*****

Spike:

The mansion seemed smaller than he remembered. Well, in some ways. In other ways, it seemed even more hollow and vast-echoing with the resonance of torture and debauchery. They'd had fun there, the three of them. Before Angelus had started all that yammer with Acathla and the whole ending the world bit, it had been a right party. But once he got his black little heart set on his own brand of Armageddon, everything went straight down the toilet.

Spike did what he had to. He had no choice. Betraying Angel was never any fun for him, but the big baboon just got so full of himself sometimes. He needed sorting. Spike was fairly certain being sent to some hell dimension by the slayer was probably a bit over the top as far as comeuppance went, but life was funny that way.

And now, apparently, Angel had been regurgitated back into their very own proverbial hell dimension. At least that was the rumor in the underworld. Spike had to see it for himself. Hence, there he stood-in a dark corner of the coldly elegant home he had shared with Drusilla and Angel only a few months before. Squinting into the dim, dusty and cavernous main room his vampire eyes adjusted to the tilting shadows until they finally fixed on the figure on the floor.

Half naked, drenched in blood sweat and trembling, he was. Whimpering in his sleep as though he were freezing to death. Not that he could freeze to death, but that's how he looked. And she was there, too. Watching him. Watching OVER him, but unable to save him from the unimaginable nightmares having their way with him. Her pretty little face was set in an expression closely resembling guilt, but slightly related to fear, as well. She wished he would let her hold him. The desire emanated from her in a continuous tone until it became a song of longing to be forgiven. Spike understood that.

Waiting stock still, he watched her for hours as she sat near Angel's shuddering body. He lay on the cold stone floor but he was still glittering with perspiration. The sweat smelled like copper and citrus. It smelled of terror and confusion. Spike understood that, as well.

Finally, the slayer gathered her little handbag and slipped out the mansion's door. It was nearly 3:00 a.m. and she needed her beauty sleep, after all. Spike waited until he was sure she'd got far enough away and then he moved soundlessly out into the center of the room.

Angel was sleeping, but he still seemed keenly aware of his surroundings-as only wild things can be. Cautiously, Spike knelt down and crept forward on his hands and knees until he was about two feet from the trembling shell of his sire. For a long time, he just watched Angel's face, trying to follow the traces of the expressions, hoping they would lead him to understand the nature of Angel's nightmares. All that frowning and twitching ultimately offered nothing. Spike sighed and moved forward a bit more, knowing his proximity would soon be detected.

Suddenly, violently, Angel flinched awake and skittered backward on his feet and hands until his shoulders were pressed against the large stone hearth. He panted and stared at Spike with fierce eyes-eyes full of suspicion and panic.

Sitting back on his haunches, Spike raised his hands up and showed his empty palms. "Easy, mate," he said softly. "It's all right. I'm not here to hurt you."

Angel seemed unable to comprehend the words. He simply stared at Spike unblinkingly, his bare torso shimmering as his chest heaved with useless frightened breaths.

"Angel," Spike said, his voice low and soothing. "It's me." After a moment, he inched a bit closer on his knees, still showing his hands to illustrate harmless intent. "You know me, right? Spike."

The quivering creature that so very much looked like Angel continued to stare, but his reflexive breathing did seem to slow a bit.

Spike stopped where he was and settled down into a seated position, folding his lean legs Indian-style. They were only about two feet apart again-surely close enough to smell each other. Spike had been able to smell Angel far off, but he had no way of knowing if his sire was able to recognize his scent. In his gut, he felt like Angel knew him, but there was no visible evidence of that as yet. That was fine. Spike could wait. Where Angel was concerned, he could be as patient as Job.

"Right," he said slowly, calmly. "I'm just going to keep talking and . . . maybe in a bit . . . you'll relax."

Angel watched him with narrowed eyes.

Taking a deep breath, Spike thought about what to say-what, if anything, might help Angel recognize him. A story, perhaps. Some dishy secret from their past. Something only he and Angel knew. There were many such things, actually. The bulk of 124 years was a long time to get into mischief with a like-minded bloke. They'd made good use of their time together. But stories were likely too complex for that moment. Angel seemed barely able to understand language, much less to access humor or sentimentality. No . . . Spike needed another way to make contact . . . something more . . . primal.

And then, it hit him like a blast of cold water in the face.

Looking into those wild golden brown eyes, Spike held Angel's gaze for a long moment until he could feel the tingle of connection in his belly. Angel was really looking at him-seeing him. Waiting. That was when Spike began to hum softly.

The tune was one he'd heard as a boy in England, but it was actually an old Irish melody. Young William had heard a group of food merchants singing it all together one bright afternoon in the marketplace as he walked home from school. The melody had stayed with him his entire life. The first time he'd sung it in front of Angel, Spike didn't really know he was being heard. He was in the bath in a hotel in Paris and he'd been humming the tune to himself while he soaked and relaxed. The scent of lavender soap permeated that memory. Angel had been standing in the doorway for almost ten minutes before Spike had noticed him there.

The song was simple, about a girl who sold fresh shellfish from a cart. In his youth, Spike remembered the song being called "Cockles and Muscles, Sweet Molly Malone" but he always thought of it by the phonetic title "Alive, Alive-oh". He hummed the first verse quietly then he raised his voice just enough to add in the words. Angel stared at him while he sang, his fierce demeanor shifting ever so slightly as the tune carried on. Spike held that fervent gaze and kept on singing, the lilting melody wrapping around on itself as he reached the chorus.

"Alive, alive-oh
Crying cockles and mussels
Alive, alive-oh . . .
She was a fishmonger and sure t'was no wonder
for so were her father and mother before
And they all wheeled their barrows
through streets broad and narrow
crying cockles and muscles
alive, alive-oh . . ."

Spike's voice broke slightly on the lower notes, but he didn't think his audience would mind. As he continued to sing, Angel's breathing slowed and evened out until it appeared to stop all together-a much more natural state for a 245 year old vampire. After another verse, the brunette actually leaned forward slightly, seeming to want to be nearer the sound of Spike's melodic voice.

Carefully . . . so very carefully . . . Spike inched forward and when Angel did not recoil, he inched forward some more. Soon they were close enough that Spike's bent knees almost touched Angel's outstretched toes. His scent was strong then, a bit acrid from the fear-sweat but still delicious at the core. Angel, no mistake. One's scent could not be replicated, not even by a demon imposter. Spike's mouth watered, just like always, and he had to swallow a few times before he could continue singing. His voice was stronger that time, just a little louder, and once again, Angel did not pull away.

While he sang the last chorus, he tipped forward almost imperceptibly until he was within reach of Angel's legs. Slowly, he held out his hands-once again showing he had nothing in them-then made the motion of touching the brunette's exposed ankles. Angel frowned and drew his legs back in silent protest. He shook his head once just to make his point that much clearer.

"Right," Spike said calmly. "No touching. That's fine." He offered a tiny seductive grin. "It's just that you smell so lovely, all sweaty and dirty like you are. And I know you're hungry. I can feel it."

Angel lowered his chin and licked his dry lips, just like a cat ready to pounce on a nice juicy mouse.

Feeling encouraged by the reaction, Spike shifted his legs out from under him and sat on his backside on the floor, stretching his feet out in a wide V around Angel's legs. He pushed up the sleeve of his black coat and showed his thin, pale wrist. The dark blue veins raised up there like roads on a map and Spike stroked them with his fingertip to show how tender they were.

Angel watched this action very closely and then he licked his lips twice more. From deep in his chest came a soft vibration, a tiny sound that was almost a word. He uttered this sound once, then uttered it again and the second time it had cohesion.

"Feed . . ." he said in a rasping whisper.

Spike smiled and scooted forward again, that time with more confidence. "Do you want to taste me?" he said, bringing his own wrist to his mouth and cutting the thin skin there with his fangs. He winced slightly and then blood began to drip from the two shallow wounds. Again, he offered his wrist to Angel and the brunette leaned forward with his full lips parted, inhaling the scent of Spike's blood with great interest.

Without any unnecessary contact, Spike brought his wounded wrist to Angel's cool lips and let his sire drink. As always, it felt amazing-the hard pull of having one's life force sucked with such velocity. He sighed and wished he could crawl into Angel's lap and press against him like they used to, but he knew better. Not tonight, anyway. If Angel continued to improve, there would be plenty of time for those deep, luscious kissing sessions. Tonight Angel needed a different sort of care.

"I can go out," Spike said softly, trying to keep his head clear even though he wanted to swoon from the lovely sucking. "I can get you someone."

Angel's eyes were half closed as he drank but at that moment he looked up sharply and pulled away. He stared at Spike with cold reproach, frowning as though he were trying to understand an insult in a foreign language.

"No," he said. "Too much . . . killing . . . no more . . ."

Spike sighed and tried not to roll his eyes. "Oh, right," he muttered. "I guess the soul's back in town. Hard to tell with you in this condition. Last I saw you, you were . . . well . . . you don't remember, do you?"

Angel continued to stare at him for a long moment, then his glittering eyes moved back to the dripping wounds on Spike's wrist.

"Angel, you're hungry," Spike said. "Sucking on me will only whet your appetite. I have to get you some warm human blood. I promise . . . you won't have to kill anyone. But please let me feed you."

Uncertainly, Angel's prominent brow knit and smoothed as he tried to process what was being said. Finally he settled back against the stone hearth, his posture offering tacit agreement.

Spike nodded and stood up, licking his cut wrist to stop the dripping blood. "I'll be back, then. Don't go anywhere." He smiled reassuringly at the half-naked Angel and then he slipped out the mansion's door into the inky night.

He found the woman easily enough. Spike always did. Flirting was an art form he had perfected and it was his favorite way to lubricate a kill.

He led the hapless lady back to the front door of the mansion, then he laid on the brash Cockney charm and said he simply couldn't wait to kiss her. He batted his long, wheat-colored lashes and gave her his best cheeky, boyish grin, then he did kiss her, because he loved kissing, but it only lasted a few seconds. As soon as he felt her relax against him, he drew her near and sank his teeth into her tender, hot neck.

Draining her quickly, he piled her limp body in a cluster of trees around the corner from the door. He had to stop and lean against the wall for a moment as the fresh, burning human blood mixed with his own. He felt the chemicals working together, changing the original compound and making it into that rich elixir that was the staff of unlife. Spike waited until he felt his extremities heat up and then he hurried inside.

Angel was right where he`d left him, leaning against the stone hearth. He looked very tired and very weak but still impossibly gorgeous. Spike had to laugh. Only Angel could become even more shaggable by getting coughed out by the seventh layer of Hell.

Spike approached him slowly, hands visible again, then he sat down beside the brunette-close enough so their thighs touched. Angel did not pull away. Instead, he licked his lips and smelled Spike's neck hungrily, ragged little breaths pulling in and out of his lungs.

"That's it," Spike purred, offering his neck like a virginal maiden. "Take it from up here. I'm warm from it. You can have half. But stop if you hear me whimperin', all right?"

Angel made a tiny, supplicating sound and then he pressed his mouth against Spike's bare neck, forcing his fangs into the flesh above the jugular. If Spike's heart were working, it would have been pumping like mad then. He didn't know if this feral version of Drusilla's sire understood that he had to stop drinking at some point. Not that he could kill Spike that way, but he could damage him plenty. On top of all that, being over-drained hurt like bloody hell.

Gritting his teeth, he waited as Angel took his first greedy drinks. It felt lovely, like it always did at the beginning, and then the brunette began to hum with pleasure. That was the best thing. Spike sighed and leaned against him, feeling his cock itch and swell in his black jeans.

"Mmmmm . . ." he sighed. "That's the way, peaches . . . take it . . ." His hands came up instinctively, trying to stroke Angel's hair, but as soon as his fingers touched the wild brunette's ears, Angel drew back immediately.

Spike's newly thinned blood dripped from Angel's lips and fangs. He stared at Spike with fearful accusation as though the younger vampire had struck him rather than attempted to pet him.

"I'm sorry," Spike said, holding up his hands again. "Christ, it's all right, Angel. Really. I'll keep my hands to myself if it'll help. Just . . . come on back. Drink a bit more. You're so weak, mate. You need to feed."

Chest heaving again, Angel stared at him for a long time before he moved.

"Blood's getting cold, luv," Spike reminded him, then he reached forward with his left hand and gingerly placed it flat against Angel's belly. Hoping with all his might that the touch would be familiar and comforting, Spike waited and kept his eyes fixed on Angel's. "Come on back," he urged. "Just a little more."

The brunette looked down at Spike's hand and then up into his eyes again. His tongue lapped at the blood clinging to his lips and teeth and he shivered slightly from the delicious taste.

Curling his fingers gently, Spike reached around Angel's thin side and drew him forward. "Come on, then . . . it's all right."

Allowing himself to be pulled, Angel closed his mouth over the wound in Spike's neck again. First he just licked it and then, after a moment, he began to suck at the blood again.

Having established contact, Spike took the opportunity to softly caress Angel's hard belly while he drank. With the backs of his fingers, he tickled the rippling abs, toyed gently with the silky hairs around the navel. All tiny gestures of pleasure and affection meant to calm this beautiful, savage beast who was somehow hiding his mentor. But after another few seconds, the draining became unpleasant and Spike pressed his hand against Angel's belly to signal that he should stop.

"That's enough," he said. "Wrap it up, now."

Thinking he was in for a fight, Spike was surprised when Angel simply stopped and extracted his dagger sharp fangs in a quick but graceless movement. Then he sat back against the hearth.

Bringing his fingers to his neck, Spike winced when he felt the wound there. Angel had made a big, jagged tear in the flesh instead of his usual fiercely clean and rather elegant double puncture. Spike felt like he'd almost been eaten and something about that idea was just a bit intriguing.

Looking at Angel's face, he tried a smile again. "Maybe you would have preferred me grilled and served over greens."

Those dark eyes glimmered in the dim room and for a moment, it seemed Angel couldn't really focus. Spike knew what he was feeling. His senses were reeling from the blood he'd ingested and the pleasure was blotting out everything else around him. It would pass in a moment, like it always did, but a fresh blood buzz was one of the best things going. Settling back against the hearth himself, Spike figured he could wait for an answer.

He could smell the approaching dawn in the air and feel the instinctive fatigue in his bones brought on by it. Glancing around, Spike's memory was flooded with scenes from their very recent past-parties, orgies and fights they'd had right in that very room. All the furniture seemed untouched since they all blew out of there that day. He and Drusilla went off to Brazil and Angel went off to Hell. Spike had some vague knowledge that the slayer disappeared for awhile, too, but he had no idea where she went. Didn't much care, to tell the truth.

But now, they were all back again. All but Dru, that is. She hadn't wanted to join him on this errand. Instead, his beloved black goddess had stayed behind in South America.Spike couldn't help but wonder what she was doing then. Who she was doing. Girl had an unbelievable appetite for sex and didn't much care who was giving it to her. That was the thing he loved the most about Drusilla. And the thing that caused him the most heartache.

Angel shifted beside him and lay down on the ground near the hearth. He drew his long legs up to his chest in the fetal position and tucked his arm under his head.

"Yeah," Spike said softly. "Rest. That's a good idea." He got up and went down the dark hallway that led to the row of bedrooms in the mansion.

The dust on all the surfaces was inches deep and undisturbed as he moved lightly down the marble corridor. No one had been there since they all left that fateful day. No squatters, no vandals, no authorities. Spike wasn't surprised, really. They had selected that mansion because it was so very ominous and intimidating to passers-by.

Knowing no one had been there, he assumed the things they had left behind would also be untouched. Going to Angel's bedroom, he stopped in front of the door for a moment and listened-just to be on the safe side. No one there but him and the spirits, it appeared.

The hinges whined when he opened the door and the room inside was stuffy and pitch black. He took out his Zippo for a bit of illumination. The bright flame revealed the room exactly as Angel had left it-huge unmade bed, clothing scattered around on the overstuffed chairs, half empty molding goblets of wine and scotch glasses littering the table tops. Everything was tinged gray with dust. Particles moved and floated in the air around Spike's lighter like little ghosts coveting the heat and light.

Walking to the large dresser, Spike pulled open the top drawer and found it full of Angel's roughly folded and beautifully made shirts. The next drawer was filled with cashmere sweaters and the next with t-shirts made of the finest cotton. Figuring Angel was in no mood to bother with such things that night, Spike slid the drawers closed again and turned to the bed.

He tossed back the red velvet bedspread and grabbed the less dusty blanket underneath, tugging it until it came loose. Wrapping it around one arm, he tucked a pillow under the other and went back out to the main room.

Angel was shivering slightly but he was already asleep. Spike shook out the soft blanket, folded it in half, then draped it gently over Angel's body. He set the pillow on the floor by the brunette's head, but he didn't think Angel would notice it. At least it was there, in case he woke up and wanted a bit more comfort. Spike wondered if he even remembered what a pillow was for in his current state.

For a long time, he just watched Angel sleeping, wishing he could get inside that troubled mind and quell those nightmares. The dawn was very close and he looked around to see if the windows were all safely covered. He couldn't leave Angel exposed. Spike walked around the room checking all the places where the sunlight might sneak in until he felt satisfied his sire would be all right there. Finally, he moved back toward the shadowy hallway again, glancing over his shoulder one more time before leaving.

The pillow was under Angel's head and the tall brunette was still and calm under the blanket.

Spike smiled. "See you tomorrow, peaches," he whispered. "Sleep tight."

Halfway down the echoing hallway was a secret door that Drusilla had found one day when she and Miss Edith were playing hide and seek. It led to the previous owner's wine cellar but all the wine had long since been consumed. When the three of them were living there, they had set up this basement room as a sort of bunker in case of an attack. Like everything else in the mansion, this room had remained untouched in their absence.

At the bottom of the narrow stairs was a shelf built into the wall. Inside were two flashlights and a box of pillar candles with matches. Spike went about lighting one of the candles and then made his way into the room to set himself up for a few nights.

There was less dust down there, but still plenty of it. Along the far wall were three heavy stone coffins that Angel had taken great pleasure in getting down there. He'd made four of their previous feckless minions schlep them down the stairs by hand and arrange them against the wall just so. The memory of that day made Spike grin. Angel could be such a clever bastard when he put his soulless mind to it.

Selecting the coffin Drusilla had favored, Spike set his candle on the polished wooden rim. He brushed off the dust and sediment on the soft satin pillow-pink, it was, because Dru loved pink-then he climbed on in. It only took him a moment to settle in and feel as snug as could be. He thought the satin might still smell like his girl, but alas it had been too long since she'd lain there. All he could smell was dampness and dust and the faint honey-scent of the beeswax candle. That scent had its own pack of memories, didn't it?

Deciding to leave the lid open, Spike licked the pad of his thumb and middle finger and extinguished the candle. He was ready for a nice long nap after all the stealthy traveling he'd done over the last few days.

As the deep trance-like sleep of the undead began to steal over him, he heard the soft far away sound of a melody. Was he imagining that? Was that real or just the faint beginnings of a dream? He was asleep before he could be sure. But just before he drifted off, he could have sworn he heard Angel humming.

*****
Part 2:

Buffy:

The guy at the butcher's looked at me like I was some sort of ghoul. If I'm going to keep this up, I'll need to come up with an excuse for buying a pint of fresh pig's blood every day. Maybe I could tell him I have a really large pet bat. A bat the size of a Volvo.

I'm shaking as I approach the mansion because I have no idea how I'll find him today. I only slept last night because I was exhausted, but I dreamt about him over and over. Dreamt he was suddenly evil again and came to kill me and mom. Dreamt he was just putting on an act with all this feral-I-forget-my-own-name-because-I've-been-in-Hell-for-an-eternity-where-you-sent-me, lover crap and he just came back to feast on me and end my days. Like I deserve. I mean, what else does a person who kills her own lover deserve but to have him kill her right back? I don't even think I'd be mad at him.

I probably kept dreaming that because some part of me wants him to kill me. Ew. How freaky is that?

The door creaks a little, which is not helping my nerves. I don't want to frighten him if he's sleeping. I try to be really quiet as I come into the main room but I don't see him. I have to let my eyes adjust to the dimness and then I take a good look around. No sign of him.

"Angel?" I say very softly. "Angel, it's me. Are you here?" I walk toward the hallway that leads to the bedrooms but I have to stop because it's pitch dark down there. I set the container of blood down on the floor and get in my handbag for my little pen-sized flash light, then I keep going down the hall, not liking it one bit. "Angel?" My ears are all pricked up and tuning and I think I hear something from down below, but that could be anything. Could be a mouse. Could be Satan. Could be the plumbing, for all I know.

I stop in front of one of the doors and look inside. This must have been his room when he lived here with Spike and Drusilla. His clothes are all over the place still. Those leather pants he looked so wicked hot in. And those fitted silky shirts. Cashmere sweaters. Everything yummy to the touch, just like he likes. Or used to like. Who knows what all he likes now. Now, he might be into the prickly inner ear fur of yak colts. I shine the light around in there but the room seems empty. Just dust and dirty glasses in there.

Moving on to the next room, I open the door very slowly and shine the light inside. More dust, but this room is a little more organized. This must have been Spike and Dru's room. It has the essence of a woman's touch, even if said women is a murdering nutjob vamp who needs a wake-up call that goth has been over since Peter Murphy went solo. Oh, yeah-there's the telltale sign-one of her icky, creepy, eyeless dolls propped up on the dresser. God, I hate those dolls.

No one in there, though. No Angel, for sure. I shut the door and go to the next one down the hall, but I find that door locked. For a moment I think about knocking, but then I figure if it's locked, Angel didn't go in there. He's not even coherent enough to tie his shoes, much less to remember where he left his keys before he blew town for Hell.

Further down, this hallway opens up to the ballroom. This is where it happened. This is where Acathla was and this is where I killed Angel. Well, I guess it's not really accurate to say I KILLED him for obvious reasons. But I did send him away on a long hot vacation and I did it from the very center of this room.

For a moment, I can't help but just trip out on the weirdness of being there again and on the exceptionally freaky weirdness of having him back. In a way, I'm totally buggin' about what he'll say once he can talk again. Will he tell me what happened to him? Will he blame me? Of course he will-I mean, why wouldn't he? I blame me. I was there, I know who did that to him. And it wasn't that big ugly stone troll, that's for damned sure.

So, I'm standing there like a dork in that big echoey room and I let him sneak up on me. I kinda know he's there, but I kinda don't, too. Either way, I jump and turn around and there he is. He must have been hiding just in case it hadn't been me coming into the mansion. I wonder where he was . . .

"Hi," I say and try to smile, but my heart is totally hammering. Is now when he's really going to eat me?

He's still shirtless and covered in smudgy dirt-dirt and whatever else that got stuck to his beautiful, sweaty body when he was beating the crap out of that Pete freak. When he's verbal again, I have to remember to ask him where he found those jeans he's wearing. And those shoes. He got himself half dressed and just didn't bother with a shirt. Well, I guess I can't complain. I mean, LOOK at him.

"I brought you . . ." I nod toward the end of the hallway where I left the cup of blood. ". . . something to eat," I finish lamely. "It's cold. I don't know if that'll make it too gross to consume, but maybe we can heat it up. I can make a fire . . . if you want. Um, are you cold?" I can't believe I'm stammering like that and I really can't believe I just asked a 245 year old vampire if he was cold.

He's just looking at me and not saying anything or moving. Just standing there and watching me.

"Angel?" I say, really quietly. "Are you . . . okay?"

He steps forward and his eyes glimmer in the little beam from my flash light. He's looking at it so curiously. I can't tell if he's afraid of it or if he's just annoyed by it. Either way, he reaches for it but when I go to hand it to him, he flinches back. I stay calm and keep holding the light out to him. In a minute or two, he moves forward again and reaches out with shaky fingers to touch the flashlight.

"It's just a pen light," I say. "It isn't hot or anything. See? I can just turn it off, if it's bugging you." I flip the button on the handle and the light goes out. Now I can barely see him, but there's a little light coming in from the high windows in the room and I can tell that he's even more fascinated now that I've made the lightbeam go away. I'm very concerned that he doesn't remember what flashlights are. God. What else has he lost?

"Here," I say, holding the light out. "Go ahead. Take it. It's just a little thing. Plastic, batteries. Nothing scary." I hold it out in my open hand and he just looks at it. And then, so suddenly that I really jump and almost drop the flashlight all together, he speaks.

"I know . . ." he says and his voice is so scratchy. The sound of it would be a painful kind of sexy if he wasn't so messed up. "I know what it is," he says. "I just . . ." He sighs and brings his dirty hands to his head, running them through his filthy hair. "It just seems so . . . strange to me."

"Okay," I say, heart really hammering now. "You're talking. That's really great. Really."

He looks up at me with the most heartbreaking expression-a horrible mixture of confusion and frustration and anger. Sadness is in there, too. I want to hold him so bad, I can taste it like metal in my mouth. I know he won't let me. That's the worst part.

"Are you . . . feeling better?" I say. "Any more, you know . . . yourself?"

He shakes his head really hard and turns away from me, shuffling down the hall to the main room as though he can escape the question by changing location. I follow him, but I stop asking him stuff. Clearly he doesn't want to talk. Or maybe he does want to talk so much and just can't.

Back in the main room, he plops down on the hearth and just sits there with his broad shoulders all slumped. He's still shaking his head like he's saying no over and over again, but I wonder who he's saying it to. Himself? Me? Someone there I can't see?

Instead of doing anymore girly yammering, I just sit next to him-but a few feet away. If I sit too close, he'll wig and go scurrying off into the corner or something worse. I'm glad he's letting me get this close, so I just count my blessings.

He sits there shaking his head for the longest time and then finally, finally he gets still. I start to wonder if my being there is bugging him so I figure now is a good time to ask.

"Angel?"

He looks at me and I see for the first time that his beautiful eyes are all red and wet. He's been sitting here crying and I didn't even know. He was so quiet about it.

"Oh," I hear myself say and then I'm moving forward before I think better of it. It's instinct. My beautiful lover is hurting, I move to comfort him. But of course, it's not what he wants. He moves away quickly and stands up in the center of the room, but at least he didn't run off.

Again, we just stare at each other and I feel totally, completely helpless.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I know you don't want me to touch you, I just . . . you look so . . ." Oh, crap, now I'm crying. I didn't even feel like crying and then all of a sudden, there it was. Boohoo, right on cue, the girl bursts into tears. I hate that. The way it just sneaks up. One second, I'm all fine and cool and collected, next second I'm doing my Alice Cooper impression.

I'm so ashamed of myself that I have to look away from him. I mean, it's dumb that I'm doing that because he's not gonna care if my mascara runs. I see him out of my peripheral vision and he's not running away. Not yet. In fact, he actually moves forward a little. Not like he's going to hug me and everything will be all fine or anything, but he moves forward sort of on instinct just like I did. Like he needs to comfort me. I wish he would. I wish that with all my will and energy. Wish it so hard I could explode.

"Buffy," he says my name all gravely and raw and I look at him, tears streaming away.

That's all there is. He doesn't say anything else, neither do I. We just look at each other for like, ever. Finally, he turns around and moves over to the dusty couch in the center of the room. I have the feeling he hasn't sat on it yet since he's been back. Maybe he didn't think he deserved to for some reason. I know, I'm projecting, but I'm feeling the need to grasp at straws here.

When he's near the couch, he doesn't really SIT as much as he sort of leans forward into the cushions until he collapses there on his side. He pulls his legs up and hugs them-again, like he's cold. See? I knew he was. Watching him like this is killing me.

Okay. I have to do something. So I'm going to make a fire. Luckily, there's some dry, dusty wood still in the box beside the fireplace and my inner girlscout sorts out a crackly little blaze in no time. The blood I brought is still sitting on the floor over by the hall and I go get it, taking the plastic cup out of the brown bag it's in.

He's lying on the couch and staring straight ahead. It's only then that I see the blanket and pillow sort of shoved under the couch. I set the cup on the floor and kneel down, really carefully. No sudden moves. He looks at me.

"Do you want this blanket?" I say, reaching for it and pulling it out slowly. I show it to him and he eyes it thoroughly, up and down, like it might be concealing some tricky monster. Then he looks at me again and I don't know how I know, but I can tell he wants the blanket on him. I smile as I lean forward to place the dusty thing over his body. "We should get you dressed," I say. "Looks like your clothes are still here."

He just looks at me and then he sighs really heavily. It's an awful sound, too. Full of listless, worn out rage.

The fire I made pops and he eyes it warily. When he sees that it's just a little totally contained fire, he sighs again. Then he raises up on his elbow and looks over the edge of the couch at the cup. I'm encouraged by this. He's hungry and he's willing to let me provide him with nourishment. That's something, anyway.

I take the lid off the cup and hold it in both hands, offering it to him. He sniffs it and frowns slightly. Maybe I should have got cow blood. Then he moves in again and his eyes lock on mine, all cautious like I might pull the cup away if he doesn't watch me really close. I stay very, very still. And finally, after an age of that cagey staring, he puts his lips to the rim of the cup and takes a drink.

I keep a reassuring smile in my eyes as he takes a few more sips. I wish I could just prove to him that everything's going to be okay. I need him to know I'll take care of him. If he'll let me. I'll bring him all the way back to himself. To me. My Angel. I'll do anything to get him back.

He's had almost half the cup and then he shifts and sits up so he can take it from me. His hands are black with grime but they're still beautiful. I sit like a good girl and just wait for him to finish the contents of the cup. It looks horrid, all thick and syrupy. Makes me rethink the merits of the whole vegetarian thing. But it's helping him, I can tell. He looks better already. His eyes are clearer.

I take the empty cup from him and set it on the floor. He almost lets me touch him, but not quite. I guess I have to be patient. He remembers me, and that's a lot. He trusted me to feed him, and that's huge. I can wait for the rest. I feel that he wants to come back as much as I want him to.

"Thank you," he says, so very softly.

And, right on cue, the girl bursts into tears again.

****************

Spike:

Once again, he waited until the slayer was long gone then he emerged into the hallway at the mansion. The soft combined scent of nightblooming jasmine and honeysuckle clung to his leather coat from outside and he sniffed at his sleeve. Spike loved that smell. It was exclusive to Southern California and always reminded him of happy times-even if all the times he'd spent in Sunnydale hadn't been so happy. As yet, anyway.

He had already been out for a hunt so he was full and warm and ready to try to reach his ailing sire again.

But first things first.

Spike went into the large bathroom across the hall from the bedrooms and tried the lightswitch. The room was instantly bathed in soft pinkish light from the rose colored overhead fixture. Next, he went to the faucet in the sink and turned on the hot tap.

The pipes had air in them and made a few good solid clanks, but then the water began to flow. If Spike's memory served him, he remembered that Angel paid all the utilities on the mansion well in advance. How far in advance remained to be seen, but he had a good feeling that since there was electricity, there was likely to still be hot water.

He let the rust run out of the line and then waited with his finger under the running water to see if it heated up. After a few minutes, it did. Quite nicely, in fact.

"Excellent," he said. "Now we just need to get the old boy in the bath." He turned off the sink and walked over to the large, freestanding tub in the center of the room. Drusilla had loved taking baths in that tub. Spike had been able to move all the way around it and see to her every pampered need, even when he was in the wheelchair. He planned to do just the same for Angel, if he would let him.

Giving the same treatment to the faucet in the tub, Spike rinsed the dusty porcelain until it shone in the rosy light. On a built-in shelf on the wall, he found some fancy little shampoos and soaps Dru had put there for decoration. Peeling back the tissue paper around one round bar, his nose was assaulted with the scent of lavender perfume. Instantly, he was transported back to that bath tub in Paris over a hundred years ago when he'd been singing while he soaked and Angel had come up on him. The memory made him tremendously sad for some reason, even though the event itself had been quite pleasant.

Shaking his head, Spike set the bar of soap and a little bottle of shampoo on the edge of the tub, then waited a moment until the bath had filled about half way. Testing the temperature of the water with his hand, he said, "close enough for rock `n' roll," then he turned around and headed out the bathroom door.

Angel was still sitting on the couch but his handsome, dirt smudge face was turned around toward the hall and the noises coming from it. Spike offered a smile as he came into view, then he slipped his coat off and draped it over the arm of the couch. The little blaze the slayer had got going was still flickering on the hearth and the room was nice and cozy.

"'Evening, peaches," he said cheerfully. "Don't worry about the racket. It's just the pipes clearin' their throats. How are we tonight, then? You look better."

Angel never stopped watching him, his dark eyes flickering with what might have been gladness. He nodded once, started to say something, then stopped. He was still wrapped in the blanket Buffy had put on him-the same one Spike had given him the night before.

"Did you let the little girl feed you?" Spike knew she had-he'd watched it all from the safety of the shadowy hallway.

Angel nodded again.

"That's good." Kneeling in front of the brunette, Spike held out his hands, palms up. "Can I see your hands?"

Brow creasing uncertainly, Angel hesitated for a long time before he slipped his arms out from under the blanket. He showed Spike his hands but did not offer to be touched. Still, it was better than last night.

"May I?" Spike said, reaching forward very carefully until the pads of his fingers touched Angel's. He stayed there for a moment letting his grandsire get used to the contact, then he took a look at those large, long-fingered hands.

Angel's nails were black with filth and jagged from god only knew what sort of activity. It looked like he'd been digging bare-handed in hard craggy soil. Cuts and gashes faulted the pale skin on the top and rough scratches marked his palms. Spike stroked Angel's hands gently.

"You're in dire need of a manicure, luv," he said, smiling playfully. "Maybe you'll tell me how your lovely hands got so chewed up?"

Angel just looked at him.

"Or not." Spike held the brunette's hands softly in his own and smiled into those tentative dark eyes. "Here's what I'm thinking," he began. "I've got a nice bath drawn for you in the other room and I'm hoping you'll let me help you clean up a bit. How do you feel about that?"

Angel looked down at their joined hands and kept his focus there for a long time. So long, in fact, that Spike became concerned.

"Right, well if you'd rather have the little girl do it, that's fine. I understand. I'm sure she would be happy to help you. I just thought that since I was here and all . . ."

Without looking up, Angel said, "Buffy."

"Yeah," Spike said. "That's right. Buffy. The blonde bit. Do you want to wait for her to give you a bath?"

When Angel looked at him in the next moment, his eyes flashed with an unmistakable smile. Spike smiled back hopefully.

"William," Angel said, his voice a soft, caressing whisper. The sound was so nearly seductive, that for a moment Spike felt he was once again in the company of his flirtatious mentor.

Lowering his chin, Spike grinned and said, "that's right, pet. I'm your William." He stroked Angel's hands again, but that time with the intent to give pleasure as well as comfort. He tickled the sensitive skin of Angel's wrists with his nails then used just a bit of pressure to tug on those long dirty fingers suggestively. Again, Angel smiled slightly.

"So?" Spike encouraged. "Do I get to rub suds all over you, or what?"

After a very long pause, Angel nodded.

"There's a good lad," Spike said, smiling into those dark, golden eyes. He carefully removed the blanket then stood up, holding out his hands again. Angel stood of his own accord, but let Spike take his arm once he was on his feet. They went to the hallway and down to the bathroom, but Angel stopped in the doorway and looked around the room with wide eyes.

"What?" Spike said. "Don't you remember this room?"

"Yes," Angel said, the sound of his voice still quite startling. Spike would have to get used to him speaking again. "I . . ." With his brow knit, Angel looked over his shoulder at the dark bedroom that used to be his own. He seemed to be remembering lots of things in that moment and, judging by his expression, not all of them were pleasant.

"You all right, mate?"

Frowning at the bedroom door, Angel swallowed and his throat clicked dryly. "Drusilla?" he said.

"She's fine," Spike assured him. "She's in Brazil, where I left her. She didn't want to come back here with me. After last time, Sunnydale's no longer her favorite holiday destination."

Angel looked at him again, his expression drawn taut with dismay.

"What?" Spike asked, not liking the weird clammy feeling crawling in his gut.

"You know you shouldn't leave her alone," Angel said, and then his expression smoothed into that near smile again, almost as though he were playing. "She's naughty."

Letting out a relieved chuckle, Spike stepped into the bathroom. "Yeah, well-that's not news. Come on, then. Let's get you naked."

Angel stepped into the room, looking around doubtfully at first and then seeming to relax.

"Park yourself on the edge of the tub, there," Spike instructed gently. When Angel was seated, he kneeled again and carefully tugged off those mud-caked shoes. Angel's feet were bare underneath, but they were also covered in disturbing cuts and scrapes. "Right," Spike said, showing his hands as he reached for the buttons at the waist of Angel's battered jeans. "I'm going to take these off you now, so just . . . stay calm. I hope you know you can trust me."

"Can I?" Angel said and they looked at each other directly.

Momentarily taken aback, Spike frowned then turned his attention back to undoing Angel's trousers. "Well," he said, his tone faltering. "Here's the thing. You and I . . . I mean, historically . . ." He sighed in frustration, wishing he could just sort his thoughts and get them out so they made sense. But they didn't make sense. They never had. The situation itself was cluttered with confusion. He looked in Angel's eyes again. "You do remember how you know me, right?"

"Yes."

"And you obviously remember Dru."

"I remember everything," Angel said.

"Okay, then. You know we're family, you and I? You, me and Dru."

"Yes." Angel reached down and fumbled with the zipper on his fly, then he let Spike open the jeans and pull them down over his lean hips.

"Do you remember how I was made?" Spike said, sliding the jeans all the way down and off Angel's long, coltish legs.

"Drusilla made you," the brunette said. Naked then, he sat on the edge of the tub looking very much like a marble statue that had fallen to neglect. All the dirt and marks did nothing to diminish his beauty, though. He still took Spike's breath away.

"Who made Dru?" Spike asked, keeping up the refresher course.

"Me."

"And who made you?"

Angel frowned but Spike didn't think it was because he couldn't remember. Angel frowned because the memories inside him then were painful. "Darla."

"Yeah," Spike whispered. "Darla. Well, then. You're all there, aren't you? Come on. Into the bath with you."

Turning slowly, Angel slipped his feet into the water and just sat there for a moment. "Buffy?" he said.

"You know her, too," Spike said. "She's the slayer. And she's your lover, `cause you're twisted like that. Or she was. I don't know where you'll end up with her now."

"She . . ." He frowned again, then seemed to cast that thought away. Moving gingerly, Angel sat down in the tub, sighing from the delicious warmth.

*****