Still Life, with birthday

forcing my inner smut writer out of the closet. Also to Donna and Jessica, for inventing the DOOUL-verse, and letting me splash around in it. I bow to your greatness, repeatedly!

For one thing, few vampires look back on their human lives with fondness. And why should they? Getting turned isn't an equal-opportunity fate; it's something that happens to the unprotected, the alone, the vulnerable. Society's castoffs, transformed into an army of bitter undead. To celebrate the beginning of a life the owner was only too glad to lose seems perverse, even by demon standards.

occasion is the Death Day--the anniversary of the day you were turned. This one I have mixed feelings about. On one hand, there's eternal damnation, and the guilt I feel over all the things I did before I was souled. On the other, there's enough that's good in my unlife--moments of joy, or at least contentment--that I can't quite bring myself to regret that I'm still here. So if Spike wants to throw me a Death Day party, I'm okay with it. And if that means for one night I appear to celebrate what I spend the rest of the year trying to atone for--well, I just try not to let the contradiction give me a headache.

non-issue for most of us because, let's face it, there are very few things in life that can maintain their interest in the face of immortality. You know--do something ten times, it's still fun. Repeat 150 more times, you might as well not even bother.

begin with. Because today is his birthday, and because, unlike most of us, Spike does consider this to be an occasion for celebration. Which means, by extension, that I do, too.

only real requirement for observing an occasion is that there are presents involved, preferably for him. In addition to birthdays, he's big on Death Days, Valentine's Day, Christmas, and an ever-expanding list of anniversaries, half of which I'm pretty sure are invented. Second anniversary of the first time we shagged on the roof, anyone?

Tonight is actually Phase Two of Spike's birthday celebration. Phase One was yesterday evening, when he disappeared off to the mall, returning home late and overloaded with bags full of, I assume, birthday gifts from me. Tonight is my attempt to show him a good time that I’m actually present for, beginning with dinner at a restaurant I know he likes.

One of us is ready to go. The other is in the living room with the TV on, busily arranging his enormous new collection of action figures into a kind of plastic orgy on our coffee table.

Angel walks in giving me his best put-upon Sire expression. The one that combines the sulky pout of martyrdom with the beady glare of "why in the hell did I turn you?" You wouldn't think those two would go together, but he makes it work. He's talented that way.

Anyway, there's no beer in his hands so I'm guessing this is my wakeup call. Which is fine--I'm almost done with my work here. Still, there's no point in giving in too easily. I smile up at him and ask him the question that's been bugging me for the last two minutes:

I shrug and give my attention back to the little plastic people in my hands. "Mishposish it is, then. Sorry, mate," I tell Wolverine, as I bend him into place. He's really too good for that Tomb Raider bint, but the store was all out of Batman, and there's no other bloke here I'd put him with. Especially not this wanker in the sombrero. Is it me, or does he look exactly like Slutty's watcher? It's kinda creepy.

he wants to talk to me about something, he can lay off the meaningful silences and get to the point. But what the hell, it's my birthday and the whole reason for this conversation is he wants to take me out and show me a good time, so just this once I'll humor him. "Yeah, Angel?"

Like it ever takes me more than five minutes to get dressed. Unlike Angel, who needs at least an hour on account of all those poofter personal grooming products he uses. Not that I blame him. If I was as ancient as he is I'd probably do the same. That, and live in fear of waking up one morning with bat-face.

be flat on my back by now. But my birthday must mean more to him than I thought, 'cause instead all I get is this: "Spike, you know he's not actually naked on the show."

sounds like 'Angel is an 18th-century geezer who doesn't know his arse from the moon landing.' He pretends he doesn't hear all that, but take my word, he does.

dressed. For instance, there's pouting; also eyelash-fluttering, also a slow stroke of the tongue across my lower lip. In a pinch, I can do all three. Add a long stare at Angel's crotch, and presto, nobody's leaving this room for at least the next two hours.

But still--as much as getting shagged senseless by my Sire is my idea of a well-spent evening, there's not just me to consider here. Angel wants to take me out and, well, I'm halfway interested to see what it is he's planning. It oughta be something good, since he won't tell me a damn thing. At least it can't be bloody *Riverdance* again.

startled when I stand up and put out my cigarette, and when I start toward the bedroom without further argument, you can practically hear him struggling to keep the smile off his face.

again--he learns all the ways of getting on my nerves, I learn to read his thoughts by the little clues he gives. Like the way his eyes flutter when he lies, or the way his lips curl up at the end when he's about to reach for me in bed. It's how I know when he's picturing me naked--which is surprisingly often--and more to the point, when he's pretending indifference that he doesn't really feel.

Which is fine--I don't have to hear him say it to know he's looking forward to tonight. He doesn't owe me any display of enthusiasm. If anything, I owe him one. Something to make up for the fact that I'm 250 years old, grouchy, and unable to relate to 90% of the things he loves, including most music, all popular culture, and the majority of modern appliances.

kind of surprise, where the reason it's a surprise is it's something he'd never agree to otherwise. I got him to *Riverdance* that way, and let's just say I know he's holding a grudge.

he'd never expect to get. And if I took the advice of my employees, he still wouldn't be getting it, because, well, they get a little hung up on things like public safety. But he's not their Childe. And it's his birthday.

down to dinner by 8:15. If by 10 we've managed to eat a nice meal without injuring anyone or setting the tablecloth on fire, I'll be giving Spike his present.

I massage the knots out of his great hulking back when the stress of bein' a brooding superhero threatens to turn him into the Petrified Man. I put up with his poofy romantic shit with a minimum of complaint. I make him laugh, which is no mean feat; also cry, and, if I'm lucky, occasionally beg.

Anyway, my point is, when it comes to getting along with Angel, you have to know what's important. He complains a lot, but when you cut through all the noise, what really matters to him is pretty simple: He wants quiet when he's trying to sleep; an apartment that's clean and not on fire; plenty of hot water when he comes home with chunks of demon in his hair; frequent shags; and, once in a while, to take me out somewhere nice without gettin' an aneurysm over what I've got on.

doesn't want me in my jeans and duster is a place I can do without going. And don't even get me started on the nancyboy outfits that Angel thinks I should wear instead. I have him on notice that the next time he wants me in a tux, he's bloody gonna have to tie me up and put it on me himself.

reasons; if my Sire wants my ass out of the jeans and into some foofy pair of trousers, eventually that is where my ass will be. The only real question is how much pain and suffering am I willing to go though beforehand. And even though ordinarily I say, bring on the pain and suffering--'cause what's the point of having free will if I just go ahead and do what Angel says all the time?--lately even *I'm* getting tired of this particular argument.

jeans--fine. Angel wants me to leave the duster at home--also fine. It's gettin' too hot for the duster anyway. Angel wants me to wear the suit he bought for me that's hanging in the closet right now, looking all pressed and poofy--fuck that. This birthday, I did what I shoulda done a long time ago. Which is took Angel's credit cards to the mall and got myself an outfit that *I* like for a change.

You'd think he actually needed to eat, the way he worries about being late to restaurants. Still, I don't want him coming in here to check on me before I'm ready to unveil the new kit, so I pick up the pace. I haul yesterday's purchases out from under the bed, tear open the bags, and step back to admire my handiwork.

Item number one: Trousers. Leather, comma, black. All smooth and supple, cut close like my jeans. They remind me of my duster, and Angel when he's in that dark evil mood of his. Not sayin' I like the mood, but I do like the gear that goes with it. And if leather trousers are good enough for Angel when he's bein' a rat bastard, I figure they've gotta be good enough for me just bein' my regular self.

Angel a fruity wanker about a million times over the pile of cashmere crap he has in his closet. And no, the irony isn't lost on me. But see--it just feels so fucking good. I tried it on and it was like when Angel and I are in bed and he's all wrapped around my body and our skins are touching and all my nerves are standing on end, only instead of Angel it's the goddamn sweater and I'm in the fitting room about having an orgasm. If that makes it poofy, I'll be a bloody poof, I don't care. If they made bedsheets outta the stuff you'd never see me vertical again.

leather trousers. Damn, but they feel good; it's like wearin' another skin. I slip on the sweater, and no shit, it gives me a total hard on. But I figure that'll settle down once I get used to it. If not...oh, well.

My Sire has a limited range of facial expressions, but he makes up for it by using most of them now. In quick succession we get: annoyance when he sees I'm not in the suit; confusion, as he takes in what I'm wearing; and then--I don't know what to call it. The furrows in his brow smooth out, his lips part slightly, he blinks a few times, looks down, then back up at me...

stairs. I'd be moving faster, but only part of my brain seems to be working. And I'm a little worried I may be hallucinating, because I don’t really see how that could be my Childe in those leather pants.

It's a little unnerving. Also incredibly sexy. He's standing there with his arms folded, watching me. I realize he's measuring my reaction, and I can tell by his evil smirk that he's pleased.

When I reach him, neither of us makes a move toward the door. Of their own accord, my hands find his hips, my fingers sliding over the unfamiliar leather. I lower my face to his neck and breathe deeply, taking in the smell of him. It's tobacco and alcohol, leather and blood, plus something that's uniquely *him,* that marks him for all time as my Childe.

I dimly recall we were on our way out, but at the moment I don't remember where. I love the feel of the leather under my palms, and I can feel a purr starting in my chest. Maybe we could just skip the plans and...

Cordy uncovers her eyes and gives me an exasperated look. "Hello? You're lucky I was here, because you were about to walk out without something *very important.* Something you *need.* Something you're not supposed to *forget.* Am I getting through to you here? 'Cause you still look a little confused."

about, and she's right, I was about to forget. Which I would've thought was impossible, but what can I say? That was before Spike showed up in leather pants and started interfering with my mental functions.

Cordy marches up to me, giving Spike a dirty look over my shoulder. "Here," she says, shoving an envelope into my hand. "Happy birthday to Spike, have a nice evening, blah-di-blah, goodbye." With her best fake smile she yanks open the door and stands there, waiting for us to leave.

"Gunn's got the car tonight," he tosses back over his shoulder as he flags down a cab. There's a screech of brakes as one pulls up. "Come on." He hauls open the door and shoves me in.

simply as a concerned citizen. He's weaving in and out of traffic, gunning it through red lights, and once, taking a corner, I think we may have cut across the sidewalk. All the while he's half-hanging out the window, screaming insults in Bulgarian at other drivers.

Why do I only *think* we cut across the sidewalk? Because I wasn't looking. Because Spike and I are flat on the back seat and I'm kissing him like my life depends on it. Which is ironic, because my life probably *actually* depends on getting the hell out of this cab.

hands in his hair, pressed down hard on the seat with his mouth open against mine, kissing me back, laughing and insistent. And I must be insane myself because I can't stop, not even with the cab driver right here and all of LA just outside the window. I want to touch him so badly; but he's cashmere above, leather below, and there's nowhere I can put my hands that doesn't make me more crazed than I am already. And the sounds of the cab driver screaming mingle with Spike's growling and the murmured endearments that leave my lips before I can stop them, and I'm beginning to forget why it is that I still have my clothes on, when suddenly there's a shriek of brakes, the cab stops dead, and Spike and

Instead, I see a valet. A pimply teenage kid peering through the passenger- side window, trying to figure out if there's someone in this cab he should be opening the door for. It's the restaurant. How'd we get here so fast?

supernatural fast way he composes himself--I mean, twenty seconds ago he was on top of me, half in game face and lookin' like he might just take me right there. Now--bam!-- he's paying the lunatic cab driver and shovin' me out the door like I'm the one causing all the trouble. Partly I'm laughing just because. Because my body is flooded with adrenaline and heat and lust and there's no release for it except these helpless spasms of laughter.

and strong, having him on top of me's like being safe and held prisoner at the same time. Then there's those big hands tangling in my hair, holdin' my head still while he kisses me, finding my shirt and mauling and stroking me like I'm some kinda big cat and he's--I don't know, some kinda cat-loving pervert; and all the while he's talking softly about how much he wants me, and damned if this isn't the most interesting start to a birthday that I can remember.

whiskey--I'm only on my first glass. Which I ordered three seconds after we sat down because, seriously, I think alcohol may be the only antidote to whatever's got me already feeling completely drunk.

menu. I don't know if I've ever seen him this pleased to be in a restaurant before. He glances up while I'm looking at him and gives me a little smirk, and I can't help but smile back.

He laughs and gives me a look that says "whatever, poofter." I don't care. I have half a glass of Ireland's finest coursing through my veins, and at least I'm beginning to get feeling back in my lips.

asks him whether his friend wants another drink, and Spike smiles and says yes, and the waiter laughs a little, and he goes off to do whatever waiters do, and I swear I have no idea what's happening to me because suddenly the only thing I can think about is how much I want to grab the waiter and tear his head off.

a darkening of the blue, a change in the sharpness of his focus on me. He blinks slowly...once, twice...then leans across the table; and when he speaks his voice is soft, like a curtain being drawn around us.

the whiskey kicks in, or the narcotic effect of the cab ride wears off, I don't know. All I can say is, when I look up again things are back to moving at normal speed, and by the time the waiter puts a plate of scallops in front of me I'm almost reconciled to not killing him.

*That* was interesting. I wonder if the waiter knows how close he came to gettin' his head ripped off. 'Cause no shit, that was as near to an Angelus moment as I've seen since the last time my Sire's soul took a vacation.

one-sided deal. What is it with some humans and their perverted attraction to vampires? Not that I'm one to talk; perverted attraction to a vampire's what got me here in the first place, but still. Humans interest me for fighting and feeding, period. And since I'm living with Angel I'm not supposed to do either, so the least they can do is sod off and quit lookin' at me like that.

But whatever; Angel seems to be recovered, so I'm not complaining. He's sittin' there nursing his third whiskey and looking reasonably normal, for him, while I work on dessert--berries in a kinda thick cream. He's still being unnaturally quiet, though. Usually during meals like this I have to listen to all kinds of commentary about my table manners, or at least some poofter romantic crap. Tonight there's none of that; the only communicating Angel's doing is strictly nonverbal. Which, as long as he's not brooding, is okay with me.

pulled 'round next to Angel's, and with my free hand I'm stroking his thigh--up the inside, down the outside, nice and slow, with just a bit of pressure. Once in a while I vary it and linger my hand on the inside stroke, squeezing lightly and brushing against the hard on he's had since the cab ride. *Then* he turns his eyes to me, and gives me a look that stops me in mid-swallow and sends a thrill from my scalp right down to the soles of my feet.

And Angel's got his big hand on the back of my neck, a gesture that's tender and possessive at the same time. It's the unspoken equivalent of him tellin' me I belong to him--which is usually right before I do something to remind him that he may be my Sire, but I can bring him to his knees just as well as he can bring me to mine.

And part of me's thinking I should be draggin' him outside right now for a quick shag in the bushes, 'cause what says "happy birthday to me" like a little public indecency? But the other part of me's not in a hurry, and just wants to enjoy this for a little longer--this meal where I actually recognize the food, and my Sire's fingers slipping gently under the neck of my shirt, even this restaurant, with its windows open to the terrace and the night air waftin' in, and...and...

For one thing, he's in an amazingly good mood, considering where we are. By any normal standard of Spike behavior, by now he should be demanding to be taken home, trying to lure me into the valet booth for a quickie, or at least threatening the waiter.

The Spike who's sitting next to me now is one I don't see very often outside our apartment. Calm, seemingly unconcerned at being surrounded by humans, and apparently more amused than offended by the strange looks I'm giving him. When he catches me staring he just smirks at me and licks another berry off his spoon.

When he goes to get matches from the bar, he doesn't seem to notice the eyes that follow him. He's oblivious to the wave of human lust that rolls toward him from certain corners of the room, that to me is the sensory equivalent of a car alarm going off. How can I blame anyone for staring at him? He's beautiful, my Childe--lithe and graceful, unselfconscious in his black leather and pale white skin, like some kind of punk angel. It's all I can do to sit still here, to not tear after him and tackle him into the coat closet. Which I'm sure he wouldn't mind, but I'd hate to get banned from a restaurant he actually likes.

this restaurant and these humans for my benefit, he's doing it with such grace that I'm reluctant to let it go. All the more because I know the minute I give him his present will be the last peaceful one I enjoy for a while.

he's just trying to maintain an appearance of decorum. I don't give a shit about decorum, so I stop for a second and kiss him, hard, until he groans and his hands find my waist and squeeze. Then it's back to the dragging, 'cause romance is nice and all, but enough's enough and I'm ready for somebody to be naked.

willing Sire behind me, the next he's slipped my grasp and he's over talking to the stupid valet. "Oi, wanker!" I call after him, "We don't need a damn valet to flag down a bloody cab for us, you know. They have 'em right here on the street and everything!"

with a vague plan of grabbing his ass and shoving his enormous bulk into the next cab I see. That's when he does the thing I *really* hate: He bloody pulls rank on me, the fucker. He turns to me and gives me this look, this "your-Sire- commands-you" look. And I can't help it, I obey. I stop and stand there like an idiot waiting for him to finish whatever stupid sodding business he has with the valet.

much I hate that look. 'Cause even if he is my Sire, what we're doing right now has nothing to do with bein' vampires, so why the fuck should it matter? But it does. Or at least, I don't get to choose when it does--that's his power. The least he could do is not use it for trivial shit like makin' me leave him alone while he talks to the goddamn valet.

And even though I'm pissed, I can't help admiring the sweet car he's brought: Mustang convertible, about a '66 by the look of it, red, and so shiny she's like new. And I start doing a little mental calculation: Time needed to hotwire the car, minus how long it would take for Angel to notice me doin' it, multiplied by the amount of shit I'd get from him if I actually stole it, divided by the number of hours of pleasure I'd have before Angel sent my ass packing. And I'm so engrossed in this little debate that I don't notice Angel's come back until he's right behind me, and then I ignore him 'cause I'm still annoyed.

explain why I should forgive him for treating me like a fledge on my goddamn one-hundred-and-fortieth birthday? I tear open the flap and slip my fingers inside. Keys. Keys? At first I don't understand. I turn to Angel to ask him what the hell, but he's smiling like a fool and then I get it:

driver. Reckless, yes. A habitual speeder who doesn't know the meaning of the term "turn signal," okay. Easily distracted, inattentive, and prone to sudden swerving...

because he loves the car. As evidenced by the look of pure joy on his face as we tear down the busy streets, flying past other cars and through red lights, the wind and the roar of the engine so loud we have to shout to be heard. When he glances over at me, his eyes glowing with excitement and his hair fluttering in the wind, he looks like a little kid. A little kid doing 60 on a major street in the middle of Saturday night traffic.

I'd forgotten how much I love seeing him just enjoy something. He keeps up a front of cool mockery toward so many things, but when it comes to what he loves his enthusiasm won't be contained. He laughs with pleasure as he takes a long, wide curve, grins as he floors it on the straightaway, shouts with delight as the gears shift smoothly under his hand. I'm grinning myself just from watching him, and not even the sense of mortal danger that comes from being his passenger can diminish my enjoyment.

And I'm suddenly overwhelmed by how much I want him. Not just in general, but now--to kiss that laughing mouth, to spread my fingers over those leather-covered thighs, to see those sparkling eyes fall shut in surrender. I lick my lips and I swear I can taste his blood. The sensation is so real it makes me dizzy, and I have to close my eyes to stop from slipping into gameface.

seat, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lightly on his leg. I promised myself that for his birthday I'd let him do what he wants, to drive all night if that's what he feels like, and I meant it, I still mean it, but-

because half the people seem to be in costume--baggy pants, tunic shirts, sandals, the kind of stuff farmers used to wear when I was young. A girl runs by with yards of tiedye swirling around her ankles and what seems to be a live weasel draped around her neck, so I suppose it could also be a circus.

Slutty, now that I think about it. I'm about to ask Angel his opinion when someone holds up a sign tellin' us it's some bint called Britney something. And I have to say, whoever Britney is, she's got me impressed--I don’t think I ever drew a mob this big, even during my years as the Right Hand Childe of the Scourge of Europe.

when the chippie on the stick starts burning there's a sort of ugly rumble through the crowd. Someone pokes a sign into the flames and pulls it out on fire, and pretty soon there are flaming signs all over the place. And I'm standin' on my seat to get a better view, 'cause if there's one thing I love it's a good riot, and this one has all the hallmarks of somethin' that's about to go bad fast.

The crowd's chanting, but I can't make out what they're saying over all the other noise. Something about American global cultural genocide or some such bollocks. The important thing is, there are riot police starting to move in on the far side of the crowd. From where I'm standing I can just make out the tops of their shields over the heads of the hippies and the forest of burning sticks. In about half a minute those cops are going to start movin' in, and all hell's gonna break loose.

'cause how can I pass up a chance at this kind of mayhem? It's not like I started it, right? Besides, I've been meaning to get some police tape to tie up Angel with, and there's sure to be a lot of that around when the smoke clears.

I don't have long to decide, though, because Angel's standing up now too, and I know he sees the riot police just like I do. And don’t think he's not reading my mind, either. He knows me too well not to know I'm about five seconds away from diving into the middle of the melee. Which is exactly what this crowd has turned into, because the riot police just started moving. And there are bottles flying, and flamin' sticks gettin' brought down on people's heads, and screaming, and the whole mob is gettin' pushed back toward us, and old Britney goes down in a huge shower of sparks. It's the best bloody hippie riot I've ever seen.

with a look of horror. And yeah, I could jump in now and he'd be fine--he'd take himself home, and tomorrow he'd swab the blood off my wounds and never say a word about it, 'cause it's my birthday and he thinks he has to let me do what I want. And I suppose he does, at that.

'relaxed.' Because I know him, I'm going to go with 'thoughtful.' If I could bring myself to use the word, I might even suggest 'brooding.' Every so often he looks over at me, a quick sideways glance. Like he's taking the measure of something. Thinking.

And when we get home, I'm not surprised by how fast he's out of the car and inside. Or how he strides across the lobby ahead of me, stripping off his shirt as he goes, and at the foot of the stairs stops and turns to watch me. And when I reach him, and he grabs me and pins me against the pillar, catching my face in his hands and my mouth with his mouth, I know that bruising, angry, insistent, searching kiss.

When I walk into the ballroom, Angel's at the window. Standing there with his back to me, looking out at the city, all dark and bright lights spreading out in all directions, like spokes in a giant bloody wheel. He doesn't move when I enter, doesn't turn around. But he knows I'm here. He always knows. He's just waiting, perfectly still, to see what I'll do.

Sire--he's one handsome broody bastard. For someone whose main exercise consists of shagging and complaining, not necessarily in that order, he has a helluva nice body--all broad planes and muscular curves, strong and tight and graceful. Ordinarily by now I'd already be across the room, tearing his clothes off or getting mine torn off or some combination of both. But not tonight--at least, not yet. Later, maybe.

presents, and I don't deny it--I do like presents. Here's something else I like: this room. It's quiet in here, no humans, no noise, not even sounds from the street. And there's him, standin' there so bloody still, like only a vampire can be still. And even though he knows I'm here, for now he'll pretend. He'll let me walk toward him across that thick carpet, all slow and stealthy, and he won't turn his head. Because he doesn't know what my birthday means to me, but he knows I want something. He's just waiting for me to show him what it is.

how it was. He was my Sire, and everything I learned, all joy and all suffering was at his hands, and in his bed. But I'm not a fledge anymore, and he knows it. We play the parts still, because they feel right, and give us comfort. But it's rare he wields power I don't give him.

And I know sometimes he regrets it, the end of the way it was. Even though he feels guilty for the things he did, and he'd go back to hell before he'd ever be that demon again, there are still things he misses. Like feeling in control of his own destiny. Like action without consequences. Like my obedience.

right behind him--my chest barely grazing his back, my groin in tight leather against the hard curve of his ass. He doesn't move a muscle as I reach my arms around, and undo the buttons of that foofy shirt, and slip it off his shoulders. He breathes in sharply, once, when I swirl my tongue over the tender skin at the back of his neck. And when I bite--a hard, human bite on the muscle of his shoulder--he just hisses softly, "Will..."

Have I mentioned how unholy seductive my Sire is in these moments? It's nearly enough to make me abandon my self-control--but not quite. I grasp his hips in my hands and pull him tight against me, brush my mouth against his ear and say, in a voice that's half whisper, half growl, *"Be still.”*

bites his lip to keep from groaning as I slide my hands up his body, tracing the hard lines of his sides, his stomach, his chest. He shudders when I cover his throat with wet, open-mouthed kisses, and he bends his head to expose more of his skin to my tongue. He's so good, and so restrained; but he can't keep it in forever. And when I slip my hands under the waist of his trousers and stroke the hard, aching length of him, it's too much even for his iron control. His body goes rigid, he throws his head back against my shoulder, and gasps out, "ohgod, Will, please..."

That sound--it's like someone struck a match on my spine. It shoots through me, settin' every nerve on fire. I couldn't stop myself if I wanted to--and I don't want to. My arms tighten around his waist and I bury my face in his shoulder and I bite, and I drink.

I don't take much. I stop when my body stops shaking, and I feel his knees start to give. Holding him by the waist so he doesn't fall, I pull my fangs from his throat and lick away the last rivulet of blood. And he turns his head toward me and looks at me with those soul-having brown googly eyes of his, and I can't help it, I have to kiss him. I press my open mouth to his and let his tongue steal the last taste of his blood from mine.

him deal me these ungodly delicious kisses, and tangle his fingers in my hair, and seduce me into forgetting why I'm here, and what I wanted. Let him pull me to the floor and press me down and take me like the night he made me.

But it's not my Death Day, and this is not about the night he made me. So I pull away from his kiss, and close my eyes, and press my lips against the damp skin of his neck. And I whisper, "Precious...put your hands against the window."

And he does. He steps forward and raises his hands and presses his palms against the glass, leaning forward slightly to give them his weight. And *that* is a beautiful sight: my Sire, stripped to the waist and gleaming pale, with the whole damn night sky and city as the background. And I don't know about him, but I'm through playing. 'Cause Angel, obedient and as good as bound, is a sight to about drive me mad with wanting him. So:

I step forward and wind my arms around him and slide my tongue around his ear, all the while making short work of those foofy trousers. They're down and he's naked before he knows what happened. I pull out the lube I picked up on the way in here, which turns out to be--white chocolate-scented massage cream. Good christ, but Angel's a poof! But no matter; worry about aesthetics is Angel's gig. Mine's more basic. I squeeze the cream into my hand and slide two fingers between his beautiful cheeks, running them up and down over the tender skin, until he groans and squirms against me. With one arm around his waist to steady him, I gently push one finger inside, then two, pull out, and push in again deeper. And Angel's writhing in my grasp now, his head thrown

back, gasping for air to make those inarticulate sounds that he always makes when we shag. And I've got a perfect rhythm going, three fingers now, stroking in and out just the way he likes it. And he's groaning in time to the motion of my hand, and I'm so good at this I bet I could even make him come this way.

said, my method's basic. He hisses as I withdraw my fingers, whether from regret or anticipation I'm not sure. I quickly undo my trousers, peel back the leather to free my straining cock. I give myself a quick two-stroke with the white- chocolate nancyboy lube, position myself between my Sire's perfect white cheeks, wrap my fingers around his hips for leverage, and drive into him with one quick, hard thrust.

"ohgodohfuckohWillohgodfuckmefuckmehard"--and how can I refuse begging like that? So I take a deep breath and commence fucking--hard, like he asked for, and fast and furious, the way I like it. And I'm making noise now, too, and my hand is reaching down to stroke his beautiful, aching cock, and he's crying out for more--of me, of this. And it's good, it's so good, it's like blood, and death, and immortality--

I s'pose I celebrate my birthday to remind myself of that--that time doesn't stand still, that everything has to change. Even vampires, even us. Because being immortal's not the same as being dead.

doesn't know why. Even if it's just that buying me fantastic and slightly insane gifts gives him somethin' to think about that's not the past and how much shit he dealt everyone back then. Or for that matter, the future--because as much as we don't know what's ahead, we know this: We'll be there, and everything and everyone else we love today will be gone. And *that's* what you call something to brood on.

now I've found my rhythm and I'm rocking into him, one arm wrapped tight around his chest, while with the other hand I keep up that same steady stroke, and he's past crying out my name and into just crying out, and then a tremor goes through him and his muscles go rigid and he's coming into my hand and he shouts my name--my new name, my chosen name--*"Spike!"* And the tightness that's been building in me gives way and I'm coming, and crying, and begging, and thrusting into him so hard I wonder what he'll feel like tomorrow.

brooding or not, Angel has his priorities. He knows what's important. Like birthdays, and sex, and his pet humans, and aesthetics, and, god help the people of Los Angeles, vintage Mustangs.

I nip him hard on the chest to remind him that as the Right Hand Childe of the Former Scourge of Europe, I am not to be mocked. Which makes him laugh harder because--well, maybe he just didn't get the full meaning of the gesture. But I'm too tired to clarify, so I'll let it go.

And as we're drifting off to sleep, naked and in a public room where we will surely be found by one of Angel's pet humans in the morning--preferably Gunn, if I have any choice about it--the last thing I hear is my Sire's voice, low and far away: