Blood Loss

His dreams were paler once. Ghost-dreams, white half-shades of guilt and ache and misplaced lusts. Dreams of longing and Never Will and Not Quite There. And it was easier that way; easier to drift the night away in the land of what once had been, and what could never be.

But Angel's dreams of late have been soaked in blood and decorated with strips of torn flesh, and it's all beginning to feel just a little too real. He blinks his eyes upon waking- one, two, three times, just to make sure the walls aren't spattered dark and red. The air tastes like roses.

//He's sick of the fucking roses. Such a goddamn cliche. Romantic, are they? But they never were, not to *them.* All he can remember is the pressing of thorns into flesh and how much that made them all laugh. Blood-spattered leaves and the choking scent of perfume, burning his throat and strangling his words. Petals closed tightly, whispering secrets.//

He greets the waking; he's relieved, at least for a moment, to hear those voices fade away into silence. What he can't admit to himself is that he misses them as soon as they're gone, and the days are so fucking *long.* Training only takes up so much time; he's learned all the moves now, so in shape that his muscles no longer burn with exertion. No pain inside, no contact outside, and he can't quite feel his limbs anymore, or remember the sound of his voice.

//Some nights he dreams that Darla is chained to his bed, writhing and struggling against her restraints and screaming obscenities that he can't quite hear. He pins her brutally to the ghost-white bed sheets and drives into her with harsh, unforgiving strokes, fucks her so hard that she begins to bleed from the inside out. She smells of blood and sex and perfume and she screams his name when she comes.

But he can't come. Aching and moaning and the desperate need for release and rest; she continues to bleed as he pounds into her, blood gushing between their legs and soaking into the mattress. She bleeds until her limbs are barely moving and she bleeds until she is white as smoke but still he cannot come. It is only when she has been drained dry, a hollow, empty shell that explodes into dust, it is only *then* that he climaxes, and his seed covers the ash-scattered, bloodstained mattress, the empty manacles clinking hollowly against the bedstead.

He read somewhere once that, during medieval times, sex was actually thought to shorten the life span. Seed was the life-essence, the petit mort was exactly that, and every orgasm supposedly knocked a few years off one's life expectancy. And he wonders if

*wishes* that it were true. That he could shed his Self away piece by ragged piece, strip away his body in layers of blood and come and scar tissue until nothing remains and even all the old rages and regrets dissipate into the ether. It is on nights like this, when he jerks off with harsh, unrelenting strokes or pushes the blade in a little deeper, watching everything inside him drip onto the bed sheets, that he wonders how many nights of this purification by pain it will take before he disappears entirely. He feels trapped in his body lately, trapped in this untouchable shell of longing and grief and he can't remember the last time he felt this *old.* Every year, every transgression, every stupid mistake weighs on him heavily, pressing against the surface of his skin and bruising the tender flesh.

//Some nights he dreams of Drusilla, dreams that he is bound and gagged in the factory bedroom once again, and Dru's fingernails are harsh and unforgiving; they tear his flesh away, layer by careful layer, as she croons her nonsense songs in a breathy voice.

He straightens the hotel room compulsively, anything to silence the echoing screams and blaze of fire inside his head. Pulls the covers away and washes the stained bed sheets. Plush blankets are only a hollow mockery of what he once wanted and bedding distracts the broken sleep and blood-spattered dreams that he knows he deserves; he strips his bed down to the barest of sheets. He cleans out the refrigerator methodically, throwing away every last remainder of them, every juice-box and beer-bottle and carton of yogurt left in their wake, and he tries to miss them. Tries to care. He is haunted by a nagging feeling that he *should* and he tries his damnedest to care, but he doesn't. He can't. They aren't real because they're not made of ashes and they've never been cold and he just can't *relate* anymore. Throws out all the bags of blood, decides to stop eating for a couple of days, just to see what it's like. Wondering if starvation will melt the flesh and begin chipping away at the bone, and it occurs to him that sometime in the last week he's lost his mind.

The hunger strike turns out to be a stupid idea. He passes out, and he hits his head, and his bruises taste like moonlight. He *knows* they can taste them. They're inside him somewhere, lurking in that space between form and memory, tasting, tasting, tasting.

//Nights of Spike hurt him the worst: there are so many hot pokers and each one is a transgression, not against Buffy or The Good Fight or the Powers That Fuck With You but against *them.* All three of them, and Spike keeps talking, he won't stop talking, his voice echoing hollowly against the sound of the chains that shackle him to the ceiling, and Spike won't shut the hell up, but all he can make out is Drusilla's name. Over and over and over again.//

He started breaking things today, and he's not quite sure when or even *how* that happened. There was an ache in his limbs and a roaring in his brain and the next thing he knew, he's coming to, bewildered and aching. Coming to with blood all over his hands, slices and cuts deep into the flesh, the kitchen scattered with broken cookery and the bookshelves upended and the furniture scarred and he doesn't remember *doing* that. Remembers nothing but rose-thorns and blackberry-thorns and the stinging bite of perfume in the back of his throat.

//The Judgment, the High Priestess, and the Devil. The Temptress, the Lunatic, and the Juvenile Delinquent. In the Name of the Mother and of the Son and of the Holy Nutcase. The Furies. The Three. Darla screams at him in his dreams, and Drusilla sings, and Spike simply laughs. And he can't get that fucking laughter out of his head.//

His hands are scarred and torn and filthy and he's covered all over in his own blood, so disgusting and dark and all-encompassing that he chokes back screams. He tries to walk to the shower, tries to, but his legs are shaky and his head is spinning and so he crawls instead. Crawls across the carpet and drags himself up over the edge of the bathroom sink, vomiting blood, knowing that it's not just the frigid cow's blood he ingested a few hours earlier, but that it comes from somewhere torn and rotten from deep inside, and some of it's his blood, and some of it's *theirs,* but he can't tell which is which. He keeps waiting for that scarlet rush and whisper to give up its secrets, but it doesn't. No matter; it feels good to be empty inside. He stares into the mirror and he could almost swear, for a fleeting moment, that he saw a face or faces there. But none of them were his.

Maybe, if the water's hot enough, it will bring a red blush to dead, white skin. Maybe it will make him feel warm. Hell, maybe it will make him *feel.* But the biting little drops dance on the surface and won't touch anything inside, and the fucking soap won't stay put. This was supposed to be easy and it was supposed to make sense. Wash away the incriminating marks, forget the past, pull the brambles from your skin. But he can't seem to hold onto it long enough to scrub the bloodstains away. The soap smells like jasmine petals and his hands are trembling violently and he drops it again and again and *again.*

It's too much. Angel is exhausted and he has had *enough.* He can't hold onto the soap and the blood won't go away and he wants nothing more than to curl up in the bottom of the shower stall as the scalding water erodes away at his flesh, washing him down the drain piece by bloodstained piece until the aching finally stops.

He tries to be caught off guard when he hears the bathroom door swing open, tries to be on the defensive for the coming attack from Darla or Dru or the coming bitching-out from Cordelia or Wesley or Gunn, but he can't. He's tired and he can't care anymore. The caring is what strips the flesh away and paints the roses red and he's had enough of that shit. Let them come. He wants it over with.

Shades of ebony leather and deathwhiteblonde, the smell of cigarette smoke and whiskey. He can see Spike's silhouette, blurry through the shower door as black clothing falls away to reveal white skin. He's not surprised that Spike found him, not surprised that his errant grandchilde followed the scent of come and blood and spent perfumes. Not surprised that Death has come home to fuck him senseless and drive the blood-spattered china dolls away. It's somehow fitting. Wouldn't make sense to anyone on the Outside, of course, but Spike is the Caretaker; this is what Spike was built for and why Angel allowed him to be Made in the first place. He traces the scent of blood-tears and comes home to love and hold and fuck the grieving. It's his only purpose, really, and he knows it.

He closes his eyes tightly as the shower door slides open, keeps them closed as Spike pushes him against the wall and presses his cool lips to Angel's, and Angel can *feel* him. Feel him because Spike is just as cold as he is and doesn't mock him with warm skin or the scent of roses. He takes the soap from Angel's shaking hands and helps him wash the last traces of blood away, sliding the bar slowly up and down Angel's spine. He gasps out, that familiar ache spreading suddenly, painfully through his groin, and he bites down hard on his lower lip to keep himself from begging out loud. He can see the red rush disappearing down the drain and he feels real for the first time in

There are centuries of memory wrapped up in the curves of Spike's hands and he remembers just how to touch him, how to slip careful fingers around muscle and bone and make Angel cry out just *so.* He turns towards the wall and shivers under the pressure of a line of kisses and small, shallow bites that race up his backbone. His knees buckle slightly and he braces his hands against the wall to keep from falling. Spike wraps one arm tightly around the older vampire's chest and holds him steady as he eases his cock inside, and a small whimper escapes from the back of Angel's throat. Breathless and trembling, he grinds his teeth together until his jaw aches to hold back the pleading and the gasps and the grateful screams that neither one of them wants to hear.

//He'll never forget the first time he bedded William, a pale, shaking child who had lost his virginity to Drusilla only the evening before. He stripped the boy of his clothing and chained him to the bed, his cloud-white skin blending perfectly with the bed sheets. His eyes were so big and impossibly blue and he shrieked like a banshee when he came//

And he was. Spike's true maker was too busy playing Madwoman or Lover, so the task fell to him instead. No matter that it was Drusilla that drove those fangs deep into young flesh; Spike is luckier that it was so. Angelus wouldn't have paused long enough to exchange blood had this pale-skinned pixie of a child lay trembling in *his* hands. No, Angelus would have drunk deep until there was nothing left, and that is the way that Spike takes him now, hard and brutal, all-consuming, arms tight and strong, small, quick body relentless. And if it doesn't feel like pleasure to Angel, perhaps that's because pleasure is a sensation he has dreaded for too long now. No, it is cold and numb and pointless. The sweetest feeling of all.

Because he was never the right hand of Death, no matter what the Watchers might say now. Angelus and Death never had much in common. Death doesn't do what He does for the power-trip or the artistic finesse. No, it's all about setting up the toy soldiers and watching them fall. Death is chaos and devil-may-care, Death is the Butterfly Effect: a butterfly flaps its wings in Peking and suddenly California gets a tidal wave instead of the predicted sunny skies and a hundred people drown and Death sits back, eternal child that he is, and claps his hands in glee. Death smirks and smokes and laughs and tastes like the smoothest whiskey, and that's Spike. Angelus went into churches to destroy the innocent; Spike went into them to see if he could outsmart the priests, armed with their holy water and crucifixes, and emerge victorious. Because it was *fun.* The Grim Reaper has bright blue eyes and looks good in leather; the Grim Reaper makes sure that you want to fuck him before you go.

And he wishes it made him feel full again, for a moment, as the youngest of their dysfunctional family holds him tightly and thrusts, climaxing inside him with a small, soft cry. Wishes he felt full and warm and at peace. But he doesn't. Being fucked by Spike makes him feel as if he's already dead.

The hot water streams down his face, and Angel is grateful for it, grateful for the deluge that sweeps away the bitter tears that he doesn't want Spike to see. But it doesn't matter; he can smell the salt and blood and bite of fangs, the perfume and incense and whiskey in his tears. Smell the drops of centuries and memory that course down Angel's face. He reaches up with one hand and brushes the older vampire's cheek, collecting tears on his fingertips, licking them away before winding his arms carefully around his Sire's waist. Angel's shoulders start to shake violently and Spike tightens his arms around him, wondering why he isn't making any noise in spite of the choked sobs ripping through his chest and the tears streaming down his face, wondering where Angel learned to cry so quietly. It could've been Hell, he reasons.

Spike begins to rock his Sire back and forth, slowly, a primal motion of care and comfort. The movement is so slight and subtle that Angel's mind can barely process it consciously, and he wonders if Spike realizes he is rocking at all, or if it's just an automatic response to someone else's grief. Tears. Rock. Make It Better. Old habits die hard, he supposes. He never wanted to be a surrogate for Dru, but when's the last time any of them had the luxury to choose?

And this, somehow, feels like Tragedy. Angel can feel a pressure building up inside of him, in his throat and chest and somewhere else, much, much lower: he needs to come, and he needs to scream, and he needs to sob and bleed, but he cannot. This grief, this shuddering, aching monster, has been locked up so tightly inside of him for a century that it can't work its way past the surface of his skin. He pounds his fists on the wall in frustration and thrashes his body hard against Spike's, but still he does not make a sound.

Spike presses his face against the muscled shoulder, breathing deeply the scent of roses and memory and Sire, running his tongue over curves of flesh and bone. A sharp breath hisses past Angel's lips and he clutches his own cock in trembling hands, desperate for climax, for release, for the seed and soul and hurt to disappear down the drain and finally let him rest. But Spike pushes his hands away, takes Angel between his fingers and strokes him carefully. He can feel the constricted sobs building in Angel's chest and throat, fighting their way out. He sinks his fangs in deep where neck meets shoulder, and drinks deep.

Angel gasps, cries out, and his knees weaken as he feels the tightness in his chest fade away. The pain is rushing from his body, disappearing into his Childe, rendering the aching, bruised places inside him empty and calm. He comes in Spike's hands, and a loud, ragged sob escapes his throat.

He stumbles slightly as they emerge from the shower and Spike is there, strong arm around his shoulders, helping him to the bed. He finds a towel in the bathroom and starts to dry Angel off, carefully, methodically. This, strangely, is what breaks the older vampire; *this* is too much. It hurts somehow, the strange caress of hands and cloth, working their way smoothly over every curve and crevice of flesh, forcing him back into a body in which he doesn't wish to be, because this means that it's over, and Spike's going to leave, and soon it will be morning and he'll still have to decide what has to be done next, and he'll still be alone. He clutches the bed sheets tightly and buries his face deep into the pillows to muffle the loud sobs that rip through him as the towel continues to make its way across his skin.

He can feel the frustration that Spike chokes back, the urge to berate in sarcastic tones, the unspoken scream of "suck it up, you stupid toff, pick yourself up and fucking get *over* it, because it doesn't get any better, things fall apart and you can't always get what you want and it bloody well *hurts,* but nobody cares about your tears, mate. Not even you." Angel knows all this, he *knows* it, but it's still not enough to stop the sobbing. He can feel his soul, that separate, aching part that doesn't quite fit, shuddering and shaking inside him and he's never so much wanted to reach inside and rip it out as he does now, tear it from his flesh and hurl it across the room and scream at it to leave him the fuck *alone.* And Spike wants that too, Spike would fuck him until Doomsday if he thought it would do any good, but there aren't any moments of perfect happiness to be had and they both know it. So he tosses the towel aside and lays down next to his Sire, chin buried in his shoulder, one hand working absentmindedly through the damp locks of Angel's hair, waiting for the weeping to finally subside.

that he could draw aside the heavy curtains and they could all lay together here in this bed, cool, pale limbs tangled together, caresses and kisses with eyes shut. They could watch the sun come up together and when morning came no one would be able to tell whose ashes were whose.//

When he is done Spike helps him beneath the bed sheets and goes to the linen closet, pulling out every blanket he can find, and begins to wrap his grandsire carefully. Covers Angel in layers of comforting softness until he can finally feel warm and safe inside his own skin again.