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Never
give all the heart
For
love will hardly seem worth thinking of
To
passionate women if it seems certain -
And
they never dream that it fades out from kiss to kiss
For
everything that is lovely is but a brief, dreamy, kind delight
No,
never give the heart outright.
For
they for all smooth lips can say
Have
given their heart up to the play
And
who could play it well enough,
If
deaf and dumb and blind with love-
He
that made this knows all the cost
For
he gave all his heart
And
lost.
-Yeats
Binding
Angel
by
Kita
At
night, Spike dreams of falling.
His
hands ache with the emptiness of just missing that metal ledge, and he
falls. Plummets through air saturated with the stench of high majiks and
electrical charge. His coat like batwings, and the flash-thought //Damnit,
Dracula is a load of bullshit//. He cannot fly. He falls.
When
he hits the ground he breaks four ribs.
And
one promise.
During
the day, Spike watches the humans go about their rituals of death and burial.
Covered mirrors and weeping, nights spent pouring over family photos of
events invented by monks, fistfuls of white flowers on an elaborate grave.
The
Undead don't have mourning rituals. Spike tries to remember it is because
they aren't supposed to care. He tells himself that a lot when he's alone
in his crypt and his chest hurts, and his hands are still empty.
Sometimes,
he lies in bed and thinks about the aftermath of China and NY. Ceremonial
rutting in the still-warm blood with Dru. Bequeathing himself a new calfskin
coat. He wonders if now people will say he killed three Slayers.
There's
a cardboard box under the bed. Dawn comes by sometimes, so he keeps it
out of sight. A handful of dirty magazines, two of Drusilla's dolls, Watcher
Council books he pinched from Giles. Pictures of Buffy, letters he never
sent. A box of chocolates. And he's started a new collection of souvenirs.
Every time he kills a demon he takes something small from the body. The
night he found a satin hair ribbon in his pocket, he went out on patrol
early. Slaughtered five vampires, three Fyoral demons, and a band of Krevlak
who weren't doing anything but playing poker in the alley behind Willy's
bar. He licked the blood off his hands and got himself a bigger box.
There's
another box in the trunk of his Desoto. This one is old, and made of wood.
It's buried well, beneath the panel where the spare tire ought to be, but
he keeps it locked anyway, just in case. Manacles. Leather straps. Bullwhip.
Holy Water. That's also where he keeps the directions to the Hyperion.
Buffy's
been dead two months, one week and four days. Spike doesn't need to look
at the directions anymore.
***
Angel
is naked. Arms bound over his head, crossed at the wrist, not out-stretched.
Never out-stretched. No travesty of Jesus here, no martyrs to be had anymore.
No redemption.
Garish
bit of color in Angel's mouth and splatters of blood on the floor.
Spike
would prefer to use his fists. Fangs. Backhand. Feet. Has neither the time
nor the patience for Angelus-like torture devices and stupid wooden boxes
that hadn't been opened since Drusilla dumped him the first time..the last
time...whichever.
He
knows if he started to *hit* Angel, really hit him....it could only end
with a stake in one's fist and the other's chest.
Pretense
and sublimation. It fools neither of them. But at least it lasts longer.
Spike
paces, the crop shifting idly from hand to hand. He wishes he could make
the man count, and beg.
//Please
Master, one.//
//Please
Master, two.//
//Please
Master, ten-thousand.//
//Please
Master, stop..please..please..//
But
there is nothing left that will make Angel beg, and Spike isn't up for
the humiliation of trying and failing at the task. So, the gag. Bright
red slash of cotton across that proud face. Bright red slash of blood across
that proud back.
Both
bits of torn flesh ripe and sweet for kissing. First one long swipe of
Spike's tongue from Angel's chin to his cheekbone, small circles over the
soaked material held fast between clenched teeth. Blood and drool, shimmering
spiderweb of saltmiserytime stretches from the tip of his tongue to the
corner of Angel's mouth. Flutter of lashes, cruel fists curling into sweat-matted
hair. Rape kisses, plundering the spaces left between whimpers and moans
with teeth first blunt then sharp. Caressing broken, pink skin with wet
open lips until Spike feels the small push of tongue behind the rag, trying
to meet his own.
Pull
away. Lick slowly. Slipslide over that lush, imprisoned mouth; soft cotton
and stubbled cheeks. Finally, finally, raise the faintest, choked off
plea.
//Please
Master kiss me//
Lashings
and kisses. Fangs at wounds that heal too godamned fast for this work.
Rend. Chew. Swallow.
Make
more. The leather heavy in his palm, the wielding of it old, familiar and
sacred. Random patterns because Spike isn't trying to create art here.
Haphazard suffering across broad shoulders and wide hips. Indiscriminate
cascade of pain down muscled thighs and taut shoulders. Let Angelus find
beauty in the chaos by himself. It always was his skill.
It
takes hours for the tears to actually start falling.
Spike's
arm isn't even tired.
Some
mornings, Spike takes Dawn to school. When noone else can get it done because
she refuses to go, refuses to get out of her bed. So he promises her stories
if she'll just get dressed and let him take her to breakfast, then classes.
Usually she agrees. He watches her make short work of two Egg Mcmuffins
and the coffee she's not supposed to have. And he talks. Tells her about
Angelus and Acathala. Tells her how he saved the world from them both.
Some
mornings, she looks like she almost believes him.
One
day in front of the school, she leaned in and kissed him. Chaste, little
girl kiss on the cheek. But she smelled of watermelon lipgloss and bacon,
and his vision blurred and his knuckles tightened around the steering wheel.
Not made for this, he thought. I'm not made for this.
Chanted
that all the way to LA. He can't remember who was on top that day. Angel
has his own wooden box.
***
Spike
on his knees now, in front of Angel. Angel, who is shivering and bleeding
and tearing at the restraints above his head with open claws. Angel, who
is flushed and ruddy with arousal, borrowed blood rushing to pool beneath
translucent skin.
Spike
grabs him by the hips, leaves two violet thumbprints on the jutting bones.
Still, Angel jumps off his arches when Spike's tongue sneaks out, flat
and soft and wet, and covers his balls in one long lick.
Angel's
thighs and stomach are raw and bloodied, and Spike swallows in furious
gulps the drops that gather along the creases in his skin.
This
is skin Buffy touched. He's not clear on the timing of Angelus' return
that long ago Spring night, but there must have been a chance for one good
blowjob, somewhere in between the deflowering and the donning of the leather
pants, right? Which means that Buffy licked this bittersweet line of flesh
from thigh to crotch. Buffy kissed this patch of smooth hair from belly
to cock. Not electronic Buffy, not under-some-spell Buffy. But Buffy. The
genuine girl. The girl who kissed Spike only once of her own free will.
The girl who kissed Angel more times than he can count, even when she couldn't
shag him.
Buffy.
was. here.
Curses
the fucking train of thought, the godamn metaphor and irony he makes of
it, the poet that will not die. But it always comes back to this. To the
primal and basic instinct of connection and creation. Spit and semen.
He
wraps his lips around the thick shaft, slides his mouth along slick, swollen
skin. So familiar, so familial. Dru and Buffy and always sloppy seconds
for Spike. Blood of the fathers.
What
makes Angel any better than he? It's not like Angel *asked* for his fucking
soul. And Spike didn't need Gypsies or divine intervention to make his
promise to the Slayer.
Now,
Spike can't find any traces of the girl on the other vampire. Angel doesn't
smell like stolen humanity, doesn't smell like he's rubbed up against anything
living or warm in a long, long time. His cock is cool and thick, and it
occurs to Spike how strange they must feel (taste) to mortals. Slick flesh
with nothing at all moving beneath it, like death and
plasticine.
She went down on him, in his crypt, while he smoked. She never mentioned
the taste.
There's
death on Angel, and that is real. There's the quivering of hips in a grasp
that is harsh and unyielding. There's the low, humming sound of need and
ache. There's the obedience of stillness
//move
again, even an inch, and I'll stop//
and
the knowledge that if he took the gag out now, Angel probably would beg.
Problem
is, Spike doesn't know what he would beg for, anymore than he knows what
either of them really want out of this..arrangement.
They
are stealing rivers here, and some nights, that makes him feel alive.
//You
treat me like a man//
And
some nights, it's the worst punishment of all.
Spike
grasps the base of Angel's cock in one fist, slides his mouth around the
head, licks in long, slow circles along the entire length. Pulls
back the foreskin and tongues the tiny slit, before leaning forward, nose
to Angel's belly. Then he is still, humming softly.
When
he moves again, tears and blood fall like rain onto Spike's pale hair.
Angel
huffs through his nose when he comes. Spike thinks he sounds more like
dying prey than a man experiencing pleasure. Doesn't think he's heard anything
quite so sweet in a long, long while.
***
"You
could bring her back, couldn't you? That butler guy. Owes you a favor."
Stated casually with Angel bound and on his knees. No gag that evening.
Spike really wanted to hear the answer.
"I-how
did you-?"
"Drusilla,
of course."
Of
course.
"I
can't do that. You *know* I can't do that."
"All
I know is that you're a useless fucking coward."
Spike
used his fist that time. Once, hard and furious into Angel's nose. Angel
let him.
***
Angel
on his back now, bound to the bed by wrists marked and scarred. Have to
keep the leathers tight to keep the scars. To make something last. Angel's
eyes are pressed tightly shut, dark soaking lashes on white white cheeks.
No good.
Noone
ever looks at Spike. Noone ever sees. Watcher's been in a bottle since
the day, and all the pretty children wrapped in bubble-grief and trying
to pretend that life goes on. Because they have to. Because they're all
going to die before Spike gets around to changing his hair color.
So
they walk right past the vampire who used to be William the Bloody and
present their backs , their necks , their godamned soft bellies. Because
it doesn't matter, he won't hurt them, he won't bite..here, they tell him,
here...take the Slayer's sister. Fourteen and stupid and ancient and wise
and not even *real*. And only she.
Sees
him.
No
good.
He
tugs at Angel's hair again, pulls back hardharderhardest til his large
body arches into the perfect bow, til his eyes open wide, and wet. Yes.
//Watch
because this is me, I am here, I am hurting you, I am kissing you, I am
beating you bloody and open and stinking of rancid pain and mortal heat
and I am drinking you and I am fucking you godamn it so look at me.//
Maybe
he is really speaking or maybe he is just speaking in tongues, because
Angel *is* looking at him now. Staring and blinkling slowly, then lowering
his gaze in what may as well be submission. Those fucking eyes of sorrow
and nevermores, and all Spike can think of is...
I can
do this too.
You
may be a better man, a better lover, a better warrior, a better vampire,
but godamn you, you sorry sonofabitch, I can grieve. just. as. well. as.
you.
Sometimes,
Angel has to be persuaded. Damned if Spike kens the whys and wherefores
of the older vampire's mercurial moods. Twice damned if he actually cares.
But Spike can be one persuasive motherfucker when he has to be.
He
pulled a balled up slip of material from his coat pocket, dragged it slowly
into his Sire's view. Lace and satin, mostly pink. A few complicated designs
resembling hearts. Brought it close to his face and inhaled, before tossing
it onto the table in front of them both.
"So,
what ya think, Peaches? Think she wore these for Soldier boy?"
Spike
didn't walk for two days after that. Couldn't drive back to Sunnydale without
help getting into his car.
It
was worth it.
***
Angel
is in gameface from the pain, Spike wonders if he is even aware of it.
He lays on top of Angel, sticks his fingers under the gag, and pokes at
Angel's extended canines. Teeth that drank The Slayer's blood.
He
tries not to think that Dawn's blood is Buffy's blood and that some nights
when she doesn't want to go home she curls up next to him and falls asleep
and she trusts him and he could tear into that sweet flesh and it would
be worth the blinding pain to taste that taste that taste that...
There
just isn't enough. Not enough screaming, not enough crying, not enough
pain. And never enough blood.
Tears
into Angel instead with both teeth and cock. Spills more.
A sacrifice
of the only blood that will *not* become life. Dead, borrowed blood that
will warm noone and make no heart beat. A sacrament of seed that will never
create anything. No portals will open, no secrets will be revealed. Noone
here is worthy.
Spike
does not care. He has found his ritual of mourning in the humble rite of
railing Angel into a stained and soaking mattress.
A Kaddish
of bones slamming and flesh opening. Sometimes, he thinks, an Ave needs
to be screamed rather than sung. Sometimes that's the only way the gods
listen.
It
is just so damned difficult to make Angel scream anymore.
Spike
uses a whole fist to push the stray white curls from his forehead. Peers
down between ridiculously long lashes at the vampire bound to the bedstead
beneath him, and curves one corner of his mouth into a grin. Angel is still,
staring up at him, shaken by that small gesture. So he does it again;
lifts his hand, fingers locked inside of thumb, pushes his sweat-sticky
hair back.
He
saw Buffy do it countless times fightingfuckingslaying.
The
realization hits Angel and he howls, futiley, behind the twisted red cotton.
Spike raises one brow and shapes his lips into the mockery of a surprised
'O'.
Fucks
Angel harder. Earns himself and the gods one more muffled scream.
***
And
after, Spike doesn't undo Angel's wrists. He leaves the larger man tied
to the bed, bruises fading to a ruddy purple, blood sinking copper and
crimson into already stained sheets. Spike fancies it looks like sunrise.
He
removes the gag though; soaked through with tears and sweat and spit, and
Angel sucks in one, huge shuddering breath.
He
lays naked atop Angel's shivering form, licks carefully at the salt covering
reddened cheeks, turns his head, and offers his throat. Lets Angel drink
his fill, then cradles him some more and murmurs nonsense. Sweet lies and
promises that mean nothing at all, because they both know that the world
has already ended and this is all just some kind of sick, eternal overtime.
He whispers anyway; snippets of lullabyes that Angelus used to sing to
Dru after beating her raw, and endearments which he will dearly regret
using in the morning.
Calls
Angel 'baby'. Calls him 'Sire' too, because it seems right, just for now.
Because
when it is Spike's turn to be tied to this very bed, when he is purple
and yellow and red, he can only hope Angel will extend him the same small
mercies.
Because
when he presses close to Angel, the air is thick with pain and grief and
blood, instead of electricity and majik. And because when he holds tight
to the cool, shaking body beneath his own, he doesn't feel like the
only one who is falling.
***
Binding
Spike
by
Tink
Angel
is prowling again. There are long, long hallways in his hotel, hallways
that carry him from floor to floor, room to room, a never ending freeway
of shuttered and dark places.
He
tried to sleep during the nights after Willow left. But his sleep was always
brief and unrestful, waking every hour on the hour, and his dreams slipped
out of his grasp before he could remember them.
So
Angel prowls, all alone.
Except
on the nights Spike comes.
***
One
day Angel decides to look up "grief" in Webster's New Concise Dictionary.
Webster tells him, in no uncertain terms, that the definition of grief
is thus: "Acute mental pain resulting from a definite cause. A great sorrow
or affliction."
Angel
seizes on the word "affliction" and holds it close to him that night as
he beats Spike to a bloody mess.
There
is a belt made of black snakeskin that finds its slithering way into Angel's
hand. The buckle is hard and cold and formed into a shimmering copper crucifix.
After it leaves ugly red welts on Spike's flesh, Angel manages to wind
the reptilian length around Spike's vulnerable neck.
Wonders
if it is possible for Spike to lose consciousness even though oxygen to
his brain is unnecessary.
Wonders
why Spike isn't screaming. Why he is staring at Angel with those disconsolate
eyes, biting his lips between his teeth, his cheekbones standing out in
stark relief.
Angel
wants. To. Hear. Screaming.
He
hits Spike with an open palm in an effort to snap his head back, or to
the side, or to any position where those endless blue eyes are not staring
at him with a mix of ocean and rain and sorrow and
angelus
please just help me through it
rage.
And when Spike is no longer looking directly at him, Angel can bring his
head down and pierce a hole in the expanse of white belly with one sharp
fang and start the blood to flowing again. And even though he can slather
himself with the redness, Angel can bathe in a lake of Spike's blood and
paint pictures on the wall with it, there is not enough of it to replace
the drops that fell from Dawn Summers' feet.
But
as long as there is blood, Angel thinks of life. And he does not have to
think of
chocolate
and peanut butter
small
but mighty Slayers hurling themselves off of towers.
But
sometimes, on the bad nights, the blood only serves to remind him of that
which was spilled at his first joining with Buffy.
i
love you me too i try not to but i can't stop
And
then lucky Spike reaps the benefits of the remembrance.
***
It
doesn't matter how many times either one of them has been on top. They
always know when it's time to switch, the current in the air or the pull
of the moon or the way of the tide has nothing to do with it, Angel doesn't
believe in that bullshit anyway.
The
one thing he believed in is dead.
They
switch positions when the stale blood in their flat veins tells them to,
and tonight is Angel's turn.
Angel's
turn to play victimizer, and although he
(dreads)
relishes
the role when it is first presented, he knows it's only a sham. Big boy
vampire playing at dominance. Embarrassing, so embarrassing because he
only wants to be submissive and hide in the place that assures him that
what is happening isn't his fault.
But
it isn't his turn to do that. Tonight is not his turn to go away into the
soft, silent space. Instead, he flicks his eyes over the rawhide ties on
the floor, the silken gag peeking out from under the bed. Ignores them
all.
And
especially ignores Spike's pleading eyes, begging him to be tied and chained
and gagged and whipped and run through with quarterstaffs. It makes Angel
feel the smallest bit triumphant that way, and maybe a shade more in control
of
(himself)
the
situation, which of course isn't really under either of their control at
all.
There
are nights Spike comes to Los Angeles and he reeks of submissive behavior,
Angel can smell the stench of subservience before he even walks in the
fucking door with his downcast eyes and meek posture.
Those
are the nights Angel punishes him by forcing him on top.
//i'm
gonna make you scream, you ignorant piece of shit soul-having sorry excuse
for whatever you are. you're gonna scream the fucking walls down.//
Tonight
Spike swaggered in the front door of the Hyperion and his braggadocio filled
the entire lobby. Tonight Angel forces him into submission.
//insolent
damned boy. i'll make you pay for thinking you're man enough to touch her.//
Whatever
is within reach of Angel's grasping, bloody fingers becomes an extension
of his arm, and he uses whatever he can to make deep gashes in alabaster
skin.
Sweat
and pain and wide-eyed gasping breaths come from useless lungs, from a
dead heart, and still Angel doesn't stop the beating until Spike is a quivering
heap of bloodied carcass on the bare sheet. There are ever more creative
ways for Angel to hurt him, and the things he has done thus far are mild
in comparison.
But
he never, ever gags him. That would quiet the screaming.
Angel
understands that he is punishing Spike for even coming here at all.
Somehow,
Spike's castigation is related to Angel's regimented grieving. Angel hasn't
figured out how.
All
he knows is that there is a body in the room with him, a body that is minutely
related to the one girl in all the world who had the job of twice sending
a loved one into the arms of certain and painful death, but who chose the
second time to sacrifice herself instead.
Angel
very carefully decides not to think about the fact that the one girl in
all the world had not sacrificed herself for him.
When
he looks down again at the shivering body, he discovers one swollen blue
eye has pried itself open, and cracked and bleeding lips are forming a
ragged word.
more
He
changes his mind about using the leathers.
***
Once,
during the day, Angel forgets the presence of Cordelia and Wesley and absentmindedly
rubs his chafed wrists. They itch, even when almost healed, which he supposes
is fitting.
When
he looks up from his paperwork, they are both staring at his purple scars.
Cordelia
opens her mouth, but intercepts Wesley's small shake of his head and wisely
closes it again.
Angel
jerks his sleeves down over his wrists and lets his eyes burn a hole in
the desktop. And when Spike shows up two nights later, Angel tightens the
manacles on him till his wrists run rivers of blood over the pillow.
***
Sometimes
there is the need for comfort, and to be comforted. Something paternal
in Angel speaks its mind and on these
(rare)
nights
no blood is spilled, no wounds are inflicted where the eye can see.
Angel
takes in all Spike is, all he represents, and is awed and humbled by the
beauty that Drusilla created.
Spike
presents his smooth back to Angel, the muscles that flex and ripple slightly,
buttocks that clench and tighten. Long, strong legs that bulge with sinew
at the calf.
Shockingly
white hair, mussed and sweat-dampened and maybe getting a shade too long,
curls enticingly over his nape, and Angel wants to rubstroketongue the
spot and leave a glistening trail of saliva.
So
he does.
And
then when Spike is finally straining against the soft cotton that is imprisoning
his arms to the bedstead, when Spike is murmuring nothings into the pillow
and grinding himself against the satin coverlet, Angel just lays himself
over the taut body. Angel knows that tonight will be a night when he finds
himself so deeply imbedded in his grief for what is lost that he can't
bear for Spike to leave. Can't stand to think of even an hour in the future,
when Angel will be left alone again to deal privately and painfully with
the indescribable anguish that is becoming so familiar.
So
he draws it out.
Covers
Spike gently, so gently, feeling the muscle and sinew and straining fibers,
and it helps a small bit.
Angel
can almost pretend Spike is alive.
There
are no chains or biting lashes, only the cotton ropes at his wrists and
Angel wants to melt into him, wants to become one with him so that he might
possibly take away from Spike whatever it was that Buffy gave him.
Angel
wants what the slayer gifted to Spike.
There
is a difference about the younger
(man)
vampire,
and Angel doesn't know what it is but knows it is there, and he sinks himself
deeply into Spike in hopes of capturing the essence of it. He kisses him
with open mouthed pleasure, reveling in Spike's inaudible groan, clutching
and grasping and feeling himself grow even impossibly harder while deep
within him.
The
nights like this, when there is only physicality for Angel, when his entire
macrocosm is only Spike, he wants to ask him what Buffy gave him. He wants
to know why Spike so willingly takes his punishment
(like
a man)
from
Angel.
He
wants to know why Spike is grieving too.
But
then Spike makes him forget until the next time, because he has smoothly
taken Angel's hand and placed it on his own swollen shaft. Angel begins
to stroke it with infinite gentleness, and Spike arches and twists and
writhes on the satin sheets which will never be free of the bloodstains.
A veritable
cascade of semen and blood, the givers of life.
But
all Angel knows to do with life is take it.
***
One
night, Angel tries to talk. Tries to make the mindless act that is half-fucking,
half-beating into some semblance of normalcy.
"Uh
so you're back," he says inanely when Spike appears like a wraith in
his doorway.
Spike
looks startled and disgusted all at once. His eyes flick to the sterling
band that has appeared on Angel's fourth finger of his left hand.
The
blond gestures with a lift of his chin. "Why you wearin' that?"
//because
it's something you can't have something of buffy's you'll never have//
"Does
it bother you?" Angel says softly, using his thumb to trace the ridges
of the hands, the heart, the crown, and his ultimate reward is the flaring
of Spike's nostrils and the flash of utter despair in the morning-blue
eyes.
Blood
spatters the walls an hour later. Shadows thrown by a lone candle show
outlines of a silent, tortured victim.
Spike
is on top that night and the next day Angel does not get out of bed.
***
The
night that Angel finally comes to the true understanding of the Slayer's
death results in a startling moment of clarity.
He
finds that understanding while straddling his partner, facing away from
the demandingdemeaningdemoralizing blue eyes. Spike's cock is in his mouth
and Angel lies with his chest on Spike's pelvis, the short pubic hairs
roughening a rash into his skin, presenting Spike with the untouchable
temptation of his ass.
He
ignores the whimpers.
The
sudden sharpness of comprehension thrusts itself into Angel's mind at the
exact moment that he deep throats the angry red cock beneath him, the precise
second that he slides his hands around to cup the tight buttocks and bring
the shaft even more deeply into his mouth, and then all at once Angel is
deathly still.
He
knows why Spike is here.
Spike
is his gift. When Angel is truly ready, the Powers That Be will reveal
Angel's reward.
A small
shift of the hips beneath him, and Angel tongues Spike lightly. Traces
a finger down to the hole below, draws small circles around it.
Angel
knows now with the same calm knowledge that blesses the martyrs and saints
and all the sons of Christ that his humanity is ascertained. The proof
is lying under him, straining, panting, reaching for climax.
This
is the thing that will bring him his ultimate gift, not the humanity, but
the blessed relief that will follow it. And even if it is the biggest untruth
Angel has ever fabricated, somehow he will *make* this be about Buffy.
Somehow
this dance, this ritual between himself and the childe of his childe, is
about Buffy, and Angel strains and cries and damns himself to make it so.
And he convinces himself in the dark, dark hours before dawn, that Spike
knows it too.
The
chip will come out, eventually. And the blond vampire will find Angel when
it does. Angel convinces himself of it with placid assurance, the same
kind of assurance he has that the sun will rise tomorrow.
And
then Spike will kill him.
Still
another lie, maybe, but Angel siezes it and grasps it and holds it tight
to his torn and dying heart. He knows he must die as a human. To die as
a vampire would not result in the very thing that he is crying for inside,
the same thing that makes him fuck and beat and hurt and bleed Spike over
and over and over.
To
die as a vampire will never reunite him with the Slayer.
So
Angel fucks Spike. He fucks him for hope of his own death, he beats him
for a promise of his own afterlife, and he bleeds him for a chance at his
own salvation. And then he presses in close to him as they both lay quivering
in the bed, tries to tell him without words that in the end, they'll both
be all right. That there will be deliverance for both of them after the
fall.
And
that tomorrow, the sun will rise.
-End