I'm not sure I know what the Hell's going on, here -- why the Slayer's flipping her lid, and why my idiot Sire is so against Bonding with her. I mean, he loves her, right? Says she's the root of his damn humanity or whatever, and I'll buy that -- long as it doesn't cost more than a buck or two. It's not like her drinking him is gonna Turn her, anymore than him drinking her is gonna Un-Turn him. So what's the problem? A little more shagging, a little bloodplay, and everybody feels better.

Pisses me off, this whole damn scene. Why the Hell don't they see what's as plain as the noses on both their stupid faces? Angel might be the only one who actually almost bought the farm, but the Slayer and me have been pretty much flailing about, too. Seems straightforward to me -- problem is, we're not pulling together a way a pack really should. Not working together.

Listen to me, bloody John Lennon, now... Imagine.

I see it like this -- Plonker's my Sire. We've been either apart or hating each other's guts for a century or so, and we're so messed up in the head, neither of us know which damn way is up. Before that, we were fine. So, solution? Get the bloody Hell back together. Same goes for him and the Slayer -- your soul withering without its mate? Get your bloody better half back, and keep her close, Curses and 'normal life' shit be damned!

But, nooooo. These two are all about the GWA, aren't they? Know shit about the easy way... everything's gotta be a damn trial and tribulation... weepin' and whinin' and gnashing of teeth.

Well, it's making me bonkers. And I'm not about to let the Slayer either die of pneumonia, or walk out of here without tying up all these damn loose ends. I'm not running around like this for the rest of my damn unlife!

You know, I'm the one with no soul, here. I'm the one who's selfish and focused on my own goals and no one else's -- I've got no conscience, for Skippin' Chrisssake! Why the bloody Hell's it been left to me to figure all this out?

Now that I think about it... maybe it's the soul that does the overthinking in these two idiots to begin with, and I'm the only one who can *see* what has to be done. As usual.

Anyway, the point is, Angel's been shirking his damn duty all around... by me, by the Slayer, by our Darla and Dru, and that's why his brain's turning to tapioca. He's the bloody Alpha, here -- he needs to take charge of his damn women. Track down D&D -- skip all that stakin' nonsense, and just take a little time to remind 'em who the Hell's city they're in. 'Snot hard...just a little domination. Chain 'em up, knock 'em around a bit, and their attitudes are good as new. Hell, I'd do it myself, but it's not my damn job. I'm Beta -- my duty's to his ass, not his whole damn family. I watch him, maybe his mate, make sure he doesn't dust my Dru, then kick back to watch some TV.

'Course, I did just sorta threaten to *steal * his mate, so... if he suddenly decides to start getting all technical-like about the vampire code, my ass would more than likely be toast.

But really... He shouldn't have left the Slayer hanging like he did. Fact is, he never shoulda gotten involved with her in the first place. Wanna play sidekick for the White Hats? Go to town. But stay the Hell out of the Chosen One's pants. This is a lesson I've learned the hard way, myself. And even if you can't do that (she is hotter than Hell, after all) you sure as FUCK don't drink her damn blood unless you're planning on killing her.

The thing about Blood and Vampires is this -- people may be walking fast-food joints, but what's pumping around inside them is a Hell of a lot more powerful than a Big Mac. Blood is the center of what we *are*. We exist because some sadistic demon a couple million years ago infected a few blokes with *his* blood on the way out of this dimension. Just a little "fuckallaya" to say goodbye by. Every one of us since is tied together by that single thing. And you better bloody well believe that we'll do anything to get it.

That's just simple feeding. When you drink, you take a part of your meal with you -- what they were gets to be part of what you are. And when you talk about Turning and Mating and such, it gets even more complicated than that. Hence all these damn Sire issues I got. Fucker's at the core of me, and I'm at the core of him, and we're one damn being until one or the both of us are dust. No hemmin' and hawin', arguing, discussing or philosophizing about it, no matter what Angel thinks. It just *is*.

If you let your meal walk away, you've opened up a can of worms you just don't want to deal with. You don't drink somebody's blood and leave 'em to wander around all confused - it's like eatin' the cow's brain, then setting 'em loose again. It's just not done. Not for mercy sake -- Hell, no-- but because it's messy, and they tend to follow you around until they drop dead. You either turn them, or kill them. I mean, I've heard of some vamps using human slaves before... most of the big Master's have 'em, and Blood is a hundred times more reliable than hypnosis or torture for getting one to do your bidding. Trouble is, if you go that route, you end up with the mindless cow I was talking about before. Grey matter gets all melted, will goes right out the window. Handy for canon fodder, but not so great if you want to leave the love of your damn life intact.

Buffy's only as sane as she is because she's the Slayer, I guess. She's got more will than most. But she's still chock full of major damn problems, just like me. The only answer I can see to all of this mess is a formal sort of mating thing to close the damn circle.

'Course, I dunno if it'll actually *work* on a human, even if she is the Chosen One. Might very well kill her, for all I know. But I'm doubting it. She's pretty damn tough.

I've never gone much for ritual. Truth is, I hate all that crap. Angelus used to, too. 'Probly rebelling against that Papist upbringing the Irish love so damn much.

But the Slayer's flipped out, and I think I've finally convinced him that what she needs is a shot of the Good Stuff... let him get under her skin as much as she's under his. Almost as much as he's under mine. If we're all bound together, I figure we'll all be better off, in the long run.

I can't believe I'm even thinking this. I mean, she's the damn VAMPIRE SLAYER! My arch bleedin' nemesis!

Oh, Hell, who am I trying to kid? I can't use that argument anymore. I know better, after the past week. I've been inside her... I've held her while she cried, and I even got up in the middle of the damn night to go chasing her out in the bloody rain so she wouldn't catch cold when her sense took a hike.

And I did just offer to be her damn Mate.

Face it, Will, you bloody moron. You're stuck with your noncy, souled Sire and the damn Chosen One for the rest of your eternal life.

Might as well make the best of it.

He brings her back into the bedroom. She's crying again, and he looks like his dead heart's all broken in a million pieces, and sod-all if I don't just feel like Hell, but warm and cozy inside at the same time.

Angel looks at me, long and hard, and I wonder if he's remembering that night he Turned me. I wonder if it was as deep and profound and mind-blowing for him as it was for me.

Probably not, seeing as how Angelus was a sadistic, self-centered fucker back then, and he was collecting me --a thing, just like Angel said-- as much as claiming me.

But, maybe now... the last couple of days, there's been a lot of emotion in his eyes... stuff I've never seen there before. Feelings for me, if you can believe it... So I get to wondering if his soul's a *good* thing, because every damn minute I spent with Angelus, I spent trying to get his attention... make him love me the way I soddin' worshipped him.

Needless to say, I busted my immortal ass more or less for nothing.

This look he's giving me right now... my damn knees turn to jelly. Dru always used to say he had eyes like needles... and she was right. Eyes like the damn Reaper's scythe, is more like it. Seeing him look at me like that fills me with this... goddamn *peace*, like a breeze going through me... like an itch I've had for a hundred goddamn years is finally getting scratched. I look right back at him -- eyes glued to that bloody *God's* face that haunts my dreams, and I realize what's happening, here. He's not just giving me what I've wanted since the night I died... he's *trusting* me. He's asking me to help him give Buffy--his precious Mate-- what she thinks she's been missing... what all of us have been missing.

It's a damn intense notion -- first time he's ever actually asked me to stand and be his Beta. I've been his bitch, his whipping boy, his bargaining chip, his whelp, his fuck toy, his vampire shield, his worst enemy -- I've done all that. But he's never asked me to do something so...traditional... big. Nothin' that most First Made are expected to do in a hunting pack.

I've never actually been his Childe, until this moment.

And fuck me if this doesn't just... change something in me. I can't describe it... I'm not the damn wordy one in this group. But I start to see that this is where we've been headed all along... maybe since the first time I lay eyes on that body... felt those eyes drill right through me, a hundred and thirty damn years ago.

I'm all of a sudden still. I mean... quiet. Not angry anymore, which is pretty bloody scary, considering I've been damn pissed off since I last saw Angelus in China, a hundred years ago.

It's this... relief. This... oh, fuck-all, I don't know... but I know the temptation's there to fall to my knees, start weeping like a babyman, and kiss his damn smelly feet. And I mean almost a compunction... like bloodlust... only wussier.

But I won't. First off, I'd rather be a pile of filth in his dustpan than grovel at his damn feet. And second... that's not what he needs from me.

And all of a sudden, I *care* about what he needs.

Go figure.

My mind's going a mile a minute with all of this heavy shit, but I'm not gonna let him see that. I try to pretend I still have a single shred of damn dignity left, and that I'm doing this because *I* want to, and not because he's asking me, which we already know is a damn crock.

Buffy's completely silent. Not quiet like she was a week ago when I was kicking her ass at chess, then nudged her into such a flamin' rage she fucked me raw in the middle of the damn cemetery. No... she's quiet for the same reason I am, I imagine. We both know something damn *important's* about to go down. Something that's going to change *everything* for all of us... he's alive, he's whole, he's here, and he's about to do his damndest to prove that we still belong to him, and him to us.

I've been having wet dreams about this moment since I became a damn vampire. Only... the Slayer wasn't usually involved. But, you know, as Chosen One's go, she's not so bad. Definitely my favorite, which I guess explains why the Hell I've never been able to bring myself to kill her.

We've spent three days shagging and yelling and working through all our damn *issues*, like this whole thing's been Therapy Summer Camp, but until now... right now, in this dark, poncy hotel room, we haven't all really been *together*, you know? Home. Not Square One, but Point Zero, where it all begins. Eyes wide open, nobody crazy or sick or confused. Just being what we are, and where we most want to be.

And ain't it poetic -- it's all about His essence. Sireblood. Loverblood... the stuff that ties us all together, and brought us to this moment. The reason why I'm in His bedroom in the damn 21st century and not mulch in some unmarked grave outside Whitechapel.

I don't think I've had this many deep damn thoughts in 130 years. Frankly, it makes my fucking head hurt.

Angel leaves the Slayer in my care and walks over to the fire. Drags one of the chairs from there to beside the bed, and looks over at us again, standing there in the fading firelight like a beautiful damn ghost. When he's all shrouded like that, I can't see his eyes real well, and he could be Angel or Angelus or any fucking mixture of the two. Personally, right now, I don't care which.

He stands there and waits.

I hold tight to the Slayer, who can't seem to hold herself up too well anymore. She kind of sags against me, gaping at him as I lead her over and sit her down in the chair, then turn to my Master again.

My fucking heartbreakingly beautiful bloody Maker. My God. The Center of my existence. I realize that if I stop thinking for a second and keep my mouth shut... if I don't move or breathe, or make any sound at all...

I can almost hear his thoughts.

I swear, time just stops. The only motion in the whole damn universe is his hand, rising up from his side, and gently cupping my face. If my heart was beating, you better be damn sure it would stop right now, and if I wasn't already dead, I'd be in a heap on the floor at his feet.

This bloody frustrating moralistic goddamn nancyboy superhero... the love of my fucking unlife... he leans closer, his eyes locked on mine, and when he kisses me...

Soft. Tender. Nothing else has ever happened to me before but this. He kisses me slow and deep, and I remember every damn inch of his mouth, that cool tongue sliding against mine... a languid caress. I hear myself sigh... I mean, one of those moaning breaths that washes up from your toes. I'm instantly hard as a damn stone, trembling like some bloody virgin on her wedding night.

Angel takes me in his arms, and I'm nothing but his lips and his hands, and goddamn it, I've missed him. I want him like I've never wanted another bloody thing in 13 damn decades -- not blood, not beer, not smokes... not even my Dru. I want him more right this second than that night he took me... killed me... made me his forever.

And now he's making me his again. Claiming me the way I wished he'd claimed me the first time. Rebuilding me from the cells up with those damn strong,gentle hands... gives me form as he runs them over me... just the lightest of touches that barely tickles the hairs on my skin, and I'm set with this burning hum all through me as my flesh just turns into a big pile of goosebumps.

Like being alive again. He always does that, every damn time he touches me. Angel really is my God -- he made me, he killed me, and he can kill me over and over again, any time he damn well pleases -- or resurrect me again, just the way he is now.

I press myself against him... feel the hard, familiar contours of his amazing goddamn body... and I'm suddenly falling. I close my eyes, feel his hands on my cock, my balls, stroking the most sensitive parts of me... blunt teeth nibbling on my throat... my collar bone... devouring me. Tender lips tease my nipples to diamond-cutter peaks... and he's moving down. Painting fire over the center of my body. I open my eyes again, and watch as my Sire gets on his knees -- his fucking KNEES--- his bloody huge, magnificent hands running down my sides. I tangle my fingers up in his thick hair, and remember it being long and clean and shining... remember untying little silk bows from the end... remember combing out chunks of flesh and gore from the curls, him laughing and kissing me all the while.

My hands start this remembering as they move of what seems their own free will... wandering over his thick neck... his broad shoulders... the first inches of his hard back. Good God, he's so beautiful...

Angel caresses my crotch softly, rings his fingers around my cock, cups my balls and Holy FUCKING GOD, please just let me die like this... let me be dust in his hands, his mouth... it closes over me, sucking me deep, until I can feel the back of his throat.

In... out... slow... long... tongue tracing, circling, tasting me. Master of blissful torture, my Sire...

"Jesus... Fuck, Angelus..." I hear myself moaning, and pull him so tight onto me, thrust so hard into his mouth, that he grunts with the force of it. He starts making this... humming moan in the back of his throat. Not demon purring, exactly, but a human version... I'm seeing stars, I swear to fucking Christ.

My whole body is one big tense bloody knot in his hands... the vibrations rip through me as he clutches my ass and takes me even deeper, and I'm pretty sure that we're all about to see the end of William the Damn Bloody. Out of body, a million miles away, I hear this noise... this long, bellowing wail... I can't do anything but thrust and jerk deep into his throat and bloody keen as I come.

He's the only thing holding me together. The only thing keeping me from disintegrating as he drinks me down, licks me clean... nothing left of me but shivering blubber and post-orgasm bliss... no control over my limbs at all, and I feel my legs start to go.

But with a speed that only vampires -- and maybe Slayers -- can produce, I'm off my feet and face down on the bed, and the moment changes tone just like that. The blowjob was about giving in that totally human way that Angel puts so much stock in. But now...

He snarls as his huge body covers me... and all of a sudden I'm buried in tiny fang pinpricks on the back of my neck and shoulders... his nails digging into my sides. The demon in me comes out to play, growling in response to the rough treatment, 'cause it's *his* damn turn to get some.

Not gentle, not fucking tender, this... and I'm so goddamn glad I could just start roaring with it. But I'm the pup, here, and I'm not doing anything with my voice but whimpering as Angel pulls me up to my hands and knees beneath him. I can feel his thick cock poking against the juncture of my thighs, and I'm not thinking a bloody thing but, 'Yes, Sire, Fucking TAKE me. Kill me. Rip me apart!'

Yeah, I'm his bitch. His little whimpering love slave, and you better believe human tender sex don't hold a fucking candle to this. His hands parting my arse cheeks... no wet fingers inside, no soft tongue to lube... just Sire cock...he rips into me, and *now* I'm making noise... screaming; howling, in fact, as he pounds into me, tearing my whole world right in bloody half.

Jesus, it hurts! But the pain is part of it -- the agony and him grunting as he rips into me, jarring my body with every delicious, vicious damn thrust...

He doesn't need to give me a reach-around. My tackle's twitching and jerking and humming and aching just like the rest of me, and I'm going over just from the perfect violence of him dominating me like this.

Angel grabs me by the back of the hair, yanks my neck back tight, and blankets himself over me, rutting me right into fucking oblivion, and when his teeth shred into the back of my neck...

I let out a shriek like no sound I've ever made before in my life. He clamps down fierce on me, and I feel the end of the world coming as I start spurting all over the place. The sounds he makes when he drinks are just...fucking beautiful... sucking, grunting, and whimpering all at once. He hammers into my ass, and I collapse beneath him. He doesn't let go of my neck for one split second, but pins me flat as he drives deeper, harder, faster... he just fucks me and drinks me so damn hard, I'm dizzy. And right when I think I'm about to pass out, he lets go of my neck, clamps his hands down on my shoulders, and starts wailing.

Oh, Jesus H. Fuck, yes! He pounds me into the bed, and I feel him start to pulse inside of me, screaming my name and a bunch of bloody nonsense as he adds his cool seed to the blood he's drawn...

And then it's done. He eases out slow, gentle... lays a tiny kiss at the small of my back... tenderly laps at my poor, ruptured hole until I start cooing with the totally bloody paradoxical sensation of it.

Then he turns me over... lifts me up and into his arms like a baby. I'm weak with the blood loss and this... feeling... this overwhelming drowsy sensation of everything being right in the whole bloody cosmos. Angel cradles me against his chest, my face nestled against his neck, his hand softly petting the back of my hair, and whispers.

"Drink, Childe..."

I moan. Find my lips rooting along his artery like a babe searching for a tit... taste his sweet flesh against my mouth, and the blood... my blood... our blood, pounding beneath my lips.

I sink my teeth into that fount, and taste all of it -- him, me, us... Darla, Dru, even that wanker Penn... the Slayer and a thousand thousand souls inside him. I drink so deep, bite so hard, it hurts my jaw. It must hurt him, too, because his hands clutch my shoulders so hard I can feel the bruises forming. I really don't care. Ambrosia is an understatement when describing the flavor of him... mint and leather, pride and sacrifice, eternal goddamn life and belonging...

I lied to Buffy about his taste. I mean, there's just no way a human can understand, unless they've...

Oh, right. I remember what we're doing here, now. I remember, and you know what? I don't give a flying fuck, because all I want is to glut on him until I explode.

But he pulls me away gently. And sod-all if I don't let him. I look up into his stunning damn human face, he gives me a little smile, and kisses the last remnants of his blood from my lips.

Then turns to look at the Slayer. Damn if I didn't mostly forget she was even there. But when he looks, I look too, 'cause I gotta know what she's thinking of all this. It's not the sort of thing humans get to see, you know? At least... not and live to tell about it. Even if she is the Chosen One. Hell -- especially because she's the Chosen One.

But I'll be damned. Look at her. Flushed with desire, sweating a little, even, and not looking the tiniest bit scandalized, traumatized, or even shocked. Just... waiting.

She is one Hell of a woman, Buffy.

Angel holds me close to one side of him, and reaches out to her. She takes his hand, and he pulls her onto the bed, on her knees between us. She kneels there, and she and him look at each other for a long time, having one of those conversations that nobody can hear but them.

Then he looks over at me again, and my heart squelches in my chest.

He looks so damn happy.

Angel puts his free arm around Buffy's tiny shoulders, and pulls her to him... I feel her body trembling against me as her face goes straight to the gushing wound I just opened in his throat, and he gives this... fucking erotic gasp as her mouth seals over it, and she starts to drink like she was born to do it.

It's the most disturbing, beautiful, carnal, ironic goddamn thing I've ever seen. Buffy starts gulping, wrapping her little arms up around his neck, pressing her body against his chest, digging her fingers in for better purchase. He moans, low and deep, winding his fingers into her hair and sighs her name... and I'm instantly hard again.

The Slayer just keeps right on drinking... greedy little sucking sounds, her heart pounding, her breath fast...

Angel looks at me, and if that isn't perfect happiness in those eyes, then I'm Mother Bloody Theresa. They tell me what's coming next, and I realize that I better goddamn turn into the King of self-control in the next couple of seconds, or me and him are gonna spend the rest of the night trying to stake the world's first Slayer vamp.

I watch his eyes turn back to yellow as they tick down to the exposed side of her neck, and it's just fucking *bizarre* to see him be gentle as he eases his fangs into her. Buffy pushes away and cries out, her fingers spread and rigid against his back, and she arches into him. I can smell her arousal, wet and hot and dripping out of her, and it's just a reflex to reach beneath and dip my fingers inside... She starts whimpering... grinding against my hand as I tickle her clit. Angel laps lightly at the bite in her neck, squeezing her plump little ass and murmuring into her ear.

He pulls her up off my hand and plants her solid onto his cock. She sinks down on him, wraps her legs around his waist, and he starts kissing her like no tomorrow as she rides him.

Oh... man. I swear her heart is going to explode, it's thundering so hard. And she's got this new smell, now. Hell, we all do... we're making a brand new bloody creature, right here, tonight.

Before I know what's happening, Buffy reaches out and urges me over to kneel behind her.

Son of a whore. Can this get any more damn kinky?

I rub myself all over her, pull tight to her back... I can feel my Sire thrusting up and inside of her... I reach between them... goop my hands slick, and start rubbing around the outside of her puckered little arsehole, then my latest, greatest hard-on...

Not an easy position... the norm, for us, I guess... But I could be a damn Tantric yogi, 'cause I manage it. Gentle as I can, I squeeze into her, and we all make the same damn sobbing noise as we connect, and Buffy tenses for a moment against the pain. I hold still. Angel whispers to her, and kisses her lips... I brush my hands over her shoulders and kiss her neck... then move into her until I'm buried to the hilt.

This is... fuck-all profound, is what. Angel and I find a matching, easy rhythm inside the Slayer, and in a moment, she's not only relaxed, but moaning and joining right in, meeting our every thrust.

Ain't gonna last too long, let me tell you. Any of us. She starts chanting, "Oh, God... Oh, God, OhGOD..." and Angel's making his desperate "out of control" noises, and I'm right on the damn edge, too. We're one damn body, one damn orgasm rushing on, one instinct. We all move in perfect time, like cogs and pistons in a damn machine, and at the exact same moment... that last fucking *amazing* moment, our faces all move down...

Angel tears into my throat again, just as I sink into the wound he left in Buffy's, and she goes back to his.

So we're feeding and sobbing, whimpering and fucking and bleeding, and everything just... stops. We all freeze at the same moment... all pull away from each other, and I swear on my eyeballs, we all howl so loud, the bloody windows rattle as we come together.

No bullshit. Three-way fucking simultaneous goddamn orgasm. How the fuck do ya like that?

We untangle, finally, and me and Buffy just sort of fall over in a heap on the bed. I put my arms around her and hold her to me, and listen to my body hum.

Damn, I love Slayer blood.

Buffy's instantly asleep. And no fucking wonder.

And ain't Angel totally upright, still! Can't bloody believe it. He sits there for a while, perfectly serene, just gazing at us with that goofy mush-head expression he always gets. He pets Buffy's hair and looks deep in my eyes.

I should probably make some kind of comment here, don't you think? But I don't. I just hold the Slayer close, and smile at him.

I'm such a pansy. Can't even bring myself to roll my eyes at him.

"I love you, Will," he says.

"Yeah. I know," I respond.

I'm not that much of a pansy.

"Hungry?" he asks.

"Yeah," I say. Guess my vocabulary's gone all mushy, too. "Pretty."

He smiles... that crooked half-grin thing that's his damn trademark, and I find myself wondering...

You know, I'm just getting used to his damn soul... is he gonna lose it now?

He gets up and ambles into the kitchenette like he wasn't half-dead or the most miserable creature on the damn planet just a few days ago. Like we didn't all just shag and drink the Hell out of each other. I watch him move... pull out a couple of blood bags from the fridge, pop them in the microwave, start it... then he pulls out other stuff... juice, eggs, bacon, bread, cheese, fruit. Whippin' up a smorgasbord for the three of us, bless his dead heart.

Angel starts-- you might want to sit down for this-- *whistling* as he cooks. So I'm thinking his Soul is good and glued in place, because Angelus, number one, wouldn't make breakfast for any-fucking-body, and two, he sure as fuck wouldn't whistle unless he was pulling entrails out of some poor bugger while they were still alive and screaming.

He comes back with this enormous tray covered with crap, and gently nudges Buffy awake. She's all rumpled, grumpy-drowsy, rubbing her eyes, and I help her sit up.

"You need to eat something, love," he tells her. She nods, still out of it, but obediently takes the juice he hands her, and gulps it down. I do the same with one of the mugs of blood, and so does he.

Aren't we just the picture of friggin' domesticity? We eat our breakfast in this peaceful, intimate silence, just giving each other little glances and smiles (and smirks, in my case). When we're done eating (or rather, when meand the Slayer are done. Bugger still won't eat human food), Angel takes it all away, throws it in the sink, and comes back to lie down with us again. Me and him curl up around Buffy, and he kisses her forehead, then looks over at me.

I feel like a brand new damn bride, seeing all that love in his eyes. Dunno what it'll mean tomorrow, if anything, but... I never was much of a planner anyway. I'll deal with whatever he throws at me when it hits. Right now, what's hitting me is that I feel better than I have in... Well... ever.

"I love you, Sire," I hear myself saying. Comes out without me even thinking about it. "I mean... Angel."

Oh, God. If I could move, I'd stake myself.

He reaches over and brushes my cheek. The last thing I hear as I drift off is his sigh, and whispered, "I love you. Both of you. More than you'll ever know."

*****
Part 14:

I watch them sleeping... my sweet angel and my little devil, and listen to their blood singing in my veins.

I'm tired. My body aches and yearns for me to join my two loves in the Dreaming, but I can't let my eyes close. There's too much moving through me... too many emotions and thoughts about this moment, and I don't want to miss a single one. After all, they'll probably be gone soon, and these past few nights will have to sustain me through eternity.

It's all right, though. I can feel them both inside me, now... smell them on my skin, and see them clearly in sharp detail, every time I close my eyes. No matter what happens next, they will always be with me.

For the first time in as long as I can recall, I feel as if I am truly standing on solid ground. What Buffy, Spike and I have shared tonight has shored up my crumbling foundations... reawakened my faith. Made me remember what it is I struggle for... and against. They're living symbols of crime and passion, sin and hope, mistakes made and forgiveness granted. I may not yet be close to absolution, but with their strength, their love, their trust and stubborn insistence on keeping me in the world flowing beneath my skin...

I know that I can get there. I have to. For them. For my family, if for no other reason.

But first, I have to let go. Of these two... and of my hopelessness, my grief. Let go of Darla. She's gone, and to let myself vanish with her would be a waste. There is still good that I can do in this world. I can still make a difference to who knows how many others, even though I failed utterly with her.

But did I fail, really? For the first time, I think about the facts of the matter, beyond the haze of my agony over it. It might have only been a single moment, but Darla *did* find her peace. She looked Death in the eye, and took its hand with a smile. She learned something about being human. She accepted what was happening to her. And she said that it was because of what she saw in me.

Me.

That's reaching out, isn't it? Part and parcel of my mission. Making a difference. Touching the darkest, loneliest of souls? What happened after in no way invalidates that, does it? My duty is to save the lost, and for that moment, wasn't Darla saved? She didn't renounce her decision to embrace her natural death, to find a human peace before the end. That chance was stolen from her. And I didn't *let* Dru Turn her -- there was nothing I could have done, in my condition... under the circumstances they put me in.

Cruel fate, nothing more. Except perhaps for the role that Wolfram and Hart played. But that's an issue for another night's ruminations... and revenge.

Killing Darla and Drusilla... I'm fairly certain that I couldn't go through with it, no matter how much my conscience tells me that I should. Because to destroy them is not part of my mission. To turn my back on my family, my friends, my Self, in order to hunt them down...

Another waste that would solve nothing. In the larger scheme of things, they are only two more vampires in a world filled with them. Yes... they were my Sire... and youngest Childe (yet another reason why I can't kill them), but not my Destiny. My Destiny involves a far bigger picture than the two of them and our history... I would be doing it to assuage my own guilt and responsibility, not for any more noble or acceptable reason.

I think perhaps this is the most important lesson for me to learn, right now... letting go. Not obsessing. Moving forward without looking back. Allowing the beings closest to me, both in the positive and the negative, to follow their own path without my interference.

But if Darla, Drusilla and I happen to cross paths in the future...

Well... then, we'll see.

And all of this comes from my lovers, who've given so much of themselves to heal and nourish me. It's far deeper than just the joining of our bodies or the blood that we exchanged... the Mating was only the vehicle through which Buffy and Spike shared their spirits. And it is that which has brought me to this clarity once again.

It's that mending that I can feel giving me strength. If they can forgive me... love me still, even after the things I've done...

Can't the Powers That Be?

I have to think maybe... yes. And if my Favoured Childe and my Soul's Breath can go on every day the way they do with their hurts and their burdens -- the wounds created by the circumstances of their lives -- can't I? If Spike can continue to be nasty, smart-mouthed and disagreeable... still fully Spike, despite being denied the very essence of his being... If Buffy can keep being so alive, so bright and giving, despite all the things her Calling has stolen from her...

If these two can see something worth living for... see something in me worth saving... it seems only right that I should find the strength to do the same. After all, the things that ripped my beloveds' dreams apart were not of their making. They didn't ask for any of it.

I did.

But now, with them inside of me... knowing that they are in the world, and that they care...

It's enough to make me want to continue fighting. The deepest, most meaningful impetus to my mission:

Being worthy of them.

I don't know what will happen when we leave this room. Maybe none of us will ever be together again. But it won't matter. We're Blood. Bound together so tightly, so completely, that wherever we go, we are connected. Nothing will change that, now.

It's enough. For once in my unending existence, what I have right before me is plenty. I don't need... or even want... more.

It feels good, to be satisfied for a change.

* * *

My body is burning hot. Vision swims. I want nothing more but to die, now. I'm ready. All I needed was to see her sweet face again before I finally left this shell, and now I have.

"Then it's over."

I won't let her do what she's suggesting. I won't let her.

"It's never over! I won't let you die! Drink!"

I back away. She follows... hits me Slayer-hard. My skull rings... consciousness waivers.

(no)

("I'll never hurt her!")

She punches me again. The demon howls, ripping at its fetters.

("You were *born* to hurt her!")

(never)

And a third time. The bones and skin of my face stretch... fangs descend, and somewhere in my center, the monster roars, charging toward the surface.

(but I'm still here... it's still me looking at her. At this... abomination...)

Dying vision razor sharp.

(let me go, please...)

She grabs the back of my head, and pulls me toward her.

Mesmerized... weak... I can't resist.

("Drink me.")

(no...)

My face cradled in the crook of her fine neck... bloodlust wailing... body shattered... I smell her life... her power... her fear and desire. Taste her sweet skin. God, how I miss her skin. How I'll always miss it...

(yes.)

("She wants you to taste her.")

(yes.)

Her flesh parts like soft butter beneath my teeth... her artery ruptures, flimsy against my intrusion...

And she rushes... pours... storms into me. Fills me. I drive into her... take what she offers so freely... glut on her love.

(yes.)

We both shiver... moan... we fall hard to the floor.

I take her.

(God, yes.)

Kill her.

Listen to her heartbeat pound... race... struggle... slow.

("This is what you are.")

(yes.)

("Kill her.")

"NO!"

I wake with a start, and realize immediately that she's not beside me any longer. I look over at Spike... he hasn't moved an inch, which is unusual. He's always hyperactive, even in sleep.

(tired...)

Buffy's not in bed, not in the room, but she's still near. I get up. Feel the moonlight and sunlight blending in the first moments of the dawn outside the hotel.

How many days have passed? How long have we been here, hiding from the world in my room?

I put on my pants and make my way downstairs.

I can feel her. Close my eyes and track her scent, her movement... feel her emotions humming at the edge of my consciousness.

We've always had a connection, Buffy and I. Part instinctive awareness of natural enemies, part electric tie of love and desire. Our Destinies' wandering paths forever side by side, crossing now and again, but never quite managing to meet. And now...

Now she's as linked to me as I once was her... our bond finally complete. She is my Mate in every way, and that profound copula between us opens her to me absolutely.

She is filled with a bewildering storm of emotion: love, loyalty, fear... contentment and righteous anger. I find her in my office, pulling weapons from the cabinet, and stuffing them into my leather duffel.

Buffy is fully focused on her task, so that her essence acknowledges my approach, but her consciousness doesn't shift at all. She is, above and beyond all else, a warrior -- perhaps *the* warrior -- and the battle ahead consumes her every thought, blocking out even her Mate.

I know where she's going. I don't want to know, but again... all of her flows through me, and she can hide nothing, nor can I hide from what's about to happen.

I find myself torn once more between pride and sorrow... terror and love. Guilt that she is once again forced to take on my burdens, and intellectual knowledge that this is for the best.

Fear of what will happen when she finds them. Fear for her life. And even some for theirs. Those of my line who my Mate is forced to hunt because I can't kill them.

"You're going out?"

It's such an idiotic question, I can hardly believe I've said it aloud. But I have to do something... part of me wants so much to stop her. Keep her here, with me. Take her back upstairs and make love to her until we both forget what she has to do. I don't want her to get hurt. I want to crawl away and pretend this isn't happening. Go back to bed and huddle between them... willing reality to disappear.

Then, maybe, the past six months will vanish, and turn out to be nothing but part sweet dream, and part night terror.

But either way, I have to say something.

She stops, takes a deep, steadying breath, and turns around. I know that look in her eye. Fierce determination. Protectiveness. Slayer on duty. My Mate on a quest for revenge.

Buffy shrugs nonchalantly, but ends up looking tense.

"I have something I have to do," she tells me vaguely, like she's on her way to pick up milk at the corner store.

I nod. None of the things in my head are appropriate to tell her. Hell... I don't think many of them are appropriate to *feel*.

She steps slowly toward me, looking up into my eyes, and lays her tiny hands flat against my chest. Her touch is like lightning striking, and I feel the electricity hum through my body. I close my eyes against the power of it.

"I love you, Angel," she murmurs.

Now it's my turn to take a deep breath. Those three words are filled to the breaking point with meaning -- memories and thank you's, I'm glad you're okay's and last night was beautiful. I'm sorry that I have to do this, and I have to do this... their literal meaning...

And the possibility of our last farewell. I grab her and crush her to me, consumed by the echoes of my own fear, doubt, and love.

I want to stop her. I want to go with her. But I know that I can do neither.

"I love you, too, Buffy... so much." I'm surprised that my voice is so soft and steady... the words sound like a sob in my soul.

We stand there like that for a hundred pounding heartbeats... bodies and hearts pressed together and melding... clinging. My mind crying hysterically, 'Don't go! Don't do this!'

But I hold her... memorize this moment... and say nothing.

Buffy finally pulls away, and graces me with a smile... that beautiful smile that's etched so deeply into the very essence of my being. The one that warms me more than even the sun ever could.

"I'll be back soon," she promises, and stands on tiptoe to kiss me. It's meant to be soft... quick... a "see you in a little while"... but I pull her back to me once more and plunge into her mouth... will her to live, to survive, to come back to me. I need her so much... so much more than I ever have before... and I owe her even more than that.

("It's not enough time!")

Every moment that we've known one another washes through me like a storm... agony and ecstasy, passion and pain... all our hopes and dreams burning like wildfire in our blood. The blood we now share... that guarantees that I will feel it when her time comes...

She ends the embrace, pulling away because she knows that I won't. Never taking her eyes from mine, she picks up the bag, and backs away.

(stop her! don't let her go! make her stay!)

"Buffy..."

She pauses. "Yeah?"

(i beg you... stay with me. forget your duty. forget your destiny. please. don't do what you have to do. i need you. i love you. i can't let you do this.)

(no. this is the way it was meant to be. this is who she is.)

For a moment, I stand there and look at her... remember the child she once was, and love the woman she's become.

"Do me a favor?"

A hint of that sunshine smile returns. "Anything."

"Call the others. Don't go alone."

Buffy gives me a look like she might give her mother -- reminding me that she's a big Slayer and is perfectly capable of taking care of herself. I know this... and I don't care.

She doesn't respond. She simply winks at me, turns, and walks out.

The echo of the front door closing behind her is like a stake in my heart. The pain weighs heavy, pushing me down, and I'm forced to sit.

"Please be safe," I whisper to no one.

* * *

Time crawls while she is gone. I pass those endless hours with menial tasks: taking a shower, cleaning, feeding, straightening my office. Finally, there is nothing left to do but wait. I sit down at my desk once more to read, but mostly I stare at the same page and let my attention remain focused on my Center... on the energies of my Blood family that tingle there. Four tiny lights, each a different color and timbre of humming: Darla... Drusilla... Spike... and Buffy. Like a monitor, I watch them, and wait to see if any go out.

One flares, and I look up to watch him enter, his eyes down as though he's embarrassed to be here... or like a fledgling about to do something that might get him flogged.

It hurts me now more than ever, to see him look like that... like a puppy abused so badly that it can no longer separate the pain and terror from the joy of simple, everyday interaction. Blind, unhealthy devotion. I hate it. And I hate myself for engendering it in him.

Of course, Spike could simply be embarrassed, and I'm overthinking again. Projecting my own guilt on those around me.

I want desperately to grab him... hold him... shower him with as much tenderness as I once did agony.

But I think the best thing I can do is to let him proceed at his own pace... do whatever he needs to in his own way, and let him keep his dignity by playing it cool.

I can do that. It's simple, really... allow some of the demon's detachment and attitude in to subdue the more sentimental instincts of my soul.

The realization brings my speeding thoughts to a halt.

Integration. Could that be the solution to my problems? Finding a balance between demon, man, and soul that allows the best of each to surface, while leaving behind the worst? Could it really be so simple?

I don't have time to consider the idea fully, as Spike clears his throat, signaling the commencement of whatever it is he's about to say.

I force my gaze to rise slowly from my unread book to light on him, as if I don't have any feeling one way or another about his presence. I wonder, though, if I can effectively keep my pure adoration of him from my eyes. The gratitude for his interruption... indeed, his very existence.

He leans casually in the doorway, fiddling an unlit cigarette between his long, graceful fingers, his eyes shifting nervously around the room, belying the look of disinterest he's trained on his features.

"So... Slayer finally figure out you're a boring wanker and run off?"

I watch him twist the cigarette from finger to finger, and wonder how I should respond. I can't very well tell him where she's gone. Not that he could stop her, any more than I could, but... nonetheless. Besides, for all I know, he's already as aware of Buffy's intentions as I am, and he's simply asking me to help him deny it.

"She needed to get out for a while," I explain. It's not a lie, exactly. I'm just omitting painful facts, like I'm protecting a small child from a horrible truth that he doesn't need to know.

Which, I guess, I am. If anything happens, he'll find out soon enough.

Spike nods and moves the rest of the way into the room, settling down in the chair across the desk from me. He swallows stiffly, staring at the blotter like there's a script written on it that will direct him through whatever he's about to say.

"Listen, Angel... I've been doing some thinking," he begins.

"I thought I smelled smoke," I tease.

His eyes shoot up, and for a moment, they burn with anger. But then... he smile... full-faced... rare. My boy's stunning grin. My chest clenches tight with the raw beauty of it.

"Fuck you, tosser," he shoots back.

I can't help but smile at him in return.

"So, you've been thinking..." I remind him.

He takes a deep breath. "Yeah. You know... 'bout what I'm gonna do next and all. Plush life in Sunnydale's well and good... helpin' out the idiot Scooby Gang, kicking ass, shagging Harmony and whatnot..."

I blink. "You're... sleeping with... Harmony? *Cordelia's* friend, Harmony?"

Spike rolls his eyes. "She's a vampire, now. Fancy's herself the Slayer's arch-nemesis, the stupid bint."

I am, quite frankly, shocked. Does Cordelia know this? Vampire or no, I still find it hard to believe that Spike is having an affair with...

Who am I kidding? No, I'm not.

"Point is," he continues, "All that's nice, but... I'm fairly bored of it. Need a change of scenery, you know?"

Ah. I think I know where he's going with this. I can't say I'm not surprised... in fact, I'm quite stunned by the idea. But...joyfully so. Thinking about the possibility of having Will with me again fills me with a soothing, warm sensation that's utterly foreign... and yet, completely familiar.

(a family again, when the others are gone.)

"I see," I respond, keeping my suddenly raging emotions close to the chest. "And... where do you think you'll go?"

He doesn't raise his head, but his eyes meet mine from beneath his brow. Again, so like a small boy, about to ask for a cookie before dinnertime.

I have to work to suppress yet another smile. I had no idea there were so many left inside me.

"Well... I figure... maybe... I could stay here. With you."

His gaze immediately ticks back to the desktop. Since he's no longer looking, I let my smile break free. I can't help it. I love this creature. I've loved him for a hundred and thirty years, whether I've been willing or able to admit it or not. Being close to him again satisfies me in a way that's difficult to put words to. Spike touches a part of myself that I've so long avoided... been terrified of, actually, because it's had no release but the violence of my nightly battles against its brethren. Anything else from my demon nature is too frightening and dangerous, too out of control, to deal with. But with him... making love to him, playing pack politics.. the renewal of our Sire/Childe bond...

I realize with a start that, to some degree, the demon is sated. I don't feel that constant struggle to keep it tethered the way I've had to since regaining my soul. Where there is usually burning, black rage boiling beneath my skin, I feel... some measure of peace, at last.

Who would have thought?

"With me," I parrot, hardly able to keep the shivering power of my epiphany from my voice.

"What, are you deaf? Yeah, with you," he says, and instantly looks more comfortable. Fighting with and insulting me are skills he has honed to a fine art, and I'm sure to use them takes some of the sting out of the way he's putting his magnificent pride on the line.

I pretend to take some time to think about it. Hell, my decision was already made the moment I woke from my quasi-coma and realized that he was there beside me. And it's only grown every moment since.

But he doesn't know that, and so he starts using logic to support the case he thinks he needs to make to convince me.

"I figure -- there's a ton more demon ass for me to kick in this city than anywhere else, including the Hellmouth. You've got shitloads of room, here, and cable, which I can't very well get wired into the crypt... And seeing as how you nearly drove yourself into the nuthouse, seems to me you need a full-time babysitter."

I let him ramble on... about my plentiful blood supply, how he hates the memories and general attitude of "SunnyHole", how he can't show his face in any of the bars there anymore without getting his ass kicked... All the while I sit and listen to what he's not saying. It's that which makes me want to grab him and kiss him silly.

He wants to be with me. He wants to stay with his Sire... take his place at my side, and be a family again. I could weep with the joy of it.

Finally, his diatribe comes to an end, and he sits back in the chair, sticking the still unlit Marlboro in his mouth.

"So? Whatdya say? I beat demon ass for you, keep you shagged on a fairly regular basis, and you keep me in blood, smokes, and the WB. Sound fair?"

(sounds fair near to Heaven, my boy...)

"All right," I say, and rise from my seat, clasping my hands behind my back and circle to desk to pace before him. "If I say yes -- and I haven't, yet -- there would have to be some ground rules."

I need to take the initiative, here. Get control of what's going on inside me.

He snorts and mutters, "Big bloody surprise, there."

I stop and cock an eyebrow at him.

"Fine. Fucking ground rules. Whatever," he gripes.

Again, I hold back the urge to smile. I need to do this right. If he's going to stay, I'm going to have to do a fair amount of Mastering, and I'm pretty rust on that.

"Good. One: No bringing home strange demons. No bringing home *any* demons, for *any* reason -- no poker games, no one-night-stands, no torture sessions in my basement. Two: you can smoke in your room, outside, or in the cellar, and that's *it*. Three: you *will* clean up after yourself. That includes the kitchen, your laundry, and your empty beer bottles. Four: Yyou will *not* harass my friends," (if I have any left), "Five: If I ask you to help me on a case, you will do so with a *minimum* of lip. You will not frighten, tease, or mock clients. You will not make fun of the way I dress, what I do, read, say, or believe. You will not make fun of my hair. You will not make nasty comments about my sexual orientation in front of others. You will not *touch* any of my belongings without *express* permission from me. And finally, I reserve the right to change or add to these rules at any time that I see fit, and if I have to warn you more than twice about any one of them, you will find yourself right back out on the street. At high noon. Are we clear? Is there anything I just said that you didn't understand?"

I really want to laugh as I lecture him. The completely offended and disgusted look on Spike's face is priceless, and I know full well that we'll be spending half our time together fighting over the exact things I've just mentioned. I remember what sharing a home with Spike means.

And I can hardly wait.

I've never given my Childe nearly enough credit. He may be insufferably rude, ill mannered, undisciplined, impetuous, and essentially a complete bastard, but he is *smart*. Insightful. Straightforward and genuine like no one else I've known in my life. He could be an asset in ways that I haven't yet imagined, now that we're not on the opposite end of a crowbar, stake, two-by-four or red-hot pokers...

"Well?" I ask when he doesn't say anything in response to my commandments.

He looks down at my shoes, his face scrunched in angry thought. I don't know if he's rifling through his extensive mental filing cabinet of insults, or if he's actually giving consideration to what I've said.

At last, he looks up.

"You're a big, fat, pompous, self-righteous asshole," he informs me.

I laugh. Mirth bubbles up, washes through me, and bursts out, doubling me over. I laugh until it hurts, there are tears in my eyes, and my stomach cramps painfully.

Spike stares at me like I've gone insane... again.

Maybe I have. After all, I'm about to agree to let my soulless, id-driven vampire Childe move into my home. I've shared my Mate with him. I made love with both of them, when that sort of connection was supposed to be forbidden me. I've retaken my place as his Master. All things that would have been unthinkable only a few short weeks ago.

How quickly and completely things can change...

Perhaps I am crazy. But... this is a completely new and different madness than any I'm familiar with -- the insanity of doing the right thing at last, and actually feeling *good* about it.

"So, is that a yes?" I query when I finally regain control enough to speak.

Spike stands up. For a moment, I think he's going to tell me to stick my rules up my arse and stomp out.

Instead, he steps toward me. Stands inches away, so that we are almost nose to nose...

And he kisses me. Long, slow, and with a tenderness that is so shocking, I forget to close my eyes.

He gives me that little boy grin again as he pulls away.

"No promises, mate," he says, and walks out.

I stand there for a moment when he's gone, stunned. Then the smile slips back across my lips, which still tingle from his gentle kiss.

His answer is pretty much what I expected, with the exception of that.

Still smiling to myself, I sit back down, reclaim my book, and finally read the poem I've been staring at for the past hour or more.

*We live in secret cities
And we travel unmapped roads.

We speak words between us that we recognize
But which cannot be looked up.
They are our words.
They come from very far inside our mouths.

You and I, we are the secret citizens of the city
Inside us, and inside us

There go all the cars we have driven
And seen, there are all the people

We know and have known, there
Are all the places that are

But which used to be as well. This is where
They went. They did not disappear.

We each take a piece
Through the eye and through the ear.

It's loud inside us, in there, and when we speak
In the outside world

We have to hope that some of that sound
Does not come out, that an arm

Not reach out
In place of the tongue.*

Funny. Fate touches us like that sometimes, doesn't it? Sends our past... our future... tearing out with a roar that brings our neat little worlds crumbling down, and more often than not, builds another -- hopefully better, stronger one -- in its place.

I wonder what it will be like, sharing my unlife with Will again. I wonder what will happen when I call Cordelia later. I wonder if my Sire and youngest Childe will soon be dust. I wonder what will happen between Buffy and I.

The Oracles once told me, "When one door closes, another opens." And I know for a fact this is true. I also know that sometimes, those old doors can open again, and all the things that we know, feel, and are that we have forgotten, can come back to reinforce us where we are weak or broken. Help us to learn, grow and change where brand-new experiences cannot.

Yes, it is loud inside us. But sometimes... sometimes we need the arm to reach out in place of the tongue... to shake us from the stupor of stagnation and habit. To caress our pains... repair our damage. Sometimes the arm can heal and teach where all else has failed.

I think maybe it's time to stop letting my ghosts haunt me... torment me...

And really listen to what they have to say.

Four lights still burn brightly at the axis of my being. I train my focus on them once more, and pick up the phone.

Buffy will be all right. We all will. There is a point to everything we've lived through, and I in no way believe that it will come to a crescendo today.

But it's a start.

"Cordelia? It's Angel. I'd like to talk to you, if you're not busy."

*****