*****

The first hit sucked him into shock. The next blew him into orbit. And the next, and the next.they just kept coming in pulses of hot ice, heat and need filling the craving. And it had been so long. He'd held out. He'd been good. Too good. "Perfect." She'd said the other day, and there'd been more than a little derision in her tone. The message clear: perfect isn't right. Perfect.disturbs them.

And at first there's a flash of. burn. Because this is painful and new again after his absence. Abstinence. But that's just a moment quickly lost because there is warmth stealing through his skin. Sliding along like molten gold. Settling in his belly like a happy god, laughing.

God. This was god. Flowing into him. Power and rightness. Sex and food. All prayers answered. His veins sang with the rightness of it. This is what he'd been made for. Even if it destroyed him.

And it feels a little like dying. Like skimming along the edge of darkness and light and just humming there on the precipice. And he wants to hang in this moment forever.

Just open up the vein and slip inside. So simple. So pure. Shaking now with the sanctity of this moment. Maybe anathema to someone else, but this was his Holiest of Holies. Head bent in supplication. Hands wrapped around the offering. Drinking from the chalice.

The thing slips from his hands. Used. It doesn't matter. Just an instrument. Unimportant as he sinks down. Back to the wall. Someone had told him that. Keep your back to the wall. This isn't what they'd meant. Smile in the darkness that he owns. Because this is his.he'd just forgotten.

But there had been reminders. Standing in the highschool hallway. Insisting that they had changed. Challenged. "Not us.not demons!" Same song, different Childe, "We're not people! This doesn't end because you say so. It never, ever ends. It just goes on and on --". But his Sire's words had healed him most of all, "You think you're so different now, but you're not."

True. Not so deep under the surface. He still was. The demon. Hungry. And the demon was simple. Kill. Feed. Fuck. Destroy what interferes. It had been embracing humanity that was difficult. Complicated.

And it's all about becoming more human, isn't it? Blood on his tongue. Dead body beside him in this filthy alley, but somehow he's really human right now. Imperfect.

Choosing. Was this what it was like for Cordelia when she lied about her job experience at an audition? For Wes when he kept insisting the Watcher's Council had not fired him? For Gunn when he said that he could accept Angel as man and demon? If you believed the lie, or the rationale behind it, it was suddenly, sort of.o.k.? Then being human was complex. But do-able. He could do this.

He can tell Cordy that she looks good on the days when the visions have her looking haggard beyond her years. Tell Wes that he's a good leader, that he made the right decision. Assure Gunn that he understands his hypocritical reticence to accept that which is unlike him. Force the words through his lips that he's happy She's found love in a cardboard substitute for himself.

So easy.

And the corpse? That was an evil man, intent on doing unthinkable (except that he himself has done that and worse) things to some brunette child. He stopped him. How he stopped him, is not their concern. That's his choice.

And he should be worried with how right this feels. How easy it is to tell them that he'd chased off an attacker. Damsel saved. No one dead.

It's easy, he knows, because it's what they want to hear. And he can give them that.

Of course he tells himself it was just a lapse and it won't happen again. But he wakes in the strange non-light of his shuttered apartment that afternoon and he can still taste the blood on his mouth.

And it's.good.

So he pushes back the sheets. Pulls his body from the bed. Walks over to the small refrigerator and pulls out a packet of blood. And drinks.

Doesn't bother to focus on the lack of taste. Does it to cover up the other. Because it's not guilt that's making him do this. It's fear.

What if they keep track of the supplies they buy for him? Would they have noticed? So he grabs another bag.walking to the bathroom. Ripping open the bag. Pouring it into the toilet. Flushing.

Keeping up appearances.

This is safe. They won't know. It only happened the one time.

Safe as houses, a voice snarks in his mind.

So he walks downstairs towards the human presence and away from his ghosts.

And this is bad.

Because suppressed for so long, old senses are back. He'd fed them, and now they are awake again.

And hungry.

Cordelia, all white skin and dark hair. So much bare skin, and blue veins thrumming in her neck and wrists. And she smiles at him. Trusts him.

Pausing on the stairway, he stares. A little too long, and her smile falters.

"Angel?" That warm and comforting scent is changing. Fear is sneaking in, and he's oddly comforted that he doesn't want that. Not from her.

Shakes his head and feigns a smile, "Too early for me to be up. Sorry."

Surprised at how easy these little lies come to him. Pleased to see her relax again.

Maybe this will work out.

It's two weeks later. And there's a body struggling beneath him. So sweet.

And he'd meant to snap the neck. His hand closed around the stubble-rough skin, and he'd felt it.

Life. Blood. Hammering in rage and fear. But this time was different.

This time he thought as he lowered his mouth, fangs dropping. This time he knew.

And he savored.

It burned going down his throat. Like whiskey.... only warm and thick.

He could feel it sliding down, then coursing through his body. Hard hands scrabbling at him, young voice grunting in shock and pain, and he could feel the throb of sound against his tongue as he lapped at the wound and drank. And drank.

This feels so *good*. This body warm and writhing under him. Hurting.

He's hurting this body, this boy he'd found with blood on his hands. And it's adding layers to his mind, wrapping him in a satisfaction he hadn't known was possible.

A shudder ran through him as he realized the body was still and already cooling...his lips still pressed against the torn flesh. With a sigh he shoved the body from him...used.

And then he heard the sounds of two hands clapping.

*****
Part 2:

And then he heard the sounds of two hands clapping.

Spinning low, his eyes focused on the figure at the edge of the alley.

"Looks like Puppy found some teeth.care to share, Pet?"

Those were the words he heard falling from carefully sneering lips. But it was the tone that he understood.

The words were light, but their expression was low, feral.hungry.

Angel's body was still held in a low crouch and the other man's eyes were flickering from his stance to the body at his feet. Watching.waiting for realization to dawn.

And it did. The hunter was up, on unsteady legs, back flattened against the wall, staring at the corpse, but his senses fastened on the form approaching him.

Cautiously. The smaller man silently moved forward, waiting for any sudden moves. When none came he slid forward fluidly, half pinning the larger man against the wall, one hand hard and flat against the rough surface.

The other hand. Moving languidly, white fingers, spider-like ghosting over the still form, never quite touching.

Until, hovering, the sound of a zipper sounding loud and obscene in the death quiet. And Angel's body wasn't his own. It belonged to the dead man on the ground and the dead man pulling his cock into the night air.

Angel should have run. He knew this. He was immortal. A demon. A hundred years older than the slender creature with clever hands doing that ruthless thing to him.

But all he could was watch. Knew the blonde demon's eyes were fastened on his face. Didn't matter. All that he could focus on was the sinuous motion of skin on skin.

He stiffened at the low laugh as fingers wrapped more tightly around his shaft and continued the rough, familiar pull. Stiffened for a moment, then relaxed. Trapped.

Surrendered to the need and didn't even move into the fierce tug on his flesh. Body stilled but focused on the memory of movement that was happening in the here and now. No talent, no artifice. It could be his own hand, but he's aware it's not. It's not his hand moving angrily, jerking him off.

He won't drive into the tight, demanding fist. Because maybe, just maybe, if he can keep his hips from thrusting. Smother the groan that's threatening to tear his throat from the inside out, then maybe this isn't happening.

But it isn't a dream. His eyes register the blurring speed of movement even as his mind denies it and his body overrides all reason and denial. And he finishes. Quietly. Remembered moans dying inside him, trapped with the other ghosts he houses.

Efficiently, the stream is directed away. To the ground. Disappearing into the dark asphalt with a thousand other forgotten stains.

And he knows what's expected. Even as he is tucked away. False closeness of that other body removed from his side. He does it.

Holds out his hand, a movement pulling the cuff further from his wrist. Knowing that cold blue gaze has never dropped from him for an instant. Even as chilled hands grasp the offering.

Even when steeled points break the skin and the real euphoria hits. He can't look back. His brain, gone somewhere, registers the growl of satisfaction and that somehow manages to sink into his skin. Seep in from the lips wrapped around the wound. Suckling. Pulling him back into this place.

And it's such a real fear, this unwillingness to look. Childish and tangible like the worst fears can be. Because he knows what he'll see.

The demon. Himself.

And that's too much. He snatches his hand back from that other reality. Breaking the contact that snaps him mostly back to where he is. In this dark place.

"No more."

And his demon is laughing at him. Wild blonde hair, blue eyes snapping into gold and back again, remarkable cheekbones he's sure are sharp enough to cut glass. Yes, this is his demon.

"Not by half." The other breathes into his face. Suddenly close enough that he feels the blood scent like a caress. "You'll be back." Shifting, to lean into the visceral assault, and knowing it has moved on.

There. At the edge of the alley. Still laughing at him. "And I'll be here."

And when he does lift his head. Allows himself to focus. The space is empty. There's a dead body at his feet. And he needs to be somewhere else.

The day after is easy.

He believes those words he uttered to the dead. No more.

So simple to feel the renewed strength flowing through him and believe it's just this renewed sense of purity.

Doubt for a moment. Staring at his wrist, at the perfection of skin. He hasn't healed this fast since.

Doesn't matter. His skin may have forgotten, but the sense memory is there. His hand moving up, tongue flicking out. Willing the sensation to be what he wants. Needs a scar. Wants something stronger than the smooth skin he finds and the taste of only himself.

Drops his arm, allows the feeling to be tucked away in the back of his mind. Where it belongs. Flushes the two bags of blood, disposed with the ease of practice.

Nice to relax in Cordelia's company. Actually listening to her banter with Wes and Gunn.

Reveling in the lack of dark wings beating their accustomed gloom on him.

The second day was a little trickier.

The vision. The battle. All that he could handle. It was being trapped in the cab of Gunn's truck on the way home.

Feeling the triphammer of Wes' heartbeat, still coming down from the rush of the fight. The smell of the blood still trickling down Gunn's bicep, just oozing into Angel's pores.

Every bit of self control focused on his hands digging into his legs. Because it wasn't them. None of this raging urge had anything to do with them. This was just desire. And their buzz, their life were just sparks, igniting it.

And he knew they were aware of his change in mood. Knew his own quiet was bringing them down.

Couldn't help it. Couldn't stop for the idle chat in the lobby. Couldn't bear their eyes on him as he walked, almost shaking from the need to run, up to his room.

And by the time he closed his door behind him, he was trembling. The glass of the decanter clinked dangerously against the crystal tumbler.

The whiskey which he knew was mellow and rich, and all things that fine liquor should be, couldn't be tasted in his mouth. And this made him sob.

And it's such an alien sound. But it's his, and he cradles the pain in his chest. Nurturing it. Because there should be pain. Gypsy gift that he's been wrapping and unwrapping for years now.

No one knows the secret delight he takes in this. But he has to, has to have *something* to feel.

Brief shudder that it isn't guilt. That although he remember the words that came out of his mouth, that there will be more.

And in his room, the shadows grow a little stronger. Lengthen. Hold him. Nuzzle his ear and ask him 'When?'. The need wants to know when it will be fed again.

No. He doesn't *have* to do this. It's merely something the body wants. Something that happens between today and tomorrow. Can't think. Won't think about ten years from now. Ten days from now. Tomorrow night. Because that's too far away.

And it's all locked away inside and it wants to get out. God help him. Because he wants someone to know. Wants someone to tell him why he's still in control. Why he hasn't turned into the monster. Why is he still a man, with needs. Why he still loves his friends.

It would be easier the other way.

So much simpler if he just wanted the one life. The life of the demon. But he wants this life too. The life of a man. Working towards something.

And the simplest question makes him quake in fear. What if he doesn't have to choose?

*****
Part 3:

Fingers warmed by friction moving lazily over his cock. Torturous movement demanding more from him this time. Each time. Distance closing between bodies, and cool lips on his ear. "Feel it. Let it go."

Greedy voice pulling his hips forward. Forcing him to become active. To do more than accept.

Thrusts forward once, then back to stillness. The reward is a rougher grasp, a stronger pull and those lips moving in a sibilant hiss, "Good, luv."

It isn't hard to give in. The incentive is those same lips fastened on his vein and pulling. Dizzy orgasm of blood and come and lust. It's becoming more difficult to separate one act from the other.

Maybe he isn't supposed to.

Because that hard honey voice laced with nicotine drags him further outside himself each time. Not so detached that his hips aren't moving on their own now. How many times did it take before he was grunting and fucking that tight fist with abandon. Borrowed blood where it *belonged*, his brain empty of his own thoughts. Possessed by the demon jacking him over the cooling corpse.

His demon is so persuasive.

The light is blinding in that concealed space as the words wash over him. "Give it to me." "Come for me." "You want this." "I've got you."

And he does. So thoroughly caught, but not captured. Willingly. Doesn't feel like a trap. Too familiar for that, and his memory catches on something, so he shuts his eyes.

"Doesn't matter. I can still see you. I'm always here. Always watching."

And if he were to take the words apart and analyze them, it's disturbing. So he doesn't. Takes it as comfort, really. Simpler that way. No reason to fight it.

It's getting easier. Two lives. But he's in both of them, so.There's logic in there somewhere.

It's just in the spaces in between it's frightening.

In the hotel lobby it's warm with human life and laughter soaking into his skin like forgotten sunshine would. Conversation so easy. If they marvel at the change, they aren't saying so. They accept him as they always have.only now they seem to enjoy him. Strange comfort here.

Stranger comfort in confined spaces.

And it's odd how all those dark alleys and dim doorways have become the brightest places in his universe. How now when he goes home he feels overwhelmed by the shadows of well-lit spaces. So all the lights are on. Constantly.

Sits staring. Lies sleeping. Doesn't matter. It has to be bright. Helps carry him back to those moments.

Moments that are consuming him without leaving him empty. And how is that possible?

Human blood just singing through him. He feels like he must glow with it, but still they don't say anything.

His shaft so hard and drooling and *ready* when the demon pulls it out. He expects the sardonic look, amusement at his more than evident need. But it doesn't come.

Exchange of bodily fluids. The phrase jumps in his mind. Because clinically, that's the description of this nocturnal routine. That bothers him.

He wants to think about that. But there's no time.

Vision. Wes and Gunn are gone, working at Anne's shelter. Just Cordelia. Tears streaming down her face, but not from pain.

"Children. He's hurting them. They're just kids.Angel."

"What is he?"

"Human." Disgust and anguish, and he holds her for a moment. Wants to tell her he knows what dwells in the dark places, and they don't all have horns or claws.or fangs.

It's enough. Her sorrow is more than enough for him to understand.

He leaves. Finds the warehouse. No children. Just men. Humans.

Editing the celluloid. Packaging up the shipment for deliveries to those whose needs this fulfills.

There's a fine spray of blood across the white screen flickering with the images of small hurt bodies. Stops the noise of tiny cries and screams by crushing another body into the projector. Shuts off the hammering in his brain by viciously sinking teeth in and just.gorging. No reason not to. These.things.were just taking up space.

But feeding this way.off *them*.he feels almost filthy. Knows it's ridiculous. Silly superstition that their blood is anything other than sustenance. He can't really be tainted by their evil. And even if he could, he has enough of his own.

But the need to be cleansed is there. The ache to be pure is so strong he groans.

"Angel?"

He turns, and almost laughs at the look on the blonde demon's face. Confusion. No.wariness.

And he does laugh. This makes the demon step back. Which is wrong. Closing the distance between them is the most important thing in the world right now. So he moves.

Stands there. Waits for the ritual to begin.

But that 'want' voice inside his head should be quiet. Stilled with blood. It isn't. Vague urges becoming more distinct.

Stops the hands reaching for his belt. Grasps them. Hard. Pulls that body up to his. Just breathing in the scent.

Lets one hand loose to snake up the body pressed in to his, fingers moving through harsh hair, cupping the skull. Tilting his own head.just so. Making the offer apparent.

No hesitation in the tongue lapping strong against his neck. Full body shiver as lips are laid to skin and just suck. Audible sigh as razor fine teeth sink in. Just enough to open the flow. And he's beyond content to have that tongue lap against his jugular. Have those sharp hips rock against him. That body so hard against him and needing.

And it's almost like a key slipping into a lock. Not quite, but so close. Ghosts and memories straining against the confines he's built up. Chink in the armor.

With a gasp, that mouth is pulled from his skin and he's looking into dazed eyes, blue again. Lips ruddy with his own blood, parted slightly as if he can't quite shake the disbelief. Blinking once.

Then a slow, hard slide down the length of Angel's body until the smaller demon is kneeling. Hands growing more facile as the belt is undone, the fly unzipped. Still no pretense as the pale face leans forward and just nuzzles against the dark curls, the shaft almost caressing along one cheek.

There is a look of surprise on the younger man's face as he pulls back. He's been here before.but that was a lifetime and a soul ago. Surprise, but not confusion. One hand to his mouth and he licks broadly across the palm, using his own slick to pull the foreskin down, bare the shaft to his tongue. Slow drag of teeth and lips up the length.

"Please." The word whispered above him is enough, and with one lick across the tip, he is sucking the man into his blood-warm mouth. Cheeks hollowed with suction, fist moving over the base. And this isn't about seduction. Never was.

Finally those hips working with him. Thrusting into his mouth. Fucking his throat. One hand spared to cup the heavy sack, fingers pressing down rubbing against that sweet smooth spot. All movement frantic before the pulse of come pushing down his throat. Pulling back, just to catch some in his mouth, then sucking in again to swallow against the slowing throb.

Angel's hands in his hair, yanking him upright staring at his mouth, looking as though he's about to speak then thinks better of it and licks. His head bent over the blonde, tongue pressing against lips, then plunging in. Tasting and taking. Angel's arms wrapped around the smaller man and feeding on his mouth. Eyes shut tight because if he opens them he knows the light will blind him.

One arm dropping to move between them, pressing a large hand against the erection straining against the other man's jeans. Startled by the sudden hiss and even more abrupt absence of the body in his arms. That he wants there. That he wants.

The wariness is back in those blue eyes. His demon is backing away again. The growing distance almost a painful *thing* growing in Angel's chest. Searches for the words, some charm to tie his demon to him, but the blonde keeps moving.

Such an eerie tone to the voice tonight as a careful mask slips over his face, "Just remember. I'm watching."

As if that were enough.

*****
Part 4:

Nothing seems to be enough anymore. Not the time spent with his friends. Not the hours spent fighting the good fight. Only too much time in between.

It's being alone that he can't stand. Makes him over-think. The memory of light leaving him exposed, laid open. Available to all his desires that hover over him anxiously. Waiting with him.

He knows when he has to go out again. Things become vague....diluted life, and he's struggling against shadows even as he stares into the now-bare 100-watt bulb.

Blinks back against the shadows and remembers. I'm watching you...always there...is he? Watching now?

It helps to think that. Because as much as he needs to presence of those humans in his life, this need goes deeper. So much older. So much a part of him. Blood.

It's not the blood making him hard right now. It's the thought of those blue eyes, watching him. Knowing him.

Brown eyes open and staring ahead at the ghosts he conjures up. Large hands moving from the arms of the chair to his thighs. Willing the vision to be reality.

He finds if he stares at the light long enough it's not his hands pulling his cock. Hands wet with spit because that tongue had been.

Blunt fingernails shifting up his throbbing length where teeth had been. His hips lifting with rough thrusts into tight fist that should be a throat. Blinded eyes searching for that elusive burn only captured at another's touch. His touch.

His taste. And for a moment he had both. Enough to carry him through this moment. Enough for the brilliance to flair in his brain and burn out doubt as he came in his fist. Shaking with momentary rapture.

It's when he's coming down...when his brain clears for a moment...starts to really *think*. Brow furrowed in confusion, because he'd wrapped his arms around that smaller figure, thrust his tongue into that mouth and devoured what he could find of himself there.

Frozen in that snapshot, and realizes. The demon never moved in response. Blonde hair, taut muscle, blue eyes....never pressed back in that last embrace. And he's angry suddenly, that those arms weren't clutching him. Fierce flash of memory, and that tongue hadn't pressed against his....hadn't taken anything back. Except blood...and semen.

Next time....the kill is fierce and quick...expedient as he can be in the half-euphoria of life bursting on his tongue. Doesn't even have to turn to know the other is there. Scent on the air a little like desperation, and that's oddly....pleasing. Smiling as he does turn and catches the smaller body quickly. Aggressive use of his larger weight to cover and push forward, still smiling.

Expecting a struggle. Anticipating force. Not disappointed. Grunt of surprise though as the aggression is moved into him and not away.

Mouth snarling up to meet his in a frenzy of tongues lashing and lips pressed together in a fury of need. Wonderfully those arms wrapped around him, and that terrible empty space between Angel and the rest of the world is gone. Vanquished in the bruise of leather/denim clad muscle contending for maximum press against him.

This time no protest when his hand moves between their bodies, making space for his target. Some alchemy of sex has their cocks free in his large hand. Come slippery and gliding with each jerk, between the thrust of both hips.

Rocking over-sensitive flesh, so smooth hard and warm since that's where all life and movement are hovering. Waiting for it.

His blonde demon's lips sliding from his with a final suck and lick. Blunt teeth growling along jaw, cheek, throat. Savage tear of ivory now, something like a whine as slimmer hips ram up. Hands grabbing at dark hair, pulling that thick neck down to just suckle and thrust, allowing Angel to hold on and pray, his head bowed in something like supplication. Hand moving in a soft liquid blur.

Both growling toward the frantic moment. It's fierce and hallowed and it belongs. To him.

And he thinks with what's burning in him right now he won't see shadows for days. Can wrap it up inside the way he's still desperately holding this body against him. For a very long time.

His demon disagrees, but the voice isn't harsh. "Enough."

Sticky disengage. Captures the slow smile on the blonde's face and burns it into his retinas. Souvenir. Until next time.

This time Angel's brave enough to ask, "You're watching?"

Wins him a laugh, "Always."

Just enough to keep him safe a while longer.

He brings Cordelia ice cream, staying up late and listening to her stories. Tucking her into a spare bedroom because she'd fall asleep driving home. Watching her sleep. Head turned just so and he can see the pulse beat gently at her elegant throat.

Beautiful. He loves the life thrumming through her. Loves what it brings him. Her friendship, loyalty, overly brutal honestly. Closes the door and walks to his own room.

Asleep himself within moments. Smiling. Only one light left on.

It's like that for days. Not that he doesn't think about it. Wants it. Plays back the images in his brain. His own fingers press in remembered place on his flesh where the other had touched. Craves to have that body with him. Under him. Around him.

Finally sinking in that wanting isn't enough. That's not how it's done. This dance has a delicate virtue to it, and wanting just sullies it. It has to be need.

So he is patient. Moving through his life with a vigor borne of living blood and animal lust. His two lives merging in these moments. He'll wait because his demon is watching and waiting with him.

Here. Now. The need is all the ghosts and fears inside him. Begging to be let through the walls. Devouring him with such sweet pain. Need making him hard and fast. Little delight or vengeance in the kill because it is simply what must be. A means to an end.

Gently laying the body on the ground. He's a half-life away from being complete.

Turning. Nothing.

No one.

Slow spin as his eyes search. Scanning for what he knows must be there. Should be there. It was something like a promise, wasn't it? "I'm watching." "Always."

Repeating the words like a mantra. Belief and need keeping him there. Waiting.

It's almost dawn and something hurts so deep down inside of him he wants to scream. He waited. He needed. Wasn't that enough?

Almost blind by the time he stumbles into his room. Darkness close around him and crushing.

So he talks to his shadows. Cajoling, begging. Just a rest from the whisperings of need crawling along his skin. It feels like ill omens scratched along his flesh.

Foretelling nothing.

He mourns the loss of light, tries to calm the rising panic. Succeeds for a moment, and that's enough. Barely.

Adequate, so he can straighten up, blink his eyes and see the room. Knows the blindness is just the mirage shimmer of desperate need. Shoves the fear to the back, remembers who he is. He can do this.

Survive another day.

Because tomorrow will be different. It has to be.

*****