Be Still

Okay, scratch that. I do know why I’m here and I have a bloody great hole in my side to prove it, but I meant aside from the obvious. I think what I meant was I don’t know why *I’m* here. Me, of all demons, here of all places.

I can feel him. I’ve been able to feel him since I crossed the city boundary, that sensation that starts like an itch in my unbeating heart, flowing outwards in tiny rivers of electricity, though it’s muted now. Still, it sparks and spits in veins that haven’t seen their fair share of blood these days, and that only makes the awareness sharper.

Time was I could have pinpointed his location from several miles away; just closed my eyes and reached with my mind, and there he was, arrogant self-assurance flaring like a flame in my blood-tranced brain. For that’s what it is: the blood, calling to me, to him, bonding us, and he could sense me too, could sense all of his Childer and tell them apart.

Pulling up across from his apartment and I’m suddenly not so assured of the wisdom in this idea of mine. Spike goes running to Sire. Not the best advertisement for my Big Bad campaign.

Oh, who am I kidding? I know that’s not why I’m sitting here, procrastinating in a car with black-painted windows, desperately searching myself for a reason to walk up to that door.

I know my own weaknesses, and facing up to my Sire’s contempt and a cheerleader’s glee when I’m bleeding eight shades of red isn’t one of them. Standing four inches from an ex-Watcher with an upper lip so inflexible it would rival Angel’s hair, watching him flap and stutter while all I can smell is his blood and his desire…well, actually, that would be mildly amusing. But my potential embarrassment is not something I’d blanch at; I’ve been humiliated enough in the past.

No, what’s stuck fast in my mind here, what’s shoving me with inexorable force towards the door and pinning me in my seat with one hand on the ignition, is the eternal, inescapable truth that once I walk into that building, I’ll have to look him in the eyes. I’ll have to look him in the eyes and he’ll know that I came to him for help. *Him*. He’ll know that I could’ve gone to Giles, or Red, or even, in a moment of blind evisceration-induced hysteria, the Slayer, but instead I fumbled my way to my car and drove two hours to his apartment, bleeding like a stuck…vampire.

And that is the driving force for staying and going, for begging his assistance and turning that key to get the fuck out of Dodge as fast as demonically possible. I *do* need him. I know that. I’ve known that for fucking centuries. But for *him* to know it…

I want him to know it, and in the darkest recesses of my crypt when all I have for company is my hand and my morbid musings, he will acknowledge it and take me into his arms again, take me to his bed and his chains and his love and his pain.

But I also want to keep it from him, keep it from him forever because *he* doesn’t need *me*. He’s always been self-sufficient. The man and the demon and the whatever-the-hell he is now are all connected in their consummate non-reliance, and he loves and he fucks and he lets them save him, but he can always drop them if he needs to, can always walk away for the greater good.

But I was his Childe, and his Favoured, and he loved me with a punishing vehemence and all-encompassing passion that never failed to make my heart beat. But after the soul, under the words and between the terminal shame that is me and my demon and the memories I bring him, we have lost each other, but only I seem to know it. He would never acknowledge there was anything to begin with.

And of love and necessity and passion? These words do not occupy the same thought-track as my name, and their emotions stride on distant oceans to my image. He does not care, and I think it is that which drives me to finally knock.

No answer is forthcoming for several moments, and since I’ve never been the most patient of people, not to mention far too impolite for my own good health, I simply open the door and walk in.

My Sire’s place is exactly how I’d imagined it. Not the office part, of course. Computers and telephones and other assorted technological gizmos don’t exactly scream antiquated vampire, but the pathological neatness is pure Angel. The guy’s always been somewhat anal retentive. Maybe he wasn’t potty-trained properly – yes, I know Freud; not as dumb as I’m demon-lookin’ – or perhaps he’s trying to make up for a hundred years of scattering blood and innards and various other bodily fluids over every available surface.

In either case, I wouldn’t be surprised if the pencils are all sharpened to exactly the same length and his clothes are hue, fabric and season co-ordinated. But, come to think of it, they’re all black and not a one of ’em ain’t some kind of designer crap, so wardrobe array probably not going to be so much of a problem for him.

Textures are pretty important to vampires, which explains his limited textile choice. And mine, I suppose. A vampire has heightened senses, in every quarter, so we choose our clothes carefully: cool silk and soft satin, warm velvet and rough leather; all stimulants to a body that feels the slightest flutter of a lover’s fingertips and the breath of prey from ten paces. We can smell your fear and your arousal, can see you when you hide in the dark and hear the smallest whispers and thrumming pulse of a cowering child. We taste your blood with the fire of a million points of reception geared for just that purpose, and the bright rose flavor of your pain makes it all the more sweet.

So the fact that my Sire has flowers and radios all over the office does not surprise me one bit, and I’m not fooled for a moment into thinking it’s an effort at cheer by that bloody Prom Princess. He does it, and he doesn’t tell them why. Perhaps they think it’s because he sees it as just one more way to be like them, to pull himself closer to humanity. They certainly won’t realize he uses them for distraction, to turn his attention from the intoxicating smell of their blood, the siren’s song of a human heartbeat washing powerful life through warm bodies.

No, they wouldn’t believe it. The kid and the Watcher, they both see him in such black and white portraits, the velvet vampire painting, fill in the blanks with missing souls and demon alter-egos. Even the Slayer never saw it, despite how close she was to him. She loved the man and hated the demon, and that’s what doomed their love, not the bloody happiness mojo or whatever the hell it was.

Me? I know him. I know that there’s a fine line between love and hate, and an even finer one between Angelus and Angel. Both of them are in him, neither one ever left, which is part of the reason why Soul Boy feels so guilty and Demon Features lost the plot. They were both *there*, always there, behind his eyes and in his heart and winding through every vein in his immortal body, watching everything the other did. It’s a question of control and suppression, not the wrenching and returning of souls.

Fact is, you *can’t* take a soul from a person; they’d die. Ashes to ashes, demon to dust. That’s how it goes. When the bad guy enters the body it simply takes control, the moment of draining weakening humanity enough for the demon to set up shop and stay there. The humanity, or soul, or whatever you choose to call it, is simply shoved to the bottom.

All the gypsies did was enfeeble the demon long enough for the soul to reassert control. And that’s how I came to have today’s skulking, smirking Sire-with-a-Soul, a living corpse with soft lips and gentle fingers with the promise of pain, a man with a demon rattling incessantly at the bars of its cage. The mortals who call him their friend, they don’t know what it takes for him to keep it down, to turn his head when their wounds cause his demon to scream its hunger, when the simple desire for the mindless, painless freedom of letting loose the inner Angelus becomes almost more than he can bear.

He *is* Angelus. I know it, and he sure as hell can feel it, and he lives in agony and fear every day because he won’t accept what he is. He is both Angel and Angelus, demon and man, duality and solitude and sometimes I wake in the evening and the first thing I do before I’ve even fully registered my surroundings is to reach out, blindly, hand lazily searching for the large, cold body of my Sire, carelessly strewn beside me. In those moments I almost feel like William again, Will, the reckless Childe who knew that no matter what, there was always Angelus.

But then I realize that he’s not there, will never be there, and the old bitterness sets in, and I’m angry at these *people*, these mortals with their misconceptions and their punishment and their constant denial of his very being, angry that they hold so much sway in his heart while the one creature that understands, that has even the slightest beginnings of acceptance, the only one who dances with his devil and will not fear the reaper has to wake up alone.

The confession, even if only to myself, never fails to bring out my demon and before I realize it I’ve sent some china object or other crashing into the wall. I hope it wasn’t an antique.

Shit. Great timing, Angel, as ever, and stealthy as a cat, the bastard. I’ve never mastered that particular vampiric art. Hunting, yes, I’m as silent and deadly as any predator, but in general moving from place to place, I clump like a big punk badass in steel-toed Docs.

So there’s nothing for me to do except gather my pride, which never seems to make it up to full strength between beatings, and face him.

I tend to lump people in general categories of attractiveness, solely when grading on a purely physical level, of course. It was something I started doing in the sixties, a trick I acquired and ultimately found necessary when everyone was so high they had no personality left under all the kite-flying.

Now, not that I’m superficial, or elitist, but I have my standards, as any attractive young(old) man(vampire) would. You have your basic I’m-A-Demon-But-I’m-Not-That-Desperate for starters, followed by Ick, Ack and I-Don’t-Think-So. Then you move through the intermediates, basing at Hmm-Interesting, following through with Well-If-I’ve-Nothing-Else-On and moving right up to Don’t-Mind-If-I-Do and Take-Or-Be-Taken-Kiddo. The White Hats all pretty much sit in between those last two, with Wuss-ley the Watcher maybe hiking his score up through sheer force of being English.

But Angel? My Sire skips right through the levels that’d have even the most self-respecting demon panting and begging, happily bypassing the succubus strata and soaring on up to land in a category all of his own: God-Made-But-One-And-By-Holy-Hell-I-Want-It. It’s just this presence he has, all brooding enigma and caveman brow and dark menace. Oh yes, my Sire can menace with the best of ’em, it’s just that he chooses not to unless he’s fighting, or really, really pissed off.

He’s so *huge*, my Sire is, leaning against that doorframe like a supple-skinned Adonis of living marble. Great broad shoulders and that well-defined chest. If I close my eyes, I can still see his body, can still remember the way smooth skin felt over the rippling muscles of his back, remember tracing inked griffin with trembling fingers, trying to coax its secrets, cognizance lost in a sea of cold flesh and strong arms and a world of devastating umber…

He’s looking at me as if I’m supposed to say something, and I shrug my shoulders briefly, trying to feign nonchalance. What does he *want* me to tell him?

Spike. There it is again. Contrary to popular belief, I did not take that name for myself, it was bestowed upon me by somebody, can’t quite remember who right now, but it seemed to work. Much less of a mouthful than ‘William the Bloody’ anyway. It got the job done, instilled the sufficient amount of fear, and made carving my mark into victims a hell of a lot simpler. Plus, two names, interchangeable fun.

But *he* would never use it. I was Will when he Turned me, and Will when he taught me and touched me and took me to his bed, and I would never be anything else. Not then. Besides, I believe he always thought that Spike was just a little too uncouth for his refined tastes.

Occasionally I was ‘boy’ or ‘Childe’ or ‘Little One’, but never, never, *never* Spike, and to tell you the truth, I liked it that way. My second name was a stand-in, the province of grandsires and girlfriends and guttersnipe minions. And when he left, it was the *only* name I would accept, because my real name belonged to another time, and if I couldn’t hear it fall just once more from his lips then I wouldn’t hear it at all.

But now it’s just Spike, as if one hundred and three years, six months and eight days didn’t make the blindest bit of difference to him, as if he has nothing to remember from that time but dead mortals and depravity and guilt.

So now I’m angry even though I’m trying not to be, and he’s still staring at me impassively as if I could jump into a bath of holy water and he wouldn’t bat an eyelid.

He sighs, a little gust of unnecessary air, and I take it as some kind of resignation. I don’t tell him my reasons for not going to the Slayer Troupe, and he doesn’t ask, just crooks a finger at me and leads me through the office to an ancient lift that must have been conceived before even *he* was Turned.

It’s not worth my time to consider Angel’s interior decorating style as we tramp through his apartment; I could’ve pictured it blindfold for a start. He suffers no loss or gain of body temperature and eats no food, yet he has rugs and a stove to make the humans feel more welcome. There’s comfortable chairs and a sofa, and a TV he probably never watches, while a fridge stands in one corner of the kitchen, chock full of bovine-class O+.

And yet, despite this attempt – and general success – at homeliness, the big freak has the walls all decked out with double-headed axes and scimitars and the occasional mythical sword.

Once again, it’s the demon and the man trying to occupy the same space with no semblance of harmony or effort at cohabitation. Two opposing sides staring at each other over a No Man’s Land of confusion and conflict, and it all leads a distinctly bad taste in your mouth.

His expression is a study in exasperated tolerance, like a teacher trying to explain a simple concept to a difficult child, and I want to slap it off him.

“That’s fine, Spike.” His tone matches his face. “But you’re losing blood at a rate of knots, so I’ll just sit here with the ashtray and wait, shall I?”

By Satan, I hate when he’s right. Especially when he’s right and acts so superior and contemptuous about it. Wordlessly, trying to let my face do all the talking, I grab the bag from his outstretched hand and watch him smirk while I drink it.

Damn, it’s good. Of course, it tastes like I would imagine sour milk to taste like, but it’s *blood*, and I didn’t realize how much I really needed it. Guess I underestimated that injury after all.

When I’m finished, I toss the bag to the floor, just daring him to tidy up after me, but he doesn’t take the bait, simply shakes his head and rolls his eyes. Then he’s close to me, suddenly too close, and I can’t remember if I was breathing or not.

His eyes are doing that trapped between mahogany and black thing again, and it’s all I can do to stop myself from drowning in them. Bastard. He knows how to push my buttons, and I hate that he can use it against me even after a century of separation. Hate that he knows me so well, hate that he can use those strong fingers to touch my soul, give me faith and dissolve my existence.

“Angelus,” I say, and my voice sounds foreign even to me. I curse myself and my misplaced affections for the millionth time and force myself to speak normally.

Thankfully he refrains – my Sire has an iron strike – and simply steps back, grabbing a hideously green first aid box from the kitchen counter without ever really taking his eyes off me.

But now my wound is hurting - *really* hurting, like someone’s painted a sea of crosses on torn and bleeding flesh, and it suddenly hits me that I might die here, unless I let him patch me up. And he wouldn’t even cry, would just shake his head again and sweep up the mess.

Why can’t I just be self-reliant for once? Why do I constantly get myself in these situations and why the *fuck* did he have to change all those years ago?

Angel, and this has been noted by many of his observers, has limited facial expressions. Face number one, and our current criminal: Brood. This is the face he wears ninety percent of the time, the one wherein the lines are deepened, engraved, the eyes fixed on a point that may not even exist, and you can almost *see* the flames of memory in his gaze, if he’d let you close enough to look.

Angelus never was one for letting others in, and it seems that Angel is even worse. Angel closes his eyes when you try to search them, or shifts his head to the side, avoiding any and all attempts at connection, at compassion. Because he believes he deserves neither.

No matter how many times their – *our* – affection is affirmed for him, how many people risk themselves for his sorry hide, he will still keep that interminable distance, pushing away my arm or evading Cordelia’s grateful hug with a shrug and a grimace.

Incarnations three, and not a one of them could claim openness of faith. Of course, I never knew Liam, but I’d bet my arse on the assumption that he never took his mother into his arms, never kissed his sister’s hair, never told his father of his hopes and dreams.

But I’m always dwelling on that too long, because I never seem to remember whether I loved or loathed it, whether I screamed in rage or lust, whether I wept for him or me, nothing or everything, when cruel hands tortured me and strong arms loved me and powerful body fucked me so hard and fast. Could never figure out which emotion I wanted to feel, and that was part of his grand, all-encompassing mind games, keeping me in pain and pleasure and utter, earth-shattering ecstasy so that I’d never be able to decide which one I liked best.

So as he pulls up the hem of my t-shirt and winces slightly at the gore I know is under there, I let myself look away as I feel the pressure of his touch on my skin, like little murmurs of yesterday, let myself forget that I’m a demon and he isn’t, that this is now and not then, and everything in between is supposed to matter. All I feel is this contact, this proximity to a man I’ve pledged every minute of my immortal life to.

He’s finished too soon. All that patching up of his mortal lackeys must’ve taught him how to play speed nurse. I’m half glad that he’s no longer touching me, because God knows what I would’ve done if it’d gone on much more, but now that he isn’t I have to face him, and, I suppose, talk to him.

He sits perched on an easy chair, as if genetically programmed to make himself uncomfortable. I, on the other hand, flop full body down onto the sofa, boots and everything. I can tell he found it hard to suppress *that* little growl.

His voice sounds like chocolate, deep and warm, and even though I know it’s not directed at me, there’s nothing I can do to stop myself from telling the truth.

“Right. Them. Except instead you’re fixing up another mess I got myself into by being my usual havoc-inducing, blood-driven, sociopathic self.”

“Really?” I still haven’t met his eyes, but I can feel them burning holes in my skin. “What, you help killers on a daily basis? Mr. Vampire-With-A-Conscience helps the hopeless, no matter who or what they are?”

He almost chuckles and I almost hit him. He must’ve seen the murderous glint in my eye because he smoothes out his smile. “Sorry,” he says. “Cordelia…never mind.”

God damn answer the question, Angelus! Now is definitely not the time for the cryptic routine, and not only because it doesn’t quite fit with Pissed Off Face.

He sighs again, and I wonder whether it’s a subconscious thing, like running your hand through your hair…or refraining from it, in his case. That huge body shifts uneasily in the chair and I want to push him back in it, lean over him, take his…

I want to think of something witty to say to dispel this tension, or something meaningful to counter with, because thinking about that statement will just drive me insane. What the hell does it mean anyway? I’ll always help you…when you have a big gaping wound? I’ll always help you…but only if it doesn’t involve any kind of violence, death, tormenting of the Slayer, tormenting of the Slayer’s friends, plans for Armageddon and/or cruelty to puppies?

Or does it mean what I wish it would mean, what I dream of him saying, that he’ll always help me, no matter what. Because he’s my Sire and I am his Childe. Because he is Angelus and I am Will. Because he is mine and I am his.

But there is nothing save for silence, and we sit in it, both studiously not speaking, neither one wanting to explore what is really going on beneath the veneer of this unexpected visit. In one of the most idiotic decisions I’ve made since I picked up the Sunnydale Nightlife brochure, I raise my head and find myself locked onto his eyes.

They have the same effect on me that they always do: goodbye knees, hello jelly. But there is something there…or rather there is a *lack* of something, a complete absence of something that should be there that leaves me feeling cold. No deep sentiment burns in his eyes, unless it’s extremely well hidden. Nothing but regret.

How dare he regret. I don’t care if he hates me, I don’t care if he wants to kill me or fight me or dance the bloody cancan on my grave, because those things are real. They are emotion and they are now, and they have a reason and purpose. I’ve tried to kill him often enough for the desire to be mutual, and hating me probably would come pretty much with the territory of me getting fist-happy with his girlfriend.

But these things may hurt, they may burn like fire in the part of me that is my true self, but they do not deny all that has come before. Regretting that he Turned me…that is like a second death. To deny a hundred years of love and loving, of pleasure and pain and the prospect of wondrous eternity together; it is like a stake through the empty chambers of my unbeating heart.

“Damn you, Angelus.” My voice sounds like someone else’s again. Like it doesn’t know whether it’s two steps away from a snarl or a sob, and I hate that he’s made me this vulnerable in so short a time, despite how desperately I tried to keep up my barriers, to keep him the hell out of my heart.

He even has the discourtesy to take up No. 2 again. Probably has no idea how I hear him without his even saying a word, doesn’t know that I’ve just read every detached, emotionless thought in his guilt-ridden soul, can’t imagine why his evocation of our past has got me so absolutely, completely incensed.

I don’t remember when I got up, but suddenly I am in front of him, and leaning over him, as I thought about earlier. It could have been awkward, could have been tender, but instead it’s angry. Red hot flaming rage suddenly consuming me and I grab his Armani shirt and throw him to the floor. A satisfying crack as his head hits the table and I smile ferally.

That luscious mouth opening, and I grab him again and pull him up to face me. If he wants time to explain, or yell, or curse, then he’s not going to get it. I want him to love me, I want him to need me like I need him, but he won’t, and if I can’t have him, then by god I’ll hurt him.

Fist slamming into his gut and he doubles over, the grunt probably habit as he forces air out of his lungs. Air which I feel on my knuckles as I grab him by the shoulder and my punch connects with his nose, sending him crashing back down onto the floor. No rest for the wicked and I’m kicking him, infinitely grateful for my choice in footwear, knowing the metal will add that little extra edge to a blow already so harsh and strong.

I didn’t realize I was chanting, and I don’t care. It’s appropriate anyway, and in time with my kicks. I hear a rib crack under my boot, and he rolls to the side but doesn’t move to get away.

I’m down on my knees and hitting him now, not so much power behind it, but my demon says it all. His eyes burning into mine but I won’t let them shake me this time, because the bastard has taken so much from me and he will not have my anger too.

It calls to me and I can hear *him* under it all, the demon, Angelus, deadly sweet voice and lethal words, and they will bring me down. I don’t *want* him, I want Angel. I want the old Angelus and the new Angel, the demon, the man, the Sire.

That makes me want to hurt him even more, but his hands are held up to me in supplication. They ward off my blows, just barely. He is not pleading with me, or pushing me away…he isn’t even fighting back, and I recognize the look in his eyes again. He feels he deserves this. He wants me to hurt him because it helps him to atone, as though every punch, every kick I deal to him cancels out one of his to me. And when we’re balanced, he can forget me. He can walk away because he will owe me nothing; he will be redeemed and we will be strangers again, with no past and no pain.

But I can’t keep fighting him, and not only because he’s going to pass out soon. I can’t keep fighting him because that is what he wants, and that’s not why I’m doing this. I’m doing it for me, and for us, and I’m not going to give him his sodding deliverance if I can help it. With one last, steel-strong blow to his stomach, I throw his hands roughly to the side and push myself backwards, sprawling my body out over the rug, back to the chair he was only recently perched in.

Shit, my side hurts like hell. Shouldn’t have wasted all that energy on Broody-Brain over there, although now I suppose we’re more evenly matched, pain-wise. I can tell from the grimace on his face as he sits up that his ribs ache like a bastard.

He just stares at me for a minute, and I wish I could see what my eyes look like, because I don’t want to give him any advantages. Not here, not now. I don’t want him to see the anger, or the hate, or the appallingly shallow-buried love. Unfortunately, from the emotions that are raging through my body, I can imagine him describing my gaze as ‘stormy’, or possibly even ‘oceanic’.

Slowly, painfully, he crawls over to where I’m sitting. To my credit, I don’t flinch – or at least I don’t think I do – as his body settles next to mine, arm brushing my shoulder, hand almost but not quite resting on my thigh.

My face flickers to the demon briefly, then resettles. How dare he pretend that his selfish, stupid display of submission was for my benefit.

A silence like a black hole rushes into the room, blanketing the life with a void of nothingness. Gone are the companionable quiet times we spent so many years ago, the times that most was said when least was spoken.

I have to break it. I have to say something, anything, because even fighting, even the awkward questions would be better than this awful, mind-numbing, soul-splitting silence. And, if I didn’t fuck up, I wouldn’t be me, so in my fine style I pick the worst possible thing to say.

“You don’t mean last year, do you.” It isn’t a question, but I reply anyway, shaking my head slightly. Sigh number eight thousand and six escapes his lips and he begins to apologize, then curses proficiently.

I can feel him staring again. Maybe he’s trying to figure out what I’m thinking. Or maybe he’s laughing at me for being pathetic enough to count the days. At least I didn’t include the minutiae in my little outburst, but it’s not as if I don’t know it.

I glare at the table in front of us, not trusting myself to look at him, and he acquiesces. “Okay,” he amends. “I got my conscience, whatever.”

“Dru would have loved you even if they’d turned you into a circus bear, Angelus.” I hold up a hand to still any conversation about Her. It doesn’t matter now, and even if it did, I don’t think I could have tolerated his pity.

“You?” he interrupts. “You would have killed me, Spike.” His voice is rough and raw, as mine was. At least I’m not the only one suffering. “I was a wreck after the curse,” he continues. “Miserable, pathetic, couldn’t kick a fart out of a fly.”

“Ha ha, Spike. The point is, maybe now…now you accept it, because you’ve had time, because you…I don’t know, because Angelus isn’t Angelus anymore, and even *I’m* preferable to a crazy Sire who wanted to drag the world into Hell.”

“Okay, Angelus. Maybe you’re right.” Now I’m the one sighing. “But you could’ve written a note, sent a messenger, something to tell us where you were or what you were doing.” I shift uncomfortably on the hardwood floor. “It would’ve hurt like fuck, but at least we would’ve known…”

Movement at last – his – pushing himself upwards until he’s crouched before me, face only a foot or so from my own. Still I look at everything but him. A large hand clasps my chin, urging against my resistance, no demand but a request.

Slowly I turn my head until our eyes meet, earth and sky, and in my mind there is fire and ice. Maybe he sees something else, or nothing at all, and maybe I’m just becoming too poetic for my own demonic good. He still has his hand on my chin and I’m losing myself…

The only word that falls from my lips, the only one I can form, and even that sounds strangled and hoarse. But it is more meaningful, more visceral, more goddamn *true* than “I don’t hate you” or “I love you” or any of the other platitudes and reassurances I could offer him.

I want to know, to seek reciprocation, ask if *he* hates *me*, but my voice isn’t working properly and my throat is drier than a desert and suddenly I couldn’t speak even if had the power to do so, because his lips are on mine and he is kissing me, all coherent thought driven from my mind in a vacuum of need.

After a few brief, tentative kisses, he pulls back to stare at me again. In the calm after the storm, I briefly wonder if he’s doing this for me, for him, for us or his fucking penitence. It better not be the last, or I swear to whatever I’m supposed to pray to these days that I’ll kill him. For him, I could handle; the guy’s been celibate since Angelus took a trip, and I’m not against obliging him, though I’d rather he saw me as *me* and not just someone to aid him in his quest for sex without happiness. For us I find highly unlikely, no matter how much I want it to be true, so I suppose I’m stuck with number one. Well, thanks Angel, you’re so bloody *generous*.

I know though. I know that I can deny it all I want, I can piss and moan, and I’ll feel like shit when I wake up this evening because I’ll have had him in my sights, but the eternity of my promise is unequivocal, and I find myself nodding at him, breath ragged like a human’s.

To taste sweet Heaven is to make the living world a Hell…but I want him. I don’t want to want him, but I’m past denying this as his tongue seeks entrance to my mouth and I yield. Mouths moving in synchrony, lips caressing and tongues stroking and strong hands in soft hair and oh God, it’s been so long since I felt this, the kiss of a lover that sends fire through your veins, lighting your body, making you think that you’ll never want anything more. This is a true kiss, and with many people I’ve known, the sex wasn’t even this good.

Gradually I become aware that he is still crouching, his whole body weight resting on the balls of his feet, and after a quick moment of marveling at his balance, I pull him towards me, toppling him, and he falls on my outstretched body with a soft gasp.

A small peck on the lips and that’s all the initiative he’s getting from me, for I need him to take the lead here, need a reminder of exactly who started this, that it’s not just some damn painkiller-induced hallucination I’m laboring under.

Angelus never disappoints and I disappear under the hungriest kiss I’ve experienced in well over a century. There is no question of what is going to happen between us, as neither of us has ever done anything by halves, and both of us are already mostly hard from the intensity of the kiss, and roaming hands that never rest longer than just long enough.

Somehow, though, he’s managed to get it off me, despite me being beneath him, despite me not helping the slightest bit. Or maybe I did, but I was too lost in the kiss to realize. Rough tongue slips over the column of my throat, pausing at the jugular, human teeth scraping bluntly at sensitive skin, the vampire’s extra erogenous zone making me groan and throw my head back into the plush comfort of blood-red Chinese rug.

He chuckles, a curiously erotic sound, and continues his trail to my chest, each nipple given the attention any woman would receive; he knows the secrets alright, and my throaty growl is pushed from the very depths of my being.

Tongue moves lower, licking a path down my stomach, dipping into my navel, me bucking towards him as his hands come up to tease the waistband of my jeans. I’ve never needed anything more than I need his touch on me, and I never will again.

But he’s not complying, because apparently he’s decided that this isn’t all give, and he’s sitting up, divesting himself of his shirt, just resting on his heels, waiting for me.

Roughly I grab his shoulders and smash our mouths together, my hand roaming the contours of that perfect chest. I am not gentle; the time for pleasantries is long past. There will be no tender sensitivity, for there are no angels save for the one in this room. Every touch will be strong, every kiss fierce, our union brutal, bordering almost on violence, but it is honest for we are both demons, and it is only with me that he can accept it, and only with me that he can know no shame.

More clothes have been lost somewhere along the line and we are naked together, lost in our embrace, cold flesh on white skin, the only heat from the friction of our bodies and the floor. Hands stroke and tease and coax soft growls, reality dimmed in a torrent of lips and tongues and teeth, and I suddenly realize what exactly it is that I missed.

Physical gratification in this sexual dance, perhaps for me something more…sincere, but I hold no illusions over the nature of this reunion. It will be brief, it will no doubt be regretted, and it will almost certainly be subject to his mental walls, thrown up in the presence of a memory he does not want to incite. This is a catharsis of sorts, for me in the presence of my Sire, for him in the presence of a being who will not deny his Self as he gains what simple pleasure he can, knowing that I *will* walk away, that I will not haunt him like a true lover.

His hands aren’t cold as they trail down my back; they are natural, death against death, and I briefly wonder if She burned. Then I lose all trains of thought as I am prepared, fingers like flames in the innermost world of sensory perception.

It was never discussed how this would play out, but it seems fitting, somehow. He would submit if I chose to request it of him, but I don’t, and while I know that once again I am losing out to him, while this position holds too many Angelus-fueled memories for my own good taste, I cannot question the opium-sweet ecstasy that flows through my veins.

He is my Sire, and though I know in truth he belongs on his knees, petitioning my clemency, somewhere along the line it has been grounded into my brain, into my conscience and heart that he owns me, like a child wronged by God who still crosses himself when he swears.

Entrance and fulfillment, and we are one at last, every inch of me possessed as his hands wrap around my hips and pull me back against him, strong enough to leave bruises, not that I care. In fact, I think I’m glad. He’s probably having a hard time back there, after so long, and I’ve always been one to help out in a crisis. Grabbing a tight hold of the table legs, I pull myself forward, inch, inch, out, out…then slam backwards, almost toppling us both over with the force.

The smell of blood permeates the air now, and I know it’s my own. Neither of us are coherent enough or human enough to think of anything else to ease the entry, and I can tell without looking that his face is his own, the true face. The blood is all it takes to make that final push and we are over into vampire territory at last, control snatched from me as his demon takes what it wants. It’s hard and fast and there are bruises and blood and primeval growls, roars of animalistic intensity as we writhe on the floor, together, one goal to attain and one purpose central to our very existence.

I come first, his hand furiously working me in iron-tight grip, and the resulting clenching waves of white-hot pleasure are all that’s necessary to kick him over with me as he thrusts inside me with one last, punishing stroke. He leans towards me and I know what will happen, what he *wants* to happen, but for some reason, it is at this last hurdle that I step back and refuse to jump.

With energy I didn’t believe was salvageable after an orgasm that powerful, I pull away from him, scrambling across the floor in as undignified a manner as possible. My arms give out and I collapse onto the far end of the rug, a rug he’ll *have* to throw out now, and watch him blink furiously, trying to dispel the haze of fog that clouds his brain. He can’t form words, but the demon is the only sign needed, fangs extended, eyes golden and filled with malevolence. Finally, and not without a gargantuan effort, I’m sure, his face settles into the human, dark and demanding.

He opens his mouth to ask, but apparently thinks better of it, and shuts it again, resting back on his heels and sighing slightly. He knows. He knows I don’t want him to drink from me, don’t want to drink from him. This was about sex, despite my aspirations to a higher level, and the Blood does not belong here.

I do not want him to taste my love, to see himself through my eyes, to pity me, laugh at me, recoil from me. And I definitely do not want to taste his shame, see the contempt with which he views me, know the regret he nurtures for bringing me into being. And I know he knows I’m right, because I see the aggravation in his eyes, and under it, the slightest flicker of gratitude. He will not push the point.

Unspoken consensus means we do not dress, though I take a brief respite to clean myself, and when I return he has dinner waiting for us. It’s human this time, and warmed, and I send a silent thanks to the ask-no-questions policy of Los Angeles’ many blood banks.

After feeding, he tugs me towards the bedroom, and I follow like a faithful puppy. The speculation on his reasons for keeping me around is fleeting, because he looks so sweet, so utterly lost in that big bed, that I cannot resist. I don’t know why he hasn’t kicked me out, and why I haven’t left, but am strangely reluctant to break the peaceful quiet. It’s companionable.

He is asleep almost in an instant. Poor boy doesn’t get much action these days, and I’m not complaining. He looks so beautiful in slumber, the lines vanished and the pain no longer evident under the lids of his eyes, shoulders relaxed and the burden lifted. His arm snakes out and he pulls me towards him, cradling me against his chest, and I lie there a moment against the silence and still of his body, sensing the closeness of his blood and willing myself to stay awake.

I should go. I should leave now before I fall asleep, just get in the car and drive away, get back to Sunnyhell before we get arise this evening and get stuck with the consequences, before we have to trade this comfortable silence for an awkward one, before that soft gaze returns to its usual harsh edge and I bury all the feelings and resent him once again.

Because if I thought he cared, if I believed even for a second that he wanted the truth that is me, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t have come, or maybe I’m kidding myself about that, and I would have come, but I almost certainly wouldn’t be here, in his bed, wrapped around him like eternity is happening to someone else, claiming a part of him that will only claim in return, and I am not ready for that.

So I will lie here until dusk, sheltered in his injurious embrace and knowing my time here will disappear with the sun, yet caring little for the fact, whispered words and ephemeral kisses and Sireblood filling my senses.