*****

Only Angel's eyes were objective as he watched Cordelia, Connor, Gunn and Fred be very uncomfortable in the lobby. They reminded him of four magnets, all opposing each other. He wondered when they would fly apart and then come crashing back together in a flood of hate and lust... and if the hotel would survive the catastrophe. They were so strong, and he loved all of them, so much it made his soul bleed.

Angel wanted to scream.

The vampire clenched his fingers, forcibly restraining himself from stepping forward, from revealing his presence in the shadows. The living creatures below him thought he was out, doing whatever brooding, neurotic vampires did when they wanted to whine and pout. That was how Cordelia phrased it, anyway. His lovely Cordelia, sacred whore.

Voices raised up in anger, a flurry of raven's feathers swirling in the still air of the hotel. Angel didn't want to know what they are arguing about; it was irrelevant anyway. He turned, silently retreating to his bedroom. Ashes, dust, and thick pools of remorse were far better than seething hatred and ire.

The whispering sadness of his lonely room was safe; inside those four dark walls Angel knew where he stood. Darla, standing in one corner, her mouth forever twisted in a jeering smile. Buffy, across the way, radiating ethereal warmth and hope. Dru, tinkling laughter and the perfume of lilies. His sweet William, silk and wishing for one more kiss. One by one, they faded into nothingness, leaving him with his memories.

"I'm sorry."

Angel froze. Perhaps the strain of this darkly painted life was getting to him again. Had his ghostly William just spoken? He turned slowly, seeing that, unlike every other time, the vision of a very blonde Spike hadn't disappeared. "What?"

Spike stepped out of the deepest shadows, pausing underneath a liquid pool of lamplight. "She changes everything she touches," The blonde murmured, dragging a slender finger through the dense dust covering one nightstand. "And everything she touches, changes." Voices whistled through the room, drifting past its immortal inhabitants to settle on the floor with the other detritus of Angel's life.

"Why are you here?" Angel asked harshly. He didn't have time for his lost childe's antics. Not now, not ever.

"Just before our love got lost, you said, 'I am as constant as a northern star,'" Spike murmured, walking past Angel to the other side of the room. The younger vampire took great interest in the door to Angel's closet, studying the hinges carefully. "Do you remember, Angel?"

Angel's eyes slid closed as he dredged up the fortitude to toss Spike out of his room, out of his life. There was no place for this here; he was beyond such games. "Spike..."

"You whispered it into my skin," Spike whispered, glassy eyes focusing on Angel's face. "Are you still my northern star? I've followed other stars, dark and light. They were not constant; I drifted, falling and climbing and clawing. Caught a spark, I did; does that make me a star now too?"

Silky fingertips brushed Angel's face as Spike waltzed by. "Constantly in the darkness?" The blonde drew back the coverlet on Angel's bed, the soft rustle of fabric breaking a tense silence between the two vampires. "Where's that at?"

"Get out," Angel growled, reaching for Spike. He whirled the smaller man around, holding him with cruel force. The dark vampire was about to drag Spike over to the door when he saw it. Pain, incomprehensible agony, pooling deep within those bright eyes.

Spike smiled. "If you want me, I'll be in the car," He murmured, melting against Angel.

"That's it," Angel growled, pushing Spike towards the door, refusing to be sucked into Spike's lies. He'd just gotten the younger vampire to the stairs when the cacophony of a roiling fight in full force swept past him. Angel stopped, glancing apprehensively towards the lobby.

Spike watched the people below him with absent curiosity. "Ah, the flock. Do they love you, Angel?" The question was whispered like silk into the skin of Angel's throat, where Spike had tucked his head. "As I do?"

"You don't love me!" Angel hissed, shaking Spike viciously. This creature had made very plain his disdain for Angel's souled existence.

"You're in my blood like holy wine," Spike breathed, lips brushing against Angel's cheek. "You burn there, tasting so bitter and so sweet."

Angel twitched as a cold tear fell from Spike's face, tracing a path down the older vampire's neck. He could withstand this assault; he was strong, stronger than the weak, impulsive vampire that he was suddenly clinging to.

"I could drink a case of you," Angel heard, the words wrapping around his heart. "And still be on my feet. We're lovers ever, Angel. Nothing changes that; not time, pain, blood or death."

Angel shoved Spike away, pushing both of them back down the hallway. "We're nothing, Spike. Nothing! You don't know what you're talking about."

Spike cocked his head to one side, as though listening to a gentle voice only he could hear. "I'm a lonely painter, Angel," The younger vampire implored, drawing closer. "I live in a box of paints." Angel was once again drawn into the wide pain reflected in Spike's eyes. Where had that come from? What did it mean? Spike didn't feel pain; he was a monster, without even Angel's tenuous restraints.

When Spike wrapped himself around Angel once again, the dark vampire didn't resist. "I'm afraid of the devil, Angel," Spike murmured, pressing his face into Angel's chest. "And I'm drawn to the ones that aren't."

"What happened?" Angel asked softly, taking a chance that Spike wasn't going to betray him.

Spike continue on as though Angel hadn't spoken. "And I remember that time that you told me, you said 'love is touching souls.' I didn't want mine touched, Angel. It was meant to be left alone, but now there's this spark, and I don't know what do to with it? What do you do with yours, when it's crying out in the night, begging for death at your own hands?"

Angel's face screwed into a frown. What was Spike talking about? He pulled back to look down at his childe.

"Surely you touched mine," Spike said softly. "'Cause part of you pours out of me, Angel. I'm lost with this thing inside me." The blonde pressed his mouth to Angel's chest. "It hurts here," He said, moving his mouth up to brush a kiss on the older man's temple. "And here."

And then Angel understood, with an odd certainty that should have frightened him. "How?" He asked, frantic nervousness making his voice shake. Who had Spike wronged, to be laden with a soul?

"I met a woman; she had a mouth like yours," Spike said, smiling sadly. "She knew your life, your devils and your dreams. And she said, 'go, stay with him if you can, but be prepared to bleed.'"

Angel waited for more, for something he could work with. Time passed slowly, but brought nothing with it. The voices below them stilled, their coda the slamming of doors. Quiet noise surrounded Angel and his childe. "Spike, tell me, please?"

Spike shook his head slowly. "You're in my blood like holy wine, so bitter and so sweet..." That gentle voice, rough with disuse from a century of sleep, faded away, taking with it the cool weight of the blonde's body. Angel watched in horror as Spike simply disappeared.

Angel stared at the floor, trying desperately to comprehend this disturbing vision. His mind doubted itself; was this a warning, a premonition, or a furtive trick to lead him from safety?

A moment later, Angel moved into action. He couldn't take the chance--Spike might truly be in danger, souled and suffering. If he was wrong... it didn't matter if he was.

Spike needed him.

~fin~