(~THWAP~)
(*Again, love.*)
(*Oh... little lizards singing... no puppy in that garden!*)
(*Yes, I know. The Lord's Prayer, please.*)
(*The rain!*)
(~THWAP~)
(*Prayers, Drusilla.*)
(~SOB~)
(*Our Lord... come now, dearest.*)
(*O-our... L-lord... who art in... H-h...*)
(*Heaven, Drusilla. Our Lord, Who art in Heaven...*)
(~SOB~)
(~THWAP!~)
(*AAAAAAAAA!*)
(*OUR LORD WHO ART IN FUCKING HEAVEN, DRUSILLA!*)
(*Daddy! The snakes have black tails... they BURN!*)
(*If you hit her much more, she won't have any skin left.*)
(*Mind your business, woman. Drusilla...*)
(*It's dark in the Bad Place, Daddy...Don't touch them! They'll burn out your eyes! Mummy?*)
(*You've no mother, child.*)
(~Chuckle~ *Daddy ate her.*)
(*Hold your tongue, please, Darla.*)
(*Or what? What will you do if I don't, boy?*)
(*Why, take this whip to you, love.*)
(*Oooh. In that case...*)
(*Later. Drusilla? Your prayers. You'll not feed until ye've said them.*)
(*DARK! DARK! NO LIGHT AT ALL BETWEEN THE TREES! THEY'VE GOT NO STRING! ALL THE RAYS HAVE GONE BUT TWO! YOU CAN'T SEE THE RAIN THERE!*)
(*Now see what you've done, Darla? You've upset her. Dru... Our Father, Who Art in Heaven...You know the words...*)
(*NOTHING! NOTHING! NOTHING!EMPTY!HEAVY!DADDY HURTS!*)
(*He'll hurt worse if you don't pray, you little loon.*)
(*Please. If you can't abide the way I raise my Childer, I'd ask you to leave.*)
(~THWAP!~)
(*Once more, Princess. Our Father...*)
(*YOU'LL BURN! YOU'LL BE IN THE DARK AND HEAVY NIGHT FOREVER AND THEY'LL KILL YOUR SOUL AND THE BIRDIES EAT ROCKS IN HELL!*)
(~sigh~ *We don't have souls, child. Fine. No prayers? No dinner for you, then.*)
(~THWAP!THWAP!THWAP!THWAP!~)
(*DAAAAAADDDDDYYYYYYY!*)

I jerk upright into utter darkness. My night vision fails me. For a while, I'm confused. Am I in London? It's hard to draw breath, and the shadows press down on my chest like boulders. I close my eyes. It hurts to be upright, so I lie back down. Every movement is like a hundred hot pokers in my side. And I know how that feels.

Did Drusilla know? Even then, did she know? Did that even happen, or is it just more Hell? More darkness...

I've seen the sunlight twice in the past 250 years. I'm no stranger to darkness, whether literal or metaphorical. The specter of madness, the shadow of enforced solitude, the void of never-ending hunger. I've been a walking Dark Night of the Soul for a quarter of a millennium.

Those two occasions when I was blessed by the sun were flukes. Tears in the fabric of reality that is my existence. I don't even play those images in my mind anymore. They're aberrations, not truth. And remembering them burns me as deeply as the sun itself might. No comfort. Too much pain.

But there are other kinds of light, too. Other things that can warm a soul trapped in eternal darkness. The trust and devotion of good friends. The knowledge that you've reached out and truly made a difference in the life of someone who was lost. The possibility of forgiveness...

(*DAAAAADDDYYYY!*)

And opening your eyes after what you were certain was yet another eternity burning in Hell, to find the two beings you've loved most in your dark forever asleep in the loveseat they've set by your bed.

They're so beautiful, both of them... He, leaning against the arm, snow-white head resting on his hand, mouth hanging open, a little stain of drool on his chin. She, golden and tan, lithe and so alive... so young... tucked up against him, her arms loosely around his waist, his arm around her fine shoulders, clutching her warmth to his side like the blankets he always used to hog in our bed.

(*Keep your hands off her, you filthy pig!*)
(*WHAT DID YOU CALL ME, BOY?*)
(*PIG! I CALLED YOU A FUCKING PIG! WHAT, ARE YOU DEAF?*)
(*I see. Well. If that's the way you feel, William...*)

I blink at them a few times. Are they really here? Do I really remember Spike crying, begging me not to abandon him again? Do I remember Buffy lying beside me, healing me with the touch of her small hands?

(*Gosh, I was hoping we could get back together. What do you think? Do we have a shot?*)

I don't know. And my heart... my soul... doesn't care. It feels real. I'm not in Hell. I'm here, in my bedroom, and they're here too. I could still be dreaming... I might be delirious... but the pain in every inch of my body... the throbbing behind my eyes... the hunger... all tell me that I'm not. I am seeing them. The rest is just an echo of madness.

(*Could it be there's no Hell?*)

I should have questions. What happened to me? Where did I go when my sanity left me, and I was haunted by... I don't know what...

(*Sire... leave the light on, would you?*)
(~chuckle~ *What have ye ta be afraid of, boy? You're a God.*)
(*You know she's afraid of the dark. She cries.*)
(*Well, that's not your concern, is it? She's not yours. She's mine, and I rather like it when she cries.*)
(*Bastard.*)
(*I suppose... if ye care to be technical. My Mother did make a fine meal.* ~chuckle~)

It's all darkness, now. Why are they here? Especially him. Where are the others? What happened to Darla and Dru? God... what have I done?

(*And yet, somehow, I just can't seem to care.*)

Why are Buffy and Spike lying so close together, their scents intermingled like they've been...

(*You actually sleep with this guy?*)

Okay, so... I do have questions. A lot of them. But I'm so tired, it's all I can do to keep my eyes open and gaze on their beauty... thinking, wondering, and remembering are all too much right now.

(*You won't. No one will remember but me.*)

Whatever happened... whatever's going on between them... why-ever they're here... the logistics don't matter. They are, and that's all I care about. And I have to wonder if my soul really is as tenuously ensconced in my body as I've assumed, because looking at them sends a wave of absolute, pure joy washing through me.

(*Loneliness is about the scariest thing there is, Buffy.*)

They're two rays of light in my darkness. They are forgiveness personified. Hope made flesh. All the things I'd thought I'd lost, peaceful and still right here before me. Two of the so very few of my worst victims still living--or in Spike's case, still existing-- watching over me, like I deserve their tenderness... like I'm worth their concern. Like... oh... God...

A sob chokes out of my aching chest before I can stop it, echoing loudly around the still room, and both the figures at my bedside leap to instant attentiveness.

"WHAT? WHAT!" Spike yelps, his head jerking around, looking for danger.

(*I'm gointa start giving ye laudenum before bed if you keep me up with yer thrashin' another day, boy.*)

Buffy is used to being roused from deep sleep. She leans forward, calmly, and takes my hand. "Are you okay? Do you need something? Water?"

(*Angel... don't be stupid. You're weak. You have to eat. It's not like I don't know you drink blood... Just let me help you.*)

Oh, God... her voice... sweet like honey, and dripping with love. My Buffy...

I can't say anything. I just stare dumbly at her, and shake my head while the tears splash down my face.

(*More than ever, I know how much I love you.*)

"Eh, mate, here... let me," Spike grumbles sleepily, and reaches for the pitcher of water on the nightstand.

(*I'll stake me old Sire myself!*)

I stop his hand by taking it. His eyes swing around, wide with surprise. I hold his hand and Buffy's, and we sit there in the dark, a circuit of blood and affection, pain and memories. I hold their hands and look back and forth between them... eyes like summer moss... eyes like the sky before a storm. The very breath of my heart and soul, and the product of my flesh and Blood. The sum of me.

"I love you," I tell them.

Spike rolls his eyes and looks away. Tears well in Buffy's, and she smiles.

"We love you, too," she whispers, and squeezes my hand.

"Speak for yourself," Spike gripes.

I tug on both of them. I want to feel them close to me. I want to keep them near and safe and never let any pain or sadness come to them, ever again.

Buffy doesn't hesitate. She's so giving... so open, even now. After everything that she's been through... after all the hurt I caused her in her life, it amazes me that she's still so full of love. She curls up against my chest, so tiny and warm... my dead heart nearly throbs to have her so close again. She feels so good...

(*Close your eyes...*)

I shouldn't. We shouldn't. This is dangerous. It could go too far. I want her so much, still, even now...

(*Buffy, maybe we shouldn't...*)
(*Shhh... just kiss me.*)

I don't care. I'm too tired... too drained and hurt to care. I just need to feel her... alive, solid, beautiful in my arms. Her heartbeat like a lullaby against my chest. Just for now. Just for tonight. Just so I can remember how to hold on. Remember what something besides regret and anger and loss feel like...

(*You're not alone...*)

I look up, and Spike stands there, staring down at me, a war of emotions raging on his features. Hate. Concern. Jealousy. Love. Desire. Resentment.

(*Things change.*)
(*Not us, man! Not demons!*)

"Will... please," I say quietly. I need him, too. The walking remnant of all I once was, and Powers willing, never will be again. I need him to accept me the way I am now... forgive me for the things I've done to him, and maybe... maybe we can reconnect the twisted creatures that we've become. Freaks in a universe of monsters.

He sighs deeply. Funny. He used to mock me for breathing. I wonder when he started doing it.

(*It's stupid, is all I'm sayin'.*)
(*And you're so damn wise, William. Two years out of the grave, and ye know more than your Sire, that it?*)

"Oh, fuck me," he complains, and climbs in the other side of the bed, lying flat on his back behind me.

(*Sleep on the floor, then, if you don't like my choice in companions. Better yet... sleep on the doormat like the dog you are, insolent little bastard!*)

I smile, bury my face in Buffy's soft hair, and breathe in her sweetness. It's enough, for now.

(*This freakshow...*)

Spike slides closer. I hold Buffy tightly to me... she's already asleep, her breath slow and easy. I feel my Childe's cool chest against my still feverish back. He rests an arm around me, and his lips make the faintest contact with the nape of my neck... a millisecond, no longer, and as he nestles up to me, I hear him whisper,

"I love you, too, you big, stupid pouf."

(*Sire, PLEASE!*)
(*I don't recall giving you leave to beg, William.*)
(*You're hurting her!*)
(~laugh~ *That's why they call it torture, and not pleasure, boy! Pay attention.*)

I close my eyes and let blessed sleep take me, hoping that there will be no more nightmares, as long as I have my family close. The pain can wait until tomorrow.

It's not everything. It's not perfect happiness. But it's as near to it as this damned soul is likely to get.

(*I love you, Angel...*)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The refrigerator is empty.

It took me nearly an hour to drag myself down here, starving, and there's nothing. Not even a drop of the couple of quarts of blood I put in less than two weeks ago.

But there's beer. Guinness. Two cases of it.

Spike and his twisted priorities. My head hurts.

I sigh, and sit down on one of the barstools at the island. I really can't be annoyed. After all, I don't know if he drank all the blood, or if they had to feed it to me when I was...

Insane. Out of my head. So far gone, I've lost an entire week and a half of my eternal life. In the big scheme of things, I don't guess that it's a long time. I've lost entire decades, before. For example, I couldn't give you much detail about where I was, or what I was doing, during World War II.

But when you're trapped in a Hell of your own creation--or a literal Hell, come to think of it--ten days is forever.

And there's still Darla and Drusilla to deal with. A week and half, they've been free, and Gods only know the havoc and death they've caused.

The lawyers being only the first.

(my fault)

I think back on that moment, now... that split second when I took all of those lives in my hands... made the decision to condemn them to a grisly death... threw that deadbolt. I can hear the echo of the door slamming shut. Smell the stench of horrified disbelief. See the horror on Manners' face...the terror on Lila's... the smirk on Lindsey's... I made myself their judge, jury, and executioner. Spat in the face of the Powers...

(murderer. blasphemer. monster.)

I can't. I can't deal with that right now. Later, there'll be plenty of time for regret... an eternity for penance and guilt.

I don't need Hell. It's right here in my head. Walking the streets of my city. The last of my line...

"Oi, mate. Stay outta my beer."

Except him.

I watch Spike walk into the kitchen, all swagger and bluster, and I can't help but feel some bizarre sense of comfort that he's here. A surprising amount of affection and gratitude toward my once vicious Childe, for saving my life. For staying with me. For taking care of Buffy.

"Oh... God, just... wipe that mushy look off your face," he bitches, swinging open the fridge and grabbing a beer. "Couldn't stand seeing the Slayer all weepy and mopey over your sorry hide, is all. And shouldn't you be in bed?"

A short statement that hints at such a long, complicated story, I can't wrap my mind around all of its implications. Of course, a lot of my consciousness is still dark and out of focus, so... Give me time. I'll work it out.

"I was hungry," I inform him, and wonder if he'll get the hint.

"Yeah, well. We're a bit light on the groceries 'till the Slayer and Wussley get back from market. Have a beer. On me."

He tosses me one, which I set on the table, and he pops his open,downing it in a few gulps, grabs another, and plunks down on the stool across from me.

He's a beautiful creature, Spike. Pale and shining like silver coated in black, the only splash of color his chestnut brows and eyes the color of steel. I'd forgotten how handsome he is... and it feels pretty strange to think about it now.

Spike... or rather, William... was once my closest companion. Closer, in many ways, than Darla. He was the only being I trusted at my back. He belonged to me, once, in a way that nothing and no one else ever has, or ever could again. Lover. Brother. Friend. Blood.

"What?" he snaps in irritation, "What'rya gawking at me for?"

It's nice to see his temper hasn't improved. I try not to smile at the warm familiarity that washes through me. I'm in rough shape, if Spike's nasty attitude is a comfort.

"Nothing," I say. There's no use, really, in sharing my feelings with him. I sincerely doubt he's interested.

Before he can respond, dizziness hits me, and I sway a little... hunger and weakness, my body burning itself up from furious healing. And that swirling vortex of shadow still hanging, pulling on the edges of my mind. A hollow space in my memory. Things I don't want to know, beckoning to me. The echo of voices...

Spike's up and has his arm around my shoulders in less than a heartbeat.

"Tol' ya you shouldn't be up yet," he grumbles, and I swear I can smell genuine worry on his skin as he helps me rise from the stool, "Bloody ijit."

We make our way slowly across the lobby. My body's unbelievably stiff, every movement painful, and every step I force myself to take makes me happier that I can't remember what's happened to me in these past ten days.

This scene is just too sad and comical to bear: the young, strong, healthy son supporting the old, ailing, decrepit father as they totter up the stairs... A rather fitting irony, I think...How many times did I flay him raw, then leave him hanging from the ceiling, biting back screams of pain as his blood puddled on the floor under his dangling feet?

Spike deposits me with surprising tenderness on my bed, and pulls the blankets over me.

"Move your ass outta that sack again, and I'll skin it for you. You got me?"

I try to smile, but mostly wince. "I got you."

(*I think yer hide'll make a lovely handbag for my mate, whelp.*)

He nods, and turns to leave. Frankly, that's what I expect him to do. But instead, he sits down on the edge of the bed, his back to me.

He picks at the fuzzballs on the comforter, and I can feel his tension... his emotions in turmoil much the same way they were last night.

Spike is the very picture of an abused child. I raised him with just the right mixture of brutality and affection, and then, in his estimation at least, abandoned him. When we met again, all those years later, we were mortal enemies. He was a symbol of everything I despised about myself, then... a walking, cursing, killing, drinking reminder of the many evil pleasures I once took from being a vampire. I had too many clear memories of too many nights in his arms... hunting with him, laughing with him, torturing him, and every time I saw his face, it only increased my shame.

(*I love you, Sire...*)
(*Hush, boy. Sleep.*)

When I lost my soul again... the creature that returned wasn't his Sire, either. The demon is damaged now... insane. Nothing remains of the appreciation for the sensual pleasures of unlife that once drove me. Nothing but hatred and an all-consuming desire to destroy. The Slayer... the world... and him.

But I was still the alpha. I still held his life in my hands. And I spent those months systematically demolishing everything that Spike had managed to achieve for himself. I dominated him in the most humiliating of possible ways. Not with physical violence. That, he was used to. Instead, I hurt him psychologically... emotionally... every chance I got. Wounds far deeper than any I inflicted on him as a fledgling.

(*And as a guest, if there's anything I can do for you... Any... responsibility I can assume while you're spinning your wheels... Anything I'm not already doing, that is...*)

And now... Now he has this chip in his head... an electronic leash on his demon. He doesn't know what or who he is, anymore. He's lost everything he once counted on -- his Sire, his ability to hunt, his mate... I imagine we're more similar today than we were a century ago. Closer to equal.

But it seems he's gained something new, too. Something that I sincerely doubt he wanted, and I'll bet he doesn't have an inkling of understanding about. Otherwise, he wouldn't be here, looking like he wants to say something, while at the same time, desperately wanting to be anywhere else but in this room. He wouldn't be having whatever kind of relationship he's having with Buffy...

(don't think about that.)

He definitely wouldn't be crying. And I wouldn't be lying here, completely at a loss for what to do to ease his pain. Should I say something? Touch him somehow? Why is he doing this? He doesn't owe me anything...

I have no more answers than he does.

"Look," he says finally, his voice soft and stained with his confusion. "I don't know what the Hell's wrong with me. I don't know what all this is about. I don't want to sit here and analyze everything, or play therapy with you, or whatever you're thinking. I'm just... oh, sod-all... I'm fucking glad you're not dust, is all. And... The Slayer... she... I... Oh, fuck."

He covers his face in his hands, and weeps softly. I reach up and gently pry one away. His teary eyes meet mine.

Vampires don't, as a rule, have souls. But as my own Sire once told me, they do love, in their way... at least the ones who were capable of it as humans do. And I've always believed that the degree of that potential has to do with Blood Ties, with the particular demon in question, and with the remnant personality of the human they once were.

William was always more affectionate and sensitive than most. That's why I chose him. I know that once upon a time, he loved me. I know that he loved Drusilla. I think... he might love Buffy. And I believe that all of these things boil down to our shared Blood. The bond that has pulled us across a million miles and a hundred years, to this moment. The details of the time between hardly matter.

"I don't understand everything either," I assure him, "I might be the Elder, but that doesn't necessarily make me any wiser."

He snorts. "No kidding. Some soddin' Master you are."

The word is like a burning sword in my gut. Master. The one who wields the pain. "I'm not your Master, Spike. I'm nobody's Master."

He drills into me with those turbulent eyes. "You really believe that, don't you? You think just because you've got a damn soul that you're excused from all the endless fucking vampire rules?" He shakes his head. "No wonder you're such a bloody head-case! I'll spell it out for you, just to make sure it gets through your guilt-stuffed, Cro-Magnon skull, okay? You made me. I've got your damn blood in my sorry veins. You whelped me. You can't just say, 'Oh, that doesn't fit in with my mission statement' and make it go away. Just because you don't stick it to me or beat me senseless anymore doesn't change the fact that I'm yours. I exist because of you. Nothing you do or say can change that, short of staking me. And nothing ever will. Believe me, I don't like it either, but, there it is."

(*Ye'll live with me, and be mine... have everything you've ever dreamed of...forever.*)

It's a deep, profound truth. And coming from him, even more so. It's something I've never taken much time to think about, with the exception of those days when I had to hunt Penn.... and now, with Darla...

How tied am I still, to those of my Bloodline? Feeling Spike's inner turmoil, his anger and love as accutely as I do makes me wonder.

I never loved Penn. Making him was about making Darla jealous. Whereas, I had a very deep affection for William. If affection is the right word... He was mine. My possession.

"What do you want me to say?" I ask him.

Fury flashes in his eyes. "How the Hell am I supposed to know?"

So. So, he doesn't know, and I don't know. We've reached yet another impasse. What does he want? What do I want? What happens next?

Before I realize what's happening, my face is trapped between his lean hands, and his lips smash against mine. The kiss is a violent shock to my system. The first real, intimate contact I've experienced, besides Buffy, in... forever. His mouth is so familiar... the cool lines I automatically explore with my tongue.. the flicker of his against my palate, my teeth...

(*Ah, Gods, boy... ye feel like Heaven...*)

Like blood... a need you can set aside momentarily, but that sooner or later, always returns to consume you once more. Hunger. Always hunger. The most fundamental feeling of all, for a vampire, is this endless need... the constant starvation for sensation. Lust.

The heat of it rushes through me, and a moan I didn't mean to make breaks from my chest, into his mouth. I tangle my hands in his hair, and pull him down on top of me, pain be damned.

I need this. I need him. Right now. We're the same, he and I... One. It's not love songs and poetry and souls united. It's simple. Demons, appetite, and Blood.

"Sire..." he groans, "Gods, Angelus..."

(*Do ya like that, me beautiful boy? Hm?*)

His hands and mouth wander... a hundred years of history on my skin. He laps at my throat, simulating feeding, and a growl rumbles in my chest. The demon protests, the man hardens. Half of me wants to flip him over and drive my pain into him... dominate him... prove to myself that he is still mine. That something in this dimension belongs to me besides this... agony. But this is his testimonial... his speech to me, and he feels so good, I don't want to move. I don't want it to stop. I try to ignore the demon, and let him have it. I don't want to be in control anymore.

I hiss as his cool tongue trails a path down the meridian of my starving body. He traces the pain of what feels like miles of fading scars... flicks it over my nipples, and suckles at them when they pebble at his touch. Little whimpering noises--pup noises--tickle from his throat as he moves downward.

"My boy... my Will..." I gasp.

Oh, God... there's so much for him, inside of me. So much I'd denied or forgotten. His hands... his mouth... just the sensation of being close to his hard body... smelling my blood in him.

A memory slams into my brain... a fair-haired fledgling... a stranger...sewers... a hypodermic... Was that me? Did I take that immortal boy like two dogs in a puddle of slime because he reminded me of my William... my long lost Childe? His crying... the endless wailing for the loss of his Sire...

(*Dust! DUST! HIS DUST!*)

Shivering wracks my frame. The room spins. Nausea clutches at my abdomen. I wretch. I can't feel Spike anymore... there's nothing but pain and blood... filth... darkness... the drunk I killed. The demon woman I took home from the bar... she held me... promised me hope. I used her body. Drank her. Oh, God.

"Oh... God..." I hear myself sobbing... the sound a million miles away. "What have I done? What have I done? Oh, Jesus! Oh, God, I'm sorry!"

"Shh..." Soothing sounds break through the haze of anguish. Soft hands caressing my face... cool lips... the taste of blood and beer and Buffy..."It's okay, Angel. It's okay. It's over. You're safe, now."

Safe? No... it's not me that's not safe...It's not okay. It's not over. It never will be. I can never make up for everything I've done... my family... my village... Drusilla... him... Buffy... Jenny... so many others... and these last... I've murdered them, abused them when I had my soul... What excuse is there for that?

I push Spike off and huddle at the head of the bed. "Get away from me. I can't!"

Hell is where I should be. Darkness. No sensation. No love. Damned as I have damned them with my Hell in their veins. Where have I heard that? My Curse... the Curse of my desire...my weakness. Oh, God.

(*Sire, PLEASE! Take her down!*)
(*Was it m-me? Was I not... good??*)
(*Angel - please! People are going to die!*)

"Hey! Stop this!" my Childe orders, and I can hear the Master's authority in his voice. When did we switch places? When did I become so feeble, and he so strong? "You fucked up. So bloody what? You're a damn hero anyhow. Sire... please... stop." His command turns to a plea at the last. His lips return to mine, soft and gentle. Reassuring.

His tenderness hurts.

"Will... no... I can't."

"You can," he whispers, "You have to. It's your damn Destiny."

Destiny. The word is like cool water on burned skin. A whisper of peace. I feel it, I believe it, somehow, and it stills me again.

"I love you," Spike murmurs into my lips, "I've loved you as long as I can remember. You're all I've got, now. I'm not letting you go again."

None of this is real. It can't be. This is just more Hell. More torture. He can't...

Oh, God... his hands on me... between my legs. Like a tether to the physical, and my mind snaps back to it.

I open my eyes and watch... captured. Enraptured by the sight of my Childe, my Blood, setting my body, my erection free from the confines of my clothes... bare demon skin and hunger... his cool mouth wrapping tight around my shaft, taking me in... sucking... licking... stroking.

I'm empty of all but this. Shadows chased away by pure sensation. Madness, pain, starvation, all transformed to pure, overwhelming bliss.

Yes. Oh, yes. These chains to the world... this bond of sex and flesh, mouth, hands, cock... I watch him draw me in, and out again. He looks up at me with those speaking eyes, and yes... he remembers. He forgives.

(can you be forgiven, Liam?)

I clutch at his hair... my body takes control... I thrust up into that mouth... and ohhhhh.... that perfect mouth, anchoring me here. Insisting that I stay.

(*Please, Sire... stay with me...*)

Hell is never having another being touch you with love or affection or kindness... any intimacy... any purpose at all but pain. Hell is being alone in a bubble of denied sensation... of frozen, absolute solitude. Hell is being me. Here. Alone. Until this moment. As I come, I arch into his well-remembered embrace, and I howl... ecstasy. Heaven.

He takes it all, drinks me as I once drank him. I'm shaking with the intensity of being fully in my body for... the first time in I don't know how long. My orgasm like a jolt of electricity through my every burning nerve. Pain. Exquisite pleasure.

And hunger...

I drag him upward and tear fangs I didn't feel descend into his throat. He cries out... and again when I wrap my hand around his cock and stroke him, hard and fast.

The rhythm of blood that never circulates.

"MASTER!" he shouts.

I pull away from his artery. "Spike...," I growl at him, "Drink me...please..."

Neither of us is Master here, not anymore. I continue to stroke him, looking into his eyes during that moment of indecision. I hear his thoughts:Should he take the risk? Will I punish him after? What's my game?

But it's only a moment. Then, he redefines us both by wrapping himself around me and sinking his own teeth into my flesh. He grunts as he begins to drink, whimpers softly as he nurses from my vein, and yes... GOD YES, I'M ALIVE!

I slam my mouth back to the wound I've opened in him, and drink my Self out of him as he drinks his Self out of me. He fucks my hand, both of us purring and growling and groaning. His body begins to quake and jerk, and he pulls away from the sweet fount of my throat as he screams.

"OHJESUSCHRISTANGELYESGODYESSIREYESDON'TSTOPDON'TSTOPDON'T...UGGGGHHHH!"

I pull him closer, draw harder from his vein, glutting on the flavor of the pleasure in his blood as his dead seed spurts into my hand, over his belly, my chest. Utterly spent, he sags and collapses against me, sliding in his stickiness on my skin, until he finally comes to rest in my lap with his head in the crook of my shoulder.

His wild panting is musical... and silly. This whole moment is ridiculous. I'm so tired, now, I can barely stay upright, and I hold him to me as I fall to my side on the bed. I have an almost irresistible urge to giggle. I want to jump up and... dance, or something. I don't know what. I hurt all over. Inside and out. There's so much of me still mortally wounded. But I'm full, and so alive. Because of him. Because of what my soulless Childe has so freely just given me. His dead blood hums in my veins.

I still don't understand why he's here.

"Spike..."

"Shut up. Just shut up and go to sleep, berk," he snaps, pulling the blankets over the tangle of arms and legs that we've become, and burrows into my chest. "Be quiet. You need to rest."

Rest for the wicked. Yes. I close my eyes, my body still wrapped around him and... awash in the warmth satiated hunger, know no more. Even Hell is silent.

*****