The spell was broken.

Angel ripped his fangs away from the tender neck beneath him, and tore his own flesh as he pulled away from William's sharp teeth. Angel's chest heaved with exertion, and his head spun dizzily. William had not yet moved a voluntary muscle, though his upper lip twitched as though his fangs were still embedded in Angel's neck. How long had they lain here? It seemed like hours, but it must have been mere moments. Like the old mortal saying about your life flashing before your eyes prior to death. Angel had relived the time he shared with William, though he had no idea from whose consciousness the images had sprung. He saw, heard, tasted....felt...every thing which William had in the darkest and most dazzlingly radiant years of both their
lives.

He brushed his hand over William's eyes, bidding them to open. The cobalt stare which met him was glassy, shining with barely restrained emotion. Shocked, Angel took a breath. His voice betrayed his own passion, despite his valiant struggle to keep it in check.

“You miss him?!” Incredulous, rueful....angry.

There was no answer. What could William possibly say to make Angel understand? That the time was so much simpler then; before souls, and Slayers and implants. That his feelings were so much simpler then as well. Hate. Lust. Rage. Love. 

*Belonging.* That when Angelus would turn his venomous anger on him, and beat him mercilessly, that it was almost better than the sex. Because in those moments, William became pure feeling. pure energy, and that escape was worth any price. That through it all...the years spent at Angelus feet, in his bed, at least he knew his place. What was it now, his purpose, his design? He made a jolly good show of not caring about such matters. But this unbidden trip through the centuries had brought it all to the fore. What was he? He knew. He was an impotent demon miserably in love with his own Sire, a souled vampire who happened to still carry a torch for a dead Slayer.

How pathetic.

Angel grabbed William's chin, forced him to meet his gaze. “You miss him.”

William only nodded mutely, battling the immanent, shameful tears.

“Stand up” Angel ordered hoarsely. For one petrifying moment, William feared Angel was going to throw him out. “What..?” was all he could manage.

“I SAID STAND UP, DAMN YOU” The rage in the older vampires voice was no longer in his control. And it was obvious he didn't care.

William rose to his feet unsteadily. “What... --?” he began for the second time. But was silenced by a strong hand contacting palm first across his right cheek. He swallowed a whine of protest, and held his gaze steady as his Sire glowered down at him.

“Did I give you permission to speak, whelp?” The voice was calm now. That old...ancient kind of calm that his Sire used when his actions became most uncontrolled. The combination always made William weak in his knees. Damn. It still worked.

“No, you didn't Sire. Im sorry.”

A snort from Angelus. “Oh, you're sorry all right. Had the Lucky Charms Leprechaun with a soul all to yourself. But no, you want **this**. Stupid little boy, “ he hissed close to William's ear. 

The breath coming in hot gasps against his cheek, “You are going to get everything you dared to hope for.. and maybe a little bonus too..”

Spike watched silently as the dark haired vampire tore apart a lamp cord, and wrapped it casually around his own wrist. He didn't move a muscle as the taller man pulled off his belt, ruffled through drawers to find several more leather belts, and came toward him, preparations in hand.

Spike didn't try to struggle as his arms were bound with the leather belts, forced over his head, and linked with electrical wire to the pipe on the ceiling. He stood, remarkably composed, as his feet were kicked apart from under him, then tied that way to the lamp which had been knocked over, and placed on the floor between his legs.

He could have fought. He could have freed himself from the bonds without exerting terribly much effort. But he did not.

He actually had to fight to keep from breathing, because breathing would be a show of weakness, a show of surrender, and the larger vampire fed on that as much as he fed on the blood. Spike watched the way his Sire moved, the muscles loose and limber. No more were the shoulders hunched with the weight of a thousand worlds. No more did the brows knit with the trademark small lines of gloom between them. He moved his arms about as he spoke, each gesture grand and narcissistic. This was a man...a creature..totally at ease within his own body.

He felt the laugh before he heard it, and it ran up his spine like so many old nightmares...daymares...dreams.

Spike dared not meet his Sires gaze. He knew which countenance he would see. The deeply ridged brow, the yellow eyes, the elongated canines. Angel had shown similar face in their escapades...their battles and their bliss...But this total package was reserved for someone else.

This was the way Angelus wore the body.

Spike kept his eyes carefully on the floor as the hulking form circled him, a carrion.

He was talking. Even the voice wasn't the same. It had a lilting quality to it...part Irish accent, part acerbic psychopath. It made Spikes insides quiver in dread. It also made his cock hard as a goddam brick.

“Trouble is, I have no idea which transgression to punish you for first. I mean there are sooooo many.” As he spoke, he rubbed the tip of the doubled up leather belt he held against Spikes chest. Gentle. Featherlike. Menacing.

“We could start with the fact that you tried to have me KILLED” He swung the belt with a quick flick of an agile wrist, and the noise snapped the sound barrier by William's ear. For a second, he was deafened. But he did not flinch.

“Of course, you've done that so many FUCKING TIMES I wouldn't know where to begin kicking the shit out of you for it.” Another snap of the leather, the other ear dimmed this time. Now it was like hearing under a sea of water.. a bathtub of bubbles...

***You don't have to breathe idiot childe...***

“So lets start with the basics. You forgot your place. You forgot who you are, who I am, and what that means in the scheme of things. Ill tell you what it means, boy.”

The first *crack* of the whip against his back made Spike arch forward despite his resolve. He had forgotten how strong......

...”You forgot, didn't you?” The sing song voice. So tranquil. *Crack* A second stripe marred the smooth lines of his bare back.

“You forgot how easy it was for me to make you cry.” 

*Crack* This time the back of his thighs were the target. Angelus aim was always accurate. With one stroke a large angry welt covered both of the blonde's trembling upper legs.

“You asked for this, boy. In actions, and in words. Never let it be said I don't give you what you want.” 

*Crack* Spikes eyes had been closed in pain, and he hadn't noticed Angelus stood in front of him. Until the blow landed on his chest, leaving a streak of blood across both flat nipples with the expert swing.

“Open your eyes.” Such a soft voice. As Spike did, the leather flew again, this time across the front of his legs. Thank the gods for good aim. Still, he shook and tried in vain to shield himself. 

A smirk. “Don't worry. Not gonna hurt any part I need later on.” Angelus reached out and took hold of that part, and despite the pain pulsing at the site of each lash mark, the bound vampire arched forward into the caress. More laughter.

“You are sooooo predictable, Spike.” **Crack** ....Again,...Again,... Again. Shoulders pulsed under the repeated force of impact. Blood flowed freely now down Spikes back, running down his legs and onto the wooden floor.

The blond vampire bit his lip to keep from crying out. The blood flowed too now down his chin, but....no defeat. A sigh by his ear. Again, William hadn't noticed that his tormentor had moved 'til it was too late. The body moved quicker when Angelus was in full possession of it. With a more vampire like speed and grace. As if Angel was afraid that giving that much control to the supernatural forces that kept his corpse animated, would somehow give Angelus more control as well. 

Breath in his ear. A tongue caressing the folds of flesh there. “I will make you scream, Will. You know I will. Just let it go now...”

Spike cringed hearing the words he had uttered in the elevator being spoken this way. A cruel tug to the blond hair, words uttered against sweat-covered cheeks this time.

“What did you expect, boy? You disappoint me. Have you romanticized me that much over the years? Im Savior or Satan, is that right? Rarely do you hit the mark...”

Handful of platinum hair released with a jerk, throwing Spikes neck forward, then back once more. Dizzy with the wrenching motion, his brain bouncing against his skull.

Mouth against the rivulets of blood pouring from his wounded flesh. Cold, hard, insistent kisses. Spike moaned. Sharp fingernails dug into his thighs as a probing tongue found each wound, and sharp teeth reopened them. A hiss through clenched jaws. “Why wont you scream for me, Will?” Mouthful of blood. Snapping bites against his inner thigh..close..so close to....he wouldn't.

“Ah, Will, you know I love you..” Sarcasm. The lash marks barely bee stings by comparison. “You know what your problem is?” 

Again he'd moved too quickly for Spike to process. He was already across the room, rummaging through drawers searching for...something. Apparently something he thought was important enough to delay his little game for...

He returned to his Childe's side empty handed and looking annoyed...feral and annoyed. Always a painful combination for anyone unlucky enough to be tied up and witnessing it.

“Your problem is your skin.” Angelus ran a long fingered hand down Spikes flank, smirking at the shudder it elicited. His caress lingered on one hip, before he raised back and smacked it, leaving an angry hand print over the hip bone. 

“Don't get me wrong, its... beautiful skin.” Another biting slap, to the opposite hip. “Its so pale” *Slap* “So smooth” *Slap*.

“So very very ..soft” A single slap to the face....almost feeble by comparison to the others...Spikes eyes flew open. The intent was only to get his attention. A broad, ominous smile met him.

“You know, when it was night, and the three of us were asleep together, sometimes, I would wake up, and feel a small, soft body next to me. And in the darkness, I didn't know if it was you or Dru. Your skin is that soft, Will.” Angelus caressed the side of Spikes face as he said these words, running his thumb over the bruises he had left there. “Its that soft.”

The dark haired vampire dropped to his knees in front of the restrained one. Again, he took to lapping at the lacerations which were already repairing themselves. . “The problem is...it just heals so damned quickly.” Small nibbles on the inside of Spikes thighs. “And you know, Im kind of a visual sadist.” Flat surface of the tongue over Spikes balls, and he leaped as far as his bonds would allow him off of his feet.

“Its a shame really.” That relentless tongue moving in smooth, fluid motions over the tender skin between his testicles and his ass. Spike quivered under the ministrations, under the touches in stark contrast to the words being spoken. Uttered so serenely they could only be harbingers of inevitable suffering.

“Im going to have to mark you permanently, you know. Again. Its the only way, I fear.” Tip of the cool tongue flirting with the entrance to Spikes trembling body. Running in lazy circles around the pink flesh, never lingering long enough to satisfy the building need. One solitary thrust...and the blond arched back...with a guttural cry torn from his throat.

Then it was gone. Spike groaned his frustration into the side of his arm, his head resting wearily on one shoulder.

When Angelus forcefully lifted his head once more, he was holding an old fashioned ink well. “A nice tattoo. I cut you, I pour the ink in the wound. Should work. It'll hurt, sure. But it'll work. What do you say, Will?” 

The old rhetoric. Annoyance warred with trepidation. The former won out.

“What, Im supposed to agree with you again, now? What's the bleedin' line you wanna hear, Sire, eh? How's it go? Oh yes, As you wish, My Lord and Master? “

Angelus laughed, some genuine glee in the demonic sound this time. “Goddamn, Will. Im impressed. You *have* grown up. But your consent is really inconsequential to me these days. The times, they are a-changin'.”

Spike stared at his Sire as he processed the answer. The truth of it hit him suddenly, a freight train in his chest. This wasn't the ancient Angelus that stood before him. The one who he certainly feared, but could at least....predict. This was the Angelus who had re-appeared after his ill fated tryst with the Slayer. The one who had tasted benevolence, and had been twisted to rage all the more by it. The one who brooked no weakness, especially not from his Childer. The one who'd had only scorn and loathing for his broken bones..... The one who had appeared to him in the vision of his mutilation at the hands of the Initiative.

The one who the Judge had pronounced “burned pure of all traces of humanity.”

What was it Angelus had said to Spike, years ago, as they had begun to make preparations to suck the world into hell...about how the Slayer had made him....feel....

'She made me feel human again. Thats just not something you forgive.'

Spike was certain Angelus would not forgive him that either. He raised his chin and met the dark gaze. All right. He *had* asked for this. He couldn't deny that anymore than he could deny the fact that he had wanted it. He would accept his punishment like a ..vampire. Not a whimpering human.

He swallowed hard. “Go ahead, then”.

Angelus stared at him with amazement for one brief second. Then, silently, he walked behind his Childe to choose the placement for the mark. He laid a gentle kiss on the small of Spikes back, and Spike understood that was where he would be cut, and branded again as his Sires. With the tip of his finger, Angelus traced the letter on the smooth expanse of skin , before reaching down into the boots he was not wearing for the knife he no longer carried. ((Not in more than a hundred years))

Spike heard the dull thud as Angels body collapsed onto the wood floor. He craned his neck in his bonds, and out of the corner of his eye, saw his Sire laying in a pool of his own blood. With a curse born of equal parts frustration and relief, he tore free of the restraints. He kicked the lamp out of the way, and bent over the prone form.

Angels eyes were closed, his hand cupped over his nostrils, from where the endless flow of blood appeared to be stemming. Spike snorted, “For pity's sake, Angelus, this whole schtick works allot better if you bleed from your palms...” He waited for the broody, smart ass retort. None was forthcoming.

“Angel!” he shouted, gently shaking the strong shoulder. Still, no reply. “Angel, dammnit!” He moved the dark haired mans hands and was stunned at the amount and velocity of the blood flow. “Fuck...” he murmured. Then he scooped the large vampire into his arms, and gently carried him to the bed. As Spike lay the still bleeding, dark head of his Sire upon the pillows, his left hand opened. The green stone clattered noisily to the floor.

***

When Angel came to, he was immediately aware of two things. The first was the unbelievable pain in his skull. It seemed to be centered at the back of his head, but its tendrils radiated, groping for the backs of his eyeballs, the muscles of his jaw, and the bridge of his nose, which felt as if it had been shattered.

He reached a tentative hand to his forehead, and the mere touch of his fingertips brought a fresh wave of excruciating pain. Still, he was relieved to discover that there was no blood, and no obvious wound. All his bones were in their rightful place. He groaned.

If this was what Spike had to endure every time he tried to feed it was no wonder he had gone from a rabid Bulldog to the equivalent of a vegetarian Chihuahua.

The second thing Angel was immediately mindful of was the light. It was radiant, fairly blinding in its intensity. No matter how long a Vampire lived in Darkness, they never forgot the feel of the Light. Angel had often wondered if that was part and parcel of the Nightwalkers curse. Most demons abhorred the memory of the Light. Angelus had. He had vehemently despised the Sun, for its warmth and purity, for what it symbolized. Life.

Angel, on the other hand, treasured the memory like some sort of sentimental family heirloom. Of all the worldly things he was denied after his transformation to vampire, it was the simple comfort of morning that he missed the most. Sometimes, he would rent movies that contained scenes of sunrises. He would sit in front of his television, transfixed, and hit the Rewind button on his VCR over and over. He would stare for hours, hypnotized by the sight of the of the blue and gold fingers of dawn as they wrapped themselves around the Earth's horizon. He knew he was a boring romantic that way. He didn't quite care.

In the past two-hundred-and-fifty-some years Angel had only personally experienced the sunshine twice. Once when he was given Immortality, and once when he was given Mortality. And although he had given both up willingly, albeit at great personal cost, he never forgot the sensation of standing, bathed in that yellow Light. He could still close his eyes, and conjure the feel of that soothing warmth on his face.

This light, this heat, was more intense even than that.

Angel struggled to stand, but was not surprised to discover his legs refused to support his weight. The level surface of the wall behind him offered no assistance. The wall. Now that was curious. Despite the powerful glow emanating from- wherever-, the smooth surface he leaned against was cool to his touch.

So too was his skin, it felt no warmer at all than usual. Odd. Despite popular misconception, he was not a cold blooded creature. Rather, much like a lizard, his body temperature could rise to accommodate the temperature of the air around him. Which was precisely why exposure to the Sun was so deadly to vampires. With their preternatural metabolism, they warmed too quickly to adjust to that kind of intense heat. After only seconds, they would literally fry from the inside, like a turtle stuck on its back on hot asphalt. Only faster. And, as Spike would say, “not half as funny to watch.”

Spike! Memories came crashing back suddenly, like they always did after a heavy sleep. But slower this time, and with numerous gaps. He had been with Spike..in his apartment...in L.A....Now Spike was alone ((danger)) ...and he was here...Where was here? What exactly had he been doing before here? He couldn't recall. ((William in danger))

The small hairs on the back of Angels neck stood at attention.

Ignoring the pain which now seemed to crawl through every vein soaked in stolen blood, he climbed to his feet. He turned his head to get a better look at his surroundings, moaning his discomfort as the waves washed over him with each small movement he attempted. He called on his heightened senses to try and determine if there was anyone- or anything- in this place with him.

But the mirage of light reflected off of everything equally, and all he could see ahead of him was more sparkling white. The only scent in the air was his own. He swallowed. He smelled a little like fear. He looked down and noticed that his hands were trembling slightly. For the first time, he also noticed his clothing. Loose fitting, comfortable garb, and also, all white. Slacks and a long sleeved shirt, bare feet. Nothing he would have consciously chosen for himself, in any incarnation. Something made him reach a shaky hand up to touch his hair. He found it was shoulder length now, and tied into a loose ponytail with a simple leather string. He frowned. He had not worn his hair that way since the early 1900s, when he cut it short, into the style of
the time.

Of course, it had never grown back. Corpses don't grow hair. At least, the demon which animated his corpse didn't. His demon didn't bother to do anything, really, that wasn't pertinent to the body's immediate survival. Which for the most part, had always been all right with Angel. He had never particularly missed the daily ritual of having to shave.

Angel swayed unsteadily on his feet and grabbed once more at the wall for support. He muttered a few uncharacteristic curses to himself, and was startled when his voice seemed to skitter along the flawless surface of this place, then return to him in a perfect echo. As if he was standing at the entrance to a long hallway. Taking a deep swig of oxygen into his dead lungs, he started to walk.

************************************************************************
Spike became concerned when he realized the blood flow was not ceasing. The pressure he applied to his Sires nose did nothing to even slow the bright crimson onslaught, which by now had covered countless towels and two bed sheets. The knowledge that Angel was not going to bleed to death was less than comforting. Especially since the dark vampire had made no movements whatsoever since Spike had laid him on the bed about an hour or so ago.

But what worried the blond vampire more were the wounds on Angels body. They were Spikes own bite marks, from where he had fed off his Sire during their latest round of demonic lovemaking. By all accounts, the teeth marks and the surrounding bruises should have healed by now. And although the holes were now as small as pinpricks, they were still completely visible. The blue and yellow abrasions encircling them were also still apparent. That was simply not kosher. At all. It was if Angels supernatural healing processes had stopped right around the time this insane nosebleed had begun.

“Fuck”, Spike muttered to himself as he at last gave up his apparent futile attempts to stop the never-ending flow of blood.

“Fuck”, he intoned again, as he realized what he was going to have to do.

“Fuck!” Louder this time, as he picked up the phone and began to dial.

“This is Wesley”. Spike grimaced. The mans voice alone worked his nerves.

“Ya, whatever. Listen, we got trouble here. You and the chit need to get back to LA right off. Oh - and bring the witch.” Spike hung up the phone without further explanation. He hoped it was enough to bring the mortals here. He really did not want to have to converse with that useless Watcher any longer than necessary. And at the moment, it made his skin itch not to be
in the same room as his Sire.

He walked the ten paces back into the bedroom quickly, ignoring the phone which had already begun ringing incessantly. Angel still had not moved, but it looked as though the bleeding had slowed. A little. Spike wanted to be comforted by that. But he couldn't help wonder if perhaps that was simply because there wasn't that much blood left inside of Angel anymore.

************************************************************************
Angel wandered slowly down what was, as he'd suspected, a long hallway. He felt some of the strength returning to his stiff limbs as he moved. He was also beginning to make out what appeared to be shadowy figures ahead. He inhaled. No scent. As he passed the images they shimmered, then took solid form.

Only when he stood directly in front of each could he discern their full shapes and details. And then, he had to turn his face away. They were statues of Christ. Thirteen in all. The Stations of the Cross. He recalled the religious significance from his mortal days as a Churchgoing, if hypocritical, young Catholic. When Sundays confessions gave him a shiny new soul with which to sin again on Monday.

He studied the sculptures out of the corner of his eye, they were truly amazing works of art. The detail was exquisite. Angel could make out every straining muscle on the replica of the human Jesus, as he struggled to carry his own cross. He could see the unshed tears in the eyes of Mary, as she looked on in abject horror and sorrow while her son was being crucified. These were not mere statues. The vampire would not have been at all surprised if they climbed down off their pedestals before him and took in a living breath. Again, Angel was overcome with the instinct to look away.

When he once more lifted his head, the statues were gone. Instead, further onward swirled a kaleidoscope of color. Each hue danced with the impossible light radiating from behind it. The visual symphony then rained over an altar directly below. A stained glass window. He recognized it as identical to the one in his childhood Church in Ireland. Only magnified a hundred fold in size and splendor.

The fragments of glass and light coalesced to create religious symbols, sacred talismans he remembered from his boyhood, and as Angel watched, the light on the altar splintered, shone ever brighter, until he was nearly blinded with the sight of it. When the shine had mellowed somewhat, and he was again able to look directly at the velvet draped altar, he saw the space was now completely blanketed in the purest of white roses.

Buffy.

Angel swallowed a whimper, and fought the urge to fall to his knees.

************************************************************************
“What!?” the thick Cockney accent demanded into the receiver. The perpetual ringing was driving him out of his friggin' mind. Despite his reluctance to chat it up with the mortals his Sire seemed to enjoy associating with, Spike had felt compelled to answer the phone. If for no other reason than because perhaps they had some sort of useful information.

“Spike, I want you to listen to me very carefully -” began the proper British voice. Spike sneered at the condescending tone, and battled against slamming the receiver down again. Pointless exercise, he knew. The tosser would just call back. Again.

“Don't give me orders Watcher! Just tell me what I need to know.” Silence met his tirade. “Watcher! Talk to me you bloody -”

“Spike. Tell me what's going on there. Where is Angel?” Shaken as the vampire was, it took him a moment to realize that the calm voice on the other end of the phone belonged now to the other Watcher.

Giles was also a bit grating, but Spike had a begrudging respect for this Watcher. Not that he would ever admit it, even under penalty of a sharp stick to the chest. Especially now, after the fiasco that had been the Slayers funeral, and his Sires conspicuous absence from it. Still, he was the one with the books, and hopefully, the answers. So, emotionally torturing the
wanker would have to wait. Dammit. Spike never was much good at delayed gratification.

The vampire kept his tone deliberately clipped. “Angel is unconscious. His nose has been bleeding for about the last two hours, non-stop. I'm assuming it has something to do with the Catalyst Demon. Any ideas what?”

He heard Giles sharp intake of breath, and he did not like the sound of it. The bespectacled Englishman had always been more of the stiff upper lip sort. The only time he ever saw the man lose it was when he had accidentally been changed into a demon himself. Talk about your happy moments.

“Exactly what preceded Angels loss of consciousness?” Giles queried.

Spike grinned a bit. Perhaps he'd be able to work in some emotional discomfort after all. “Well, we were having us a bit of a shag, love.” He so regretted not being able to see the expression on the humans usually stoic face.

“I - I see...Then, what happened?” Giles recovered quickly. Sod it all.

Spike hesitated, uncertain if he should reveal his Sires return to previous demonic form to this man, and therefore undoubtedly to the rest of the Scooby Crew. He certainly did not want to risk the merry band staking Angel in their overzealous foolishness. But he also couldn't risk withholding information which may be pertinent to his Sires recovery.

In the end, prudence won out. He gave Giles an abbreviated version of what had occurred since the last time Angel had been in contact with Wesley via phone. When Spike was through speaking, Giles let out another breath, then was again silent.

“Will you quit with the breathing, Watcher, and just tell me what the devil is going on with my Sire?!” Spike finally snapped.

Giles chose to ignore both the obvious impossibility of the vampires order, as well as Spikes undisguised worry, further revealed by his reference to Angel as his *Sire*. It was apparent from all of the above that there was more going on between the two vampires than mere... shagging. Giles was certain he did not want to dwell on this fact in any sort of detail.

“Spike, you and Angel are both in grave danger. We have found a good deal more information about the Demon you are facing. It is a catalyst for Essence.”

“A wha -?”

“An Essence Demon. It is imbued with the Essence of the Caster, who Angel seems to suspect is Drusilla?” Giles did not pause for an answer, just continued in a troubled tone. “It will then draw on the Essence of the intended Host, whom I assume is Angel. Anyone else who comes into physical contact with it will be similarly effected. It will act on your darkest and
most hidden thoughts and feelings, bringing them all to the surface.”

“Swell,” Spike intoned, although truthfully, he had guessed almost as much from the past days events.

“Spike, Im afraid there's more,” Giles continued.

“Of course there is,” the vampire deadpanned.

“An Essence Demon is a powerful entity when invoked by a human Spellcaster, and sent to a mortal Host. But, if it was truly invoked by a vampire, particularly a - a - disturbed one, and then sent to another demon, it becomes not only unpredictable, but its power is also magnified to a frightening degree.”

Spike frowned, “why is that?”

“Because all demonic senses are heightened. Therefore, the results of the Essence catalyst will be magnified as well. These results could be enough to cause insanity, and also quite possibly-- “ Giles fell silent suddenly, as he remembered to whom he was speaking, the legendary temper associated with the being on the other side of this phone line.

“And also what, dammnit?!” Spike demanded. He heard another intake of breath. What a bloody annoying human habit.

“Possibly death, Spike. Should the Essence Demon take complete control over the Host, the power it will eventually exert as it gains in strength may become enough to induce the kind of insanity resulting most often in self injury.”

Spikes brain had stopped functioning at the word *death*. “In English this time, Watcher!” he demanded.

“Angel could very well attempt to kill himself. The madness such demons can induce has been known to be that strong. there are accounts of --”

Spike cut him off. “ My Sire is *not* going to off himself. And you wanna know why? Cause you bloody idiots are gonna get off yours arses and get to L.A with the cure for this fucking demonic piece of rock. If you don't, Ill personally -- “

It was Giles turn to interrupt what Spike needed no reminding had been the beginnings of a completely idle threat. As Giles had once reminded the blond demon long ago, thanks to the Initiative, he could now do no more than lick someone to death.

The Watcher felt an odd twinge of pity for the vampire. Spike was alone with an unconscious, and obviously quite ill Angel. He was, essentially, helpless. And, the tone in the normally swaggering creatures voice had been unmistakably filled with agonized worry.

Nonetheless, Giles chalked up his newfound concern for Spike as spillover from the incredible emptiness in is heart since the death of his beloved Slayer.

“Spike, your threats are unnecessary. I am currently talking to you from the car. We are on our way to Los Angeles. All of us. We shall see you in less than two hours.”

Spike hung up the phone. Stunned.

***

Angel found himself on his knees, despite intrepid attempts to remain upright. Completely overwhelmed by his feelings of guilt and grief, he tried to shake off the images of Light and childhood hope. They pressed ever closer to his shivering frame, which was now huddled against the corner wall.

He fought them. He was not deserving.

“Im not here” Angel repeated to himself. To no one. His voice shook. “Im not here.”

“If I was alive, I wouldn't come here, and if Im dead, “. he paused as the possibility occurred to him suddenly. “If Im dead I certainly don't belong here.”

Another voice hissed from somewhere behind him..somewhere *within* him. “Where DO you belong, Angelus?”

Angel hung his head in shame. He knew. He knew.

************************************************************************
Spike again walked over to the bed which held the body of his still and bloodied Sire. It looked like a murder had been committed in this room. Blood was everywhere. It had soaked through the coverlets, into the mattress; it covered the walls, and the floor had a thin sheen of crimson, broken only by footprints in the muck.

On second thought, this could not have been a murder scene.. unless it was killing en masse. Humans don't contain this amount of blood. No human could shed a quarter this amount and survive. Spike only hoped the same was not true for his Sire.

Spike stared down at the dark vampire. The speed of the current had indeed subsided somewhat, but the river of red continued to flow from both of Angels nostrils at a steady rate. His lips and chin were completely tattooed scarlet, as was his naked chest and stomach. Both Angels hands were stained as well, from before he had passed out, when he had grabbed at his own
face.

Spike was torn between shock and revulsion at the sight of Angel laying there, bleeding and helpless- and lust and pleasure at the sight of Angel laying there, bleeding and helpless. The only thing that prevented Spike from getting a raging hard on was the knowledge that Angel, according to Giles anyway, may never awaken.

Spike didn't believe that. He wouldn't believe that. This was Angleus for chrissake. The man had returned from *Hell*.

************************************************************************
The vampire cowered against the stone wall . There were no guards posted here. He had long ago forgotten that anything else existed.

Since his condemnation nearly five hundred years ago, he had never actually attempted escape. Banished to Hell as a Master Vampire, with both body and soul intact, he was something of an enigma to the Powers. And although his arrival had originally been heralded with malicious glee, his tormentors soon found themselves more frustrated than overjoyed.

This one was did not bemoan his plight.. He refused to plead his case for mercy. He never once cried out for anyOne to save him from his fate. Instead, he accepted whatever brutality the Punishers unleashed upon his naked and soon broken form, with a detached stoicism that bordered on the psychotic.

He was apathetic when they beat him into unconsciousness. He never begged for healing blood when he was starved for days on end. Scourges, whips, nails, crossbows...all had a similar effect on his indifference. None.

It was certain his physical body was in agony. No one, not even a powerful demon with the thirst for bloodshed he had demonstrated in his long and infamous unlife, could withstand the torment they heaped upon him without mercy. But when they would savagely rape him, when the tendrils of the Punishers would reach into his brain, to peel away the layers of humanity,
and draw out the fear and suffering; after the initial recoiling, the answer offered up was always the same.

“I deserve this. I deserve this. Go ahead.”

Complicated, frustrating puzzle this one. His demon was strong, his soul was stronger. One protected the body, the other the Essence. It was almost as if he had been designed to withstand any of the torments Hell had yet invented.

It was quite by accident really that the key was at last discovered.

Holy Water seemed to create a level of discomfort that would keep the vampire on edge enough to let down his guard somewhat. It made a lovely popping noise in his veins. So the Punishers used it often. But it was a random thought the vampire had while they were pouring the solution in his eyes that caught the attention of Hells minions. So amusing. (Where do they get Holy Water from in Hell?)

They had taunted him with that. (We have all manner of holy implements here. Crosses, Holy Water..Who do you think condones our treatment of you? ) To further their point, the army of small demons surrounding the now blinded vampire began to chant in Latin. The vampire recognized parts of the incantation. It was a rite of exorcism. They were mocking the religious lore.

That is when it happened. Angel felt a tug begin at his feet; the draw swept up and up, until his insides felt as if they were the last tissue in a box. The feeling finally centered at the top of his head, and then, with one terrible burning sensation in his scalp, was gone. He gasped for...breath. He felt the stink of the rancid air fill his lungs. That's when the realization dawned on him, and his Accusers.

Angelus had left him.

For the first time in centuries, Angel was alone in his body. He was human. And he was in Hell.

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Spike sat next to Angels unmoving form on the blood soaked bed. He couldn't stand feeling idle and useless one second longer. If Giles was right about this blasted stone causing insanity, then he had to do something...anything...to help Angel. He couldn't rely on the group of mortals who were still at least an hour and a half away.

He climbed on top of Angels body, and only now realized they were both still completely nude. Torn once more between distaste and arousal, Spike ran both hands through the seemingly never-ending flow of blood. He lifted a gory finger to his lips, and licked. Sires blood. The energy shot through him like a thunderbolt. Essence of Angel. Essence.

Essence!

Without further thought, he bent over his Sire, and sank his fangs deep into Angels neck.

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Torturing the purely human body would have, by itself, been a source of endless pleasure for the Punishers. Indeed, for a hundred years, it was. But it took much longer between sessions for the body to heal now. And torturing an unconscious victim was nearly as much sport. So, a good deal of the time, the vampire was left alone in his cell.

Angel realized he had never *been* alone before. He had spent his mortal life purposefully surrounding himself with noise, flesh, souls. Perhaps so as not to have to look too deeply within himself, or perhaps for reasons not so profound. When he was Turned, he had spent every waking moment in the circle of other vampires. And when he was cursed with the return of his soul,
and forced to hide from all living creatures, at least he had always had the company of his demon. Dubious to be certain. But a presence.

Torture, pain, despair...all were preferable to loneliness. To - stillness. If given a choice Angel would pick feeling horrible to feeling nothing at all. Except, he wasn't given that choice.

Eavesdropping upon his most secret fears, Hell had finally found the means to destroy this powerful soul. Angel was stripped, taken into a room without light or sound, suspended by majik chains which created no sensation, and simply - left.

He hung there for three hundred years. No one beat him. No one raped him. And the suffering was far worse than all of those. Eternal Suffering for the entertainment of no one.

He couldn't even pray for death.....not merely for the obvious reason. But simply because he doubted the existence of anyOne who would care to answer him. It was not so very long before he doubted his own existence.

Hell had at last won.

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Does anyone really believe that Angels and their like are in fact benevolent creatures? That the cherubim depicted on countless churches and pop culture icons actually represent the true nature of the Beings supposedly closest to God? If that is indeed the case, then why must they always apologize first when they swoop down on some poor unsuspecting mortal? Why must they
always preface their visits with an announcement that they come in peace? Its because the tidings of comfort and joy are as rare as once in a million millennia, and the smoting and the slaying of the first born much more common an Angels task.

When the Angel appeared to the vampire, who in some sort of a cosmic joke shared his holy name, he did not bother to apologize first. There was not much left in this broken shell which would have actually understood his words.

Nonetheless, he had a sacred Duty to perform. He had to tell this one that now that the only living creature who had ever shed true tears for his redemption had at last left him behind, he was now free to go back home. With the dropping of the Cladaugh Ring, his torment in Hell was finally over, but his suffering on Earth was to begin anew.

Tidings of comfort and joy.

***

Spike landed on his back, in a flurry of black leather and ..hair. His hair was in his face. Startled, he shook it off. Then, with the telltale shrug of his lean shoulders, he climbed to his boot clad feet, and looked around. Nothingness. A lot of white
nothingness. He glanced down at his own form. With the exception of the bizarre return of the long, reddish-brown
locks....and an old song he could not identify suddenly plaguing the edge of his conciousness...nothing was amiss. He still
mostly resembled the neo-punk vampire, down to the Doc Maartans. Still the Big Bad.

All right then. As it should be.

He sniffed the air for any trace of Angelus. All he smelled was...incense. Bittersweet and cloying. Oddly familiar. Ah yes! It
was the kind the idol worshipping Catholics used at their Mass....He was taken aback again by his train of thought..he hadn't
regarded that term in...about two hundred years.

((Essence...))

This was what Angels mind had conjured in response to the Essence Demon! Some sort of Catholic version of the afterlife.

((Bloody terrific. And me a Protestant. Well...was...))

Spike followed the scent down a long hallway; keenly aware that the smell of Angel...and his fear...was mingling with the
pungent odor of incense. Angel was here. And Angel was afraid.

The last time Spike had caught that scent was when he crashed Sunnydale, and Buffy's PTA extravaganza all those years ago. Angelus was in glorious game face, and bent over the trembling body of Xander. He had even offered Spike the first bite. He
looked his old self. He sounded his old self. Cocksure and autocratic. But under the familiar smell of his Sire, had been..fear. Pure and simple. No one but another immortal could have picked up on it. Actually, probably no one but Spike. It was the only way the blond vampire had recognized it was a trap.

Angel had not even smelled like fear when Spike had tried killing him...any of the times Spike had tried killing him. No. Torture and death were not what the souled vampire feared. That long ago night in the school hall, Angel had not been afraid of his
own demise. Rather, he feared losing the mortals he had only begun to realize he cared for, more than he should. He had feared that with one slip, their deaths would fall on him.

Spike wondered briefly if Angel felt that rush of protective dread every time he fought by Buffy's side ...((used to)). Or, if perhaps, it had been the result of conflicting loyalties. If even then, somewhere deep inside, Angel knew he would not be able to stake his favorite Childe.

Another shrug of the black clad shoulders as he thought aloud, ”That's rot, mate. If you'd offed the Slayer that eve or any other you'd have been talcum powder.”

Indeed, the rules had been established that first meeting, and further amplified every other thereafter. Come after me, we fight. The best man wins. Come after those I love, I kill you. Unspoken, certainly. But nonetheless true. And mutually understood.

So....what was it that Angel was afraid of now? Here, in what looked for all the world like an Altar Boy's version of Paradise?

Spike halfheartedly continued his futile attempts to place the tune he could not be rid of, and stalked the hallway in search of his Sire.
 

The dark vampire cowered against the stone wall. His eyes were open, wild, and on the figure approaching him. But it was impossible to tell if the vampire was looking at the figure. At anything.

Slowly, as one would approach a wounded animal, one black tipped finger reached out. Touched a pale, tear-stained cheek. It was covered with some sort of smeared paint....Spike brought a smudged finger to the tip of his tongue...yes, paint, not
blood. Striped across the nose and cheeks.. Reminiscent of War Paint actually.

Spike frowned, and reached forward again. This time the vampire made some sort of movement to thwart the contact. The smaller man recognized it as merely some sort of instinctual flinch. Humans in deep comas do it in response to pain. Ameobas
do it in response to light. Beyond that small shirk, there had been nothing indicative of any sort of consciousness.

He caressed the cheek, and beheld as something was awakened in the dark eyes. Relief swept over him. Prematurely.

“Angel! Angel!” Spikes voice was loud, insistent, purposefully ignorant of the panic he could see...could smell.

**Oh...its an angel** The crouching vampire cocked his head to one side, resembling more than anything, a puzzled dog.

A black angel. With wings that came from under his arms, and floated down about his legs. They lifted and swirled with each gesture, and every time he reached out to touch the vampire, it took away some of the hurting. That was nice.

The strange angel began to speak. The vampire watched as the angels lips moved, and he experienced sound for the first time in three hundred years. It hurt. As the noise continued, the vampire became aware that this particular type of sound used to
mean something. But he had no idea what.

“Sire!”

Spike trembled. There was no response from Angel, beyond the blank stare of one who has been stripped of all......

((essence))

Spike felt himself growing cold with anger. This husk of a man before him was *not* Angel. He had never seen this person before, but it certainly was not his Sire. He had not come all the way here..((wherever the hell here was))....to rescue...*this*.

Roughly he hauled the larger man to his feet. He held onto Angels limp form by the front of his shirt, until he felt certain he was not going to slide back down the wall and onto the floor again. When he released his grip, Angel stood, motionless. A giant
doll.

And suddenly Spike realized that if he had to look one more second at that vacant stare, he too was going to lose his fucking mind.

He shoved his Sire backward, and watched as Angel made no attempt to break his contact with the hard wall behind him. His head slammed into it first, then his shoulders, a sickening pair of dull thumps echoing down the long hallway. Spike thought he saw a slight wince flutter over the otherwise expressionless face, but it was gone too fast to be certain.

Spike lifted his fist toward the face which was doing such a poor impersonation of his Sire. “Hey! Soulboy! Pay attention here!”

A single blink. A window, open for a mere instant. **Maybe hes not an angel. Sad.**

“Take off your shirt.” was out of Spikes mouth before he could think about it. He had no idea if this creature would even be capable of obeying such an order. But once it was spoken, Spike knew if he was not able, he would follow through on the
command himself.

Spike hid his amazement beneath a calm veneer as Angel reached up to obey the command. The white silk shirt fluttered to the ground, and the dark eyes of the silent vampire followed it; it looked like...

“Im up here!” Rough hands on the chin, forcing a mutual gaze. “You keep your eyes up here” No reply. But again, the command was followed.

Spike slid out of his own coat and shirt, keeping his stare firmly locked with Angels. He had ceased thinking, and was now acting on undiluted instinct. ”Now the pants,” he ordered coldly, and watched as Angel did as he was bidden.

** Can move now.. not tied up now...feels good...** Something was beginning to stir inside Angel. He had a sense that he was returning to someplace.. and maybe he should let the not-an-angel know that he was in here...but...he was afraid.

Spike knelt to remove his boots and socks, as Angel stood over him, silent, nude, still. He could have been the statue at last. Except no sculptor would have suffered to carve a face so completely void. 

Hurriedly, Spike stood, and shed his jeans.

Spike had been schooled by the master of this sport, and he'd played both sides countless times. But he had never, not once in over two centuries, been on this end of the gun with Angel.

He had some vague notion of why he was doing this. Pain and sex to shut out the nauseating oblivion. It had always worked for him, personally. He assumed it worked on Angel as well. But it was the anger driving him, finally, and he was determined to
make that work to his advantage.

“Get on your knees”. Impressive. He'd gotten that out without choking.. All it took was some more frantic channeling of that bubbling rage. Thoughts of all he had lost. In the end, it was everything. Every single thing he had held....sacred.

Spike fancied himself a simple fellow. He loved one woman, he had one * hobby*, he respected one man, and there was only one individual he approached with any semblance of caution. Dru had walked out on him, he had been rooked of his ability to
hunt, his Sire was a shattered remnant before him, and the Slayer was dead. The fault line he hadn't even known he was standing upon had crumbled without warning beneath his feet, and all that was left was a gaping hole of black earth.

He looked down, to see Angel kneeling there; the chocolate eyes gazing up at him, compliant still. Must have made quite the obedient submissive once upon a time. Though he doubted Angel had worn that role since Darla. And even then probably not
for very long. Slayer not withstanding. Spike had no doubt his Sire would have crawled across bottlecaps and broken glass to kiss her feet. The fury rose to a fevered taste in his throat.

Spike grabbed the back of the dark head, pushed it closer to his already over-aroused cock. “Suck”. he managed, closing his eyes as he was instantly obeyed, and the wet, lush mouth of his Sire enfolded his cock in a solitary thrust.

Angel felt a precarious sense of safety return the second he tasted the familiar flavor of Spike. He didn't know it was Spike. But it tasted like sanctuary. Still, he had an appalling awareness that just on the other side of this calm was a shattering, ghastly
place. It was best just to be very still, and try not to go there.

“Harder”, Spike gritted between clenched teeth. He felt the mouth tighten around his pulsing shaft, the tongue leap over the swollen head, the sucking intensify with each violent lunge of his hips. ((oh yeah, musta made one helluva bottom)). It was only
seconds before the mounting physical sensations completely eclipsed the surreal knowledge that Spike was for the first time, dominating his Sire. To the extent one could dominate an intimate object.

Damn!

Spike had never brooked half-assed. “Enough” he hissed, and immediately, the dark head was still. “Look up here, dammit,” Calm, self assured voice. He surely had learned from the master. Unblinking eyes instantly met his own. Spike felt the wrath
simmer; the blistering torrent swept through every vein in his dead body. He knelt down on the floor, nose to nose with the immobile Angel.

He felt the features of his human guise fall away, replaced by the ridges and sharp edges of his demon. Still, no reaction from the other man. He growled; a long, low, deep sound. He grabbed the broad shoulders before him, and shook, with enough
force that the dark head lolled back and forth like a newborns. When the words at last began to fall from his lips, he scarcely recognized the harsh, guttural voice as his own.

"Im not going to lose you again, do you hear me, you mother fucker!? It's not going to happen that way! You're going to wake up and pay attention here! NOW!”

He slapped the calm face, hard enough to bruise the cheek. Another small flinch. “Goddamn pouf, DO SOMETHING!” Another slap, to the other cheek, the once handsome face marred now by twin purple markings. “FIGHT ME! DO
ANYTHING!”

Nothing.

Spike reared his head back, and howled his frustration. Then in one glimmering moment he had tossed Angel back onto the hard floor. He lifted the long legs, and pinned them back over his shoulders. He looked once more into the dim eyes, hoping
to find something there that would stay his hand.. but found only the same.

There was another moment, sharp and clear, when Spike realized he had ceased to consider this plan grotesque. If he ever really had....No, truthfully, it had been more the questionable.... etiquette of this situation which had caused his passing
hesitation. This was, according to Vampire Lore, trespass on some holy ground. And, by rights, Angel could have him beheaded for it. But Angel wasn't here, now was he? And when was the last time Spike had given a flying fuck about undead legacy?

His Sire, cruel and under indulgent as he had been, had taught him many a valuable lesson about walking in darkness. Respect your Elders, but trust no one. Kill first, ask questions last. Guard your perimeter. Leather pants are a serious fashion risk..Ok, the last was unintentional.

But, in the end, there was a particular lesson which the younger vampire remembered all too well. If you're going to take command, do it unequivocally. To show indecision is to show fear. To show fear is the quickest way to become soup mix.

Spike kept his eyes locked with Angels as he tore open his own wrist, and coated his twitching cock with the spilt blood. Then he thrust forward with no regard for mercy. In one swift movement he was surrounded by the long coveted flesh. Tight, and
warm, and soft...and the shock of it was very nearly his instant undoing.

He studied the face of the man beneath him, forcing himself to stay in the present, to stay aware. The eyes had closed , and that would not do. Spike brought a firm hand to the mans windpipe, and closed his fingers around it.

“I told you to keep your eyes open.” the voice strained with lust barely held in check. The eyes once more flew open.

Still, Spike did not release his clutch on that neck. His blood covered fingers left slippery, crimson hand prints on the alabaster skin, as he began to rock back and forth, using his grip on the older man to steady himself as he set a pace.

Spikes fangs cut into his own lips, the blood falling in droplets onto his Sires unmoving chest and stomach. He felt surprisingly calm. It was impossible to comprehend, really, that that horrible, desperate sounding voice was coming from him....

“Come back, come back, come back” all the while, the hand tightened on Angels throat, and his cock slammed into his body.

Bruising, punishing, violating, desecrating.

Speaking in tongues. Mindless string of words offered as a prayer to anyThing that may listen to the prayers of demons. “Not gonna lose you again not gonna lose you too kill you first you stupid sonofabitch how dare you do this to me now sodding
selfish souled bastard wake the fuck up when i rape you”

Other bloody hand running over the inert body, pinching, probing, frantic for the smallest response. Finally, claiming the mouth with a beastial snarl, cleaving open red lips and eagerly swallowing the results.

(((((**A deeper caress. Fingertips lightly brushed over the gray flesh which had the texture of sandpaper, returned it to alabaster marble. Ran through the remaining strands of hair and it became thick silk. The angel kept speaking, as the same
hands stroked atrophied muscles, and made them whole again.

Everywhere the touch fell, the body healed. This part was easy. The mind would take much longer. **)))))

Joined by the blood, Spike beheld this vision along with Angel, and recognized it for what it was. Angels last moments in Hell. He was being...regenerated... by some sort of creature that was made up entirely of light. Spike had no desire to
acknowledge what that being was.

The smaller vampire pulled away from the brutal kiss, and offered his severed wrist to Angels mouth. Relief flooded through him as he watched the dark vampire suckle hungrily at the life giving blood.

((((**The angel pressed its entire palm flat against the vampires mouth, and closed its eyes.**)))))

As the angel spoke the words, the vampire felt a tightening in his neck; his throat closed, then opened, and his first utterance after three centuries of isolation was a dreadful, soul shattering scream.

The angel dropped his hand. It was done.
 

There is an ancient legend which tells of The Angel of Birth. It is said that while a child rests in its Mothers womb, he possesses all the knowledge in the Universe. But, at the moment before birth, the Angel comes to the child, and puts a finger to his lips.
At that instant, the child forgets all things. Thus, he is born into this world a helpless infant.

In the moments the angel stood in Hell with the vampire, the knowledge was both given and revoked. The vampire was given memories of, and healed from his suffering in Hell.. He forgot it all as soon as the fingertips brushed his lips.

He would remember that he was. Who he was. What he was. All of his prior existence.

Regarding Hell, he would remember only that he had been. But he would have no recollection of a solitary moment from the time Buffy stabbed him in front of the awakened demon Acathala, until he awoke to find her standing over him, after what for
him was five centuries later.

The memories that would have been too unspeakable to carry, the recollections that would simply not have allowed Angel to .....*be*....were gone.

Even in demonic form, Spike froze at the sound of that hideous scream. The truth occurred to him. ((No wonder he's gone round the effin' bend...he never remembered any of this before))

The angel had taken it away. The angel who had whispered his name, and touched him gently....

The angel who had a death hold on his throat and was...chanting at him with a British accent....and was ......*fucking* him...?!

Angel blinked. Several times.

“Spike?!” His voice was strange in his own ears. It hurt. Last thing he remembered, he had been in his apartment...and Spike had been tied to the ceiling, bleeding and... 

Ah, shit. Was this brand of instant Karmic retribution reserved only for immortals?

Spike nearly fell over backward in his speedy effort to disentangle himself from his Sire. ”Angelus...youre...you all right?”

Angel nodded slowly and sat up, sorting through the jumble of emotions pounding an erratic drumbeat within him. He was confused, tired, and sore, but mostly, he felt vaguely...dissatisfied. Empty. He realized suddenly where the last sprang from, as
he watched the play of uncertainty and apprehension slither across his Childe's features.

Spike was sitting several feet from him now, and eyeing him warily. "Spike”, Angel repeated, holding out his hand, and for the first time noticing the long, almost auburn locks. “Will”, he smiled. “Nice hair.” He reached out and caressed the soft strands
tenderly.

Spike felt a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. “Yea, well you oughtta see yourself. Looked like bloody Ghandi in drag. What with the makeup and all.”

Angels smile broadened. “You got the same, little one. War Paint it looks like.”

Involuntarily, Spike shuddered at the invocation of the old pet name. He was forgiven his trespasses. He touched his own face to find the same striped pattern Angel wore. “Essence”, he murmured.

“What? Who's? What do you mean?” Angel looked at him expectantly. ”Essence Demon, that's what the Catalyst was made for. You're hosting it. This...all this...is a manifestation of your fears, dreams, beliefs...your *Essence*.” Spike clarified briefly.
There was so much more to be explained, to be said, ...but he found he did not have the energy for details just yet. He felt...
wholly drained.

There was in fact, only one thing he wanted, but now, that was completely out of the question.

“So this isn't real then?” Angel queried....obviously only more confused by Spikes attempt to simplify their situation.

Spike sighed. “Dunno. It certainly felt real....” the words unbidden, but deeply meant.

Angels gaze dropped to Spikes lap, and his still aroused member. He was making quite a chivalrous, if uncharacteristic, effort to hide his discomfort. But it was plainly visible.

“Why did you stop, then?” Angel asked softly. Spikes blue eyes flew to his Sires face.

“Because...because...” was all he could manage in reply to the unexpected question.. ((invitation?))

“Come here, Childe,.” the voice gentle, certain. Irresistible.

Then he was in his Sires lap, and a pair of strong hands held him firmly in place, as if worried he might once more slip away. “Finish what you started, Will.” the words whispered against his mouth, as the tip of a pink tongue probed the moist depths.

Spikes mind spun with the implications. There was nothing on earth, heaven *or* hell he wanted more at this second than to bury himself deep inside of Angel again. This time he would not stop; oh no, this time he would fuck the man until his eyes
popped out of his head. But something gave him pause. Aware that Angel now recalled everything that had happened, in the apartment, and in Hell, he wanted no portion of further torturing the vampire.

“I don't want to be your instrument of punishment, Angel. If this is some sort of bizarre form of self-flagellation, I don't want any part of that....” Spike said quietly, then regretted the words instantly as a pained look crossed his Sires face.

Angel took a breath. “That's not it, Spike. I just....I just want to do this with you.....for you...And...I want something to replace those memories...Can you do that for me? Would you? P-please.”

It was the final falter that did him in. The wavering in the voice that generally would do no such thing. In answer, he lay Angels
unprotesting body once more down upon the hard surface of the cool, marble floor.

Spike began his ministrations on the sensitive neck, nibbling easily, not even drawing blood, leaving a trail of only kisses down the now panting chest, onto the firm abdomen, and lastly the parted thighs. Angel moaned softly, once, when Spike took his cock into his throat, then again was silent as the head above him began to move up and down over his aching shaft.

Spike held his Sires cock firmly at the base, and swallowed the remaining flesh to the back of his throat. Angel hearkened back to when they had first made love in this incarnation, mere weeks ago. He had had this same sense of being adored...
worshipped. It was intoxicating. It made him want to weep.

It wasn't what he wanted.

“William”“, he began...the slippery mouth on his pulsing shaft stilled. He pulled at the dark head, searched for the cobalt eyes; then his voice was measured, careful.

“Fuck me”.

He watched with a tiny bit of amusement as the smaller man swallowed, hard, and without a sound.

Then a soft cry as there were fangs on the softest part of his belly, and blood spurting first into the eager mouth, and then a pair of shaky hands rubbed the liquid over every part his lower body. Angel watched with half hooded eyes, as those same hands
once again coated the ample cock which strained between his parted legs. Spike had needed no prelude to be ready for this. His blood covered member twitched and shook in anticipation.

Angel had no time to wonder if he was going to have to make the request more than twice. Spike filled him completely with one swift movement, just as he had earlier. Only this time, Angel had the benefit of being an active participant. He thrust his
hips forward to meet the initial stroke, and the vampires groaned in unison as the illustrious coils of pleasure tugged them together, then apart.

Angel beheld in awe as William set a quick pace, his face a shivering visage of human-demon hybrid. Angel surmised his own face looked similar, and wondered mindlessly how their *Essences* included their beasts....

((You think too much)) Angel heard inside the blood rush, and he grinned up at his lover. ((Gonna fix that..)) he heard then.

And moaned in ecstasy as the thrusting found his most sensitive spot, and centered there....forcing him higher and higher...until there was no thought, no memories...Nothing but the rapture of being whole again, and the refuge they had only ever found with one another, and mindless fucking.

Then Spike wrapped a bloodied fist around Angels cock, and began to stroke in the same primal rhythm. His Sires screams of pleasure did the most delightful dance along these walls, Will thought, until he realized he was screaming too......

It wasn't until he'd collapsed across Angel in a sated and sweaty heap that he realized something else. He had been afraid of committing this act. But no lightening had struck him down. No grand paradigm shift had occurred They were still...who they
were. Spike still recognized the Sire in this relationship. Angels choice to submit to him, to give himself over willingly and completely, had been just that, a choice. If anything, it served to heighten their connection. He had lost nothing.

Spike wasn't aware he was trembling until Angel reached an arm across to still him. Always, without words, he understood.

“You're not going to lose me, Will. Not now, not ever.”

Spike nodded, and rest his head across his Sires chest. They were in the initial twilight of slumber, when they heard the song. Spike recognized it now...the one that had haunted him since his arrival into Angelbrain-land.

"Playmate, come out and play with me
And bring your dolly three
Climb up my apple tree
Slide down my rainbow
Into my cellar door
And we'll be jolly friends
Forevermore"

It was a song he'd once heard daily for over a century. It was a song he heard when he took the virginity of the only woman he ever considered giving his heart to. Literally, and on a platter, if shed asked.

Angel recognized it too, and the vampires sat up with lightening speed, as the sweet voice singing the lyrics seemed to draw closer to the spot where they lay.

Then she was standing above them, and shaking her finger. “Naughty, boys. You started without me!”

The men opened their mouths in unison.

“Drusilla.”

On to part three