have swung from the hangman's noose before the year 1873 had drawn to a close, I cannot weep for any disservice I did him.

((how do you feel about immortality, boy?))

((sure. why the hell not?))

"You're the only one I don't regret," I say softly, staring at the ceiling. It pains me to say it. I remember the way he bent his fangs to my ex- lover's throat, stapled my hand to Drusilla's in an attempt to drain the life from my body, chained me to a ceiling and tortured me until I screamed. I think of the countless others who must have fallen to his brutal kiss over the years. I am ashamed to admit it. It makes my soul ache to admit it. But I cannot regret Spike.

He nuzzles his head against my chest. "Good," he says, a bit impatiently. "I wanna be the only thing in your lousy bleedin' existence that you don't regret."

I smile at him, tracing my fingertips over the back of his neck. "And what about you? Are you glad you came here?"

He shrugs. "Well, I mean, over slow and painful starvation, this certainly has its perks."

"But you could have ended up somewhere else..."

"Oh, please. Where? My minions? The fucking Slayer? Give me a break."

A phrase strikes my mind, echoes of poetry. Something he'd already said, once before, in anger. "Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in."

"I should have called it something you somehow haven't to deserve," he quips, quoting the next line.

I blink in surprise. "*You* know Robert Frost?"

An easy shrug. "Yeah. He's a wanker."

I smile in spite of myself. "Was he, now?"

"Uh-huh. All that bollocks about stones and trees and yellow woods. Bloody environmentalist." He glances up at me. "He was right about one thing, though, y'know. That you haven't to deserve."

"Really?"

"Yeah. It's like I said. We don't owe each other a goddamn thing. And what we have here... I don't have to deserve it... and neither do you... it's just how it *is,* y'know?"

Blood screaming.

We've been dukeing it out for over a century. We've given each other scars that we'll always bear. And perhaps the past will never truly be the past. But that's all right. Because we have this, we have each other, and we haven't to deserve it. And our blood will continue to scream for one another until the day we both dissipate into dust.

He gets up and pulls on his pants, goes into the kitchen. Soon I hear the familiar snap of pop-top can and flick of lighter. He appears in my doorway, shirtless, smirking, beer in one hand, cigarette in other.

"Angel?"

I look up. "Yeah, Spike?"

"I never thanked you."

I grin. "Are you going to?"

He shrugs carelessly. "Probably not."

~Finis

Better Buffy Fiction Archive Entry

To Take You In