Title: Sleeping with Ghosts
Author:
For: romanyg
Beta: gentle_thorns
Fandom: BtVS/AtS
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Angel/Spike
Setting: Post-"Not Fade Away"
Words: 15,500
Summary: His braces are indeed worthy of Cuchulain.

Angel's eyes stayed closed, swollen shut, and his back hurt. He didn't know where he was and could only feel concrete underneath him. His legs and arms refused to move - to follow his brain's instructions. He groaned, trying to fumble with words that refused to come out as his throat was hoarse from lack of use. Angel wondered if anything didn't ache. His back had been broken before and taken way too long to heal.

Using all his strength, Angel shifted his hips, questioning if it really helped or only made pain shoot through his body. He'd been hurt before - badly injured, almost died one time, sent to hell by Buffy, to the ocean by Connor - but this was different. If only he could open his eyes.

His mind wondered back to the pain. Then he recalled its cause. Soon he'd be strong again, but they'd still be dead. Guilt - a crutch in itself.

Angel drifted off into sleep again, only to awaken at the taste of pig's blood flowing into his mouth. His mouth reached up for more; stone hands came alive and pulled the bag closer. He gasped at the nourishment, emptying the bag quickly.

He tried to sit up, eyes still swollen to the skin. A hand pushed him back down. "Dad." It was all the single voice said. Connor.

Angel heard Connor's footsteps around the room, without any other words or bags of blood. He'd apparently been fed his fair share.

His hands reached toward his eyes - praying that they hadn't been gouged out. Touching his eyelids, he felt intact roundness under them. He listened for Connor's footsteps until they faded away.

Angel tried to count to keep track of time. But he only nodded off when not awakened by blood. Despite his attempts, his voice refused to work; his eyes were still swelled; and counting trips of blood had failed. Days ceased to matter and time blurred, and Connor still didn't speak.

He felt a cold compress against his eyes, water seeping between them. When the cloth was removed, he opened them, staring at Connor and wishing his own voice to return. Tipping his head, Angel looked left, a stairway and door, and then right, another figure slumped on the floor. He continued to stare.

"Spike," Connor answered as if he read Angel's mind, "I didn't think he'd make it."

Angel tried to nod and wondered if Illyria made it. Or how Connor found him and Spike in that alleyway, buried under various demons. Or why the Senior Partners had ceased to pursue them. He closed his eyes and fell back asleep.

His dreams were uneasy. He saw Gunn fall as a warthog-looking demon sliced through him. Illyria praised at how he'd lived much longer than she'd ever expected for a weak and frail human.

Of course it hadn't taken long for the human populace of Los Angeles to start flooding the streets in sheer panic, and like tiny insects, they were easily crushed. Thousands upon thousands died, and Angel, even with the strength of Hamilton's blood coursing through his veins, saved them as well as he'd saved Wesley.

His body tossed and turned on the cement as he thought of Wesley. The truth was that he'd lost him so many years ago, when he'd placed that pillow over the man's face and pushed down. When Wesley had taken Connor. When he'd forgotten to take the time to ask the very private man just how he was really doing.

Wesley was the one person he could never save. Knowledge had scarred him, crushed him, and eventually killed him. Angel knew that Wesley couldn't destroy Cyvus Vail; he'd only hoped that luck was on Wesley's side as it had been on all their sides for so many years. They'd been lucky, and Angel had pushed that. Pushed Wesley, a clearly broken man into a battle that he couldn't win.

Blood on his hands. The blood of his fallen comrades: of Gunn, of Wesley, of Fred, of Cordelia, and of Doyle. He once believed that his son was all he needed - all the assurance necessary to live. But he wondered what this Connor had done, been willing to do.

"Wake up," Connor spoke; he knew better than to wake a vampire any other way. In his sleep, Angel had nearly killed him the first week after the battle. He handed his father a bag of blood and went over to feed Spike.

Puncturing the bag with his teeth, Angel drank it dry. "Why?" His voice finally worked; he'd finally willed it so.

Connor laid Spike's head down. "Because of what you did for me." He stood up. "I'm going to leave extra packets in a cooler and place it beside you."

Angel nodded. Hunger still burned throughout his body. But if he moved, he should feed Spike. He watched as Connor walked up a stairwell and left. In very controlled movements, Angel sat up; as his equilibrium adjusted, he felt nauseous for the first time since becoming a vampire.

The shredded clothing twisted around his body, some of it fell to the floor. His expensive shirt was covered in blood and ruined beyond recognition. As his hand reached out, he didn't recognize it - burned and bloody - no longer the extension of his body that he'd once known. For once, he was glad that he didn't have a reflection.

As Connor's soft footsteps left the place, Angel laid back and closed his eyes, exhausted. And he let sleep overtake him despite knowing that they'd be back - the ghosts and demons; too bad they weren't the kind he could kill with a sword.

He saw Gunn standing with a puddle of blood forming at his feet, swinging that damned axe, the one made from a hubcap. A demon came from behind him. Angel tried to warn him, tried to save him, but like the rest, he was too late and it sliced off Gunn's head. And Angel screamed in his sleep, screamed like a child scared of the monster in the closet. But he was the monster in those stories. The monster that had unleashed an apocalypse that killed the majority of those he cared about.

"What the bloody hell," a voice croaked.

Angel's eyes jerked opened. "Spike?" He tried to sit up again.

"Yeah," Spike coughed. "Are we in hell? Please say I'm not stuck for another eternity with you." He tried to shift. "Since I can't seem to move, and I'm in pain, I'm going to guess that we survived, if you'd call this survival. Probably going to take a good decade to heal properly. Or we could find Dru, tie her up, and perform a little magic."

"You know for someone who can't move and was comatose a few minutes ago," Angel groaned, finding his balance as he sat, "you sure can talk."

"Seems to be your curse. Well one of them anyway."

"Spike," Angel sighed, "I can't do this."

"Do what, mate?"

"What we do." Angel tried to will his legs to bend so he could stand up. He knew that Spike must be as starving as he was the first time he awoke. Connor knew how to keep them alive, but he didn't really know how much a wounded vampire needed to drink. "Exchange snarky comments. They're all dead. They're all dead, Spike."

"Even Blue?"

Angel shook his head. "Who knows. He wouldn't have known what to do with her anyway. She would've looked like any other demon to him."

"He?"

"Connor." Angel's feet made contact with the floor. Now for the hard part. He grimaced as he attempted to stretch upwards, feeling half-healed sores rip open. Feet burned as his full weight attempted to shift on to them. Then he realized that Spike had no idea who Connor was. "Connor's my son."

"Err...yeah. Why don't you just crawl?"

Angel grunted as his body made it halfway up. "Not going to crawl." Extending upwards, he knew his insides were bleeding, but ignored the pain. He needed to feed Spike. Needed Spike to live. He was the only other one in his world who knew the full tale. Not even Connor… Angel hoped his son would never ask.

"Don't hurt yourself."

As he bent over to open the small cooler, Angel felt his knees give and his hand met the top of cooler with a hard thud as he tried to maintain his balance. He shook his head and moved up again, his hand lifting the lid.

"Even though I'm not going anywhere, I would like something in the next millennia."

Angel let the lid fall from his hand. "Well, you won't have to." As he picked his foot up to start walking, he muttered to himself.

"What was that? Didn't quite hear it?"

"You know," Angel's voice was low and annoyed; the voice he'd use before throwing Spike through a window, "you would think that he could've afforded beds." But his tone wasn't out of anger; it came from the pain coursing through his body.

"Think he'd rob a blood bank. We'd heal faster if we had human blood."

Angel only needed a few steps more before he made it to Spike's side. "You know we can't."

"Yeah, go on. Give Spike the lecture on how wrong he is, and how you haven't drank from anyone since Buffy and there was good reason. Mystical poison, blah, blah, blah."

"Buffy wasn't the…" Frowning, Angel looked down at Spike as he made his last step. "She told you that."

Spike looked like hell, his body like a partially burnt marshmallow, bubbled up and charred. "Who was the last human our Champion drank from? And I don't mean when you guys let Angelus terrorize the streets of Los Angeles. Yeah, Gunn told me about that one."

Stooping, Angel placed the packet of blood in Spike's open mouth. "Wes," he whispered. "Wes was the last person I drank from." He sighed and was glad Spike couldn't talk with his mouth full of plastic and blood. His body felt heavy and tired, an add-on to his essence like Sisyphus' rock.

Making a spitting like noise, Spike tried to propel the bag from his mouth after he'd emptied it. Unhappy when the movements of his tongue provided little help, saliva making it stick to his lips.

"Here." Carefully, Angel lifted the bag from the vampire's mouth. His knees shook with greater force. "I think I should…" They gave way under him, crashing forward on the floor. He gave a slight gasp at the pain as it formed new bruises over old bruises. "Do you…" he tried to ask through gritted teeth.

"Mind if you sleep next to me? No. Just no snuggling. Have to keep up my manly image."

"I don't," Angel grunted, swinging his legs into a sitting position, "snuggle. And I don't want a single word from you." He laid back, careful not to rub against Spike. They stayed still in the silence for a while, so long that Angel figured Spike to be asleep and letting his wounds heal.

"They're all dead, really dead?" Spike whispered. "Jesus."

Moving his hand, Angel curled his pinky around Spike's. "Yes," he answered. He wondered how this could have hit Spike much faster than it did him. The constant stream of nightmares was really the only thing keeping him remembering, that made him admit what had happened that night. "I'm sorry for waking you up."

"Don't worry about it. Was going to happen sooner or later. And anyway, I would rather not be in a coma than in one. Sometimes living this unlife is all we can do."

"Since when did you become Mr. Philosophical." Angel shifted his hips, suddenly realizing just how uncomfortable the concrete floor that they'd been laying on was.

"Just didn't want to hear another one of your hero speeches. Thought I'd beat you to it."

"Well, sorry to disappoint you, but I'm fresh out." He paused in the silence for a moment. "Spike?"

"Yeah."

"Shut up."

*****

Angel tossed in his sleep again. The dreams came. Blood poured on the floor and through his hand. His sword sliced the dragon, its heart, like in the books he'd read; the only place he'd even heard of dragons. He didn't have time to think then, to wonder if there was a pile of gold in the dragon's layer. If Connor had grown up with him, they would have read The Hobbit together.

His eyes opened. Angel was still touching Spike. Connor had come and gone, leaving more blood by them and feeding Spike.

Angel managed to sit up. His insides didn't seem to rip, and there was only a little nausea. Stretching his arm out, he opened the cooler and took a packet of blood, almost falling over. Ripping the corner open, he drank from it. His face burnt, and he kept the demon back, not wanting to feel the half-healed flesh tear from the change.

When he was done, he turned toward Spike, observing the other vampire's wounds. There was a large gash on his chest, and his arms were completely scalded. Spike, the first one to raise his hand, the one who mattered, who survived the battle.

Angel would move them tomorrow. He would say goodbye to his son for possibly the last time. The Senior Partners had let Connor live this long, and he wasn't going to push his luck. He would make sure that Spike healed properly.

"That bad?" Spike watched Angel's eyes on his body.

"You'll be fine." Angel looked away, hoping that Spike wouldn't want an estimate of how long his healing would take.

"Going to share that blood."

Angel marveled that Spike could smell considering the shape of his nose. "Here." He tore another bag and set it in Spike's mouth.

*****

Angel made sure to wake during Connor's visit. "We're leaving." He struggled to his feet, feeling like he was going to fall over.

"You can barely stand." Connor placed the grocery bag of fresh blood on the floor. "And Spike can't move."

"I won't let them come after you." Angel shifted his feet. "We'll manage."

"Go lay down, you git." Spike looked up at Angel and Connor. "We'll be fine another day."

"No," Angel's voice didn't waver. He hadn't been this weak since the ocean. "I'm not giving them an excuse."

"They already would've hurt him."

Angel fed himself and Spike the remaining blood. It was almost more than they could drink.

Bending over, Angel pulled Spike to him, placing him in his arms. His knees creaked, and Spike groaned in pain. He could move to the sewers, take them away from Connor, away from any trail the Senior Partners could follow. "Goodbye, Connor." He pulled open a grate and disappeared behind it. Almost falling when he made it to the other side.

"Going to drop me? Remind me again why we're giving up free blood."

"Shut up, Spike," Angel grunted. They weren't in L.A. anymore, but there had to be an empty vent somewhere.

He wandered down the tunnel. Water splashed around his feet. He wasn't sure how long he'd been carrying Spike, who had fallen asleep at some point. Finally, he opened a vent. Sighing with relief when he found it was empty and blocked off. He laid Spike on the ground, and then secured the door. Staggering toward Spike, he barely made it to the ground before collapsing.

******

"Wake up, Angel. I'm bloody hungry. And since you tossed out our meal ticket, guess how gets to find blood for Spike."

Angel groaned. "You know, for not being able to move, you sure are annoying."

"Someone's got to keep you on your feet." Spike coughed. "Besides you always did like my mouth."

Rolling over, Angel rose to his feet. "I'll be back in a while. You should sleep."

"And you should find new clothing. Unless masochistic homeless man is what you're going for."

Angel didn't bother wasting his energy to shake his head at Spike. Opening the door, he walked out into the sewers. Looking around, he burned the space into his memory, so he would find Spike again.

Wrapping his hands around the bars of a ladder, he started to climb to the surface. He blinked, thanking his luck that it was night. He stared at the night sky, the stars bright, almost too bright. The few cars on the streets were too loud after being in isolation for so long; it made him jumpy.

Angel walked through a small neighborhood and saw clothing hanging on a line. Stripping, he changed in the yard, not caring if anyone saw him. The pants were too short, but intact and not bloodied. He threw his clothing in the nearest trash bin.

He let his senses lead him to a butcher's shop. The store was quiet, and he didn't want to break into the place. Everyone had alarms. And he wasn't sure how fast he could run or how many bullets he could stand.

Angel knocked on the backdoor, but no one answered. He looked down the street. A hospital. They would heal faster - and they needed to - by drinking human blood. Human blood given by donation.

He could steal a few packets without being notice. Night nurses would be buzzing on caffeine and wouldn't think anything of an injured man walking through a hospital.

The florescent lights were harsh. He forced himself to keep his eyes open, despite the sting. A stray nurse's jacket hung on a chair, and looking down the corridor, he saw no one and picked it up. His luck held. Too perfect. He wondered if he was actually here. Lifting his arm to grab the security pass, he heard a tear. Definitely not hallucinating.

Finding the cold storage, Angel swiped the card through and entered. He hadn't thought ahead to bring a bag. Looked like he'd only be able tot take what he could carry. Making a temporary holder out of his jacket - the relic he couldn't throw away - he placed the blood packets inside. Spike would no doubt complain about the lack of variety, but he didn't have time or the energy to read labels.

Angel managed to avoid anyone in the halls as most were already asleep in their rooms. He slipped down into the sewers and managed to navigate back to the vent. Angel staggered toward where Spike slept. Six packets of blood were all that he could carry - two for himself and four for Spike.

Grunting, Angel sat down and ran his hand gently across Spike's forehead, between the scabs. He remained silent as the other vampire's eyes flickered open.

"Find me dinner?"

"Yes." Angel brought a bag near Spike's mouth.

"It's human."

"You'll heal faster. Just drink it. I took it from a hospital." He lowered the packet and let Spike drink.

When Spike finished, Angel ate his own share. The rich blood ran through his veins, and he winced as he vamped. After his scavenge for blood, he didn't have the energy to fight back the demon.

*****

He and Spike stayed in their hovel for a few weeks. Once a night, he went out in search of blood, ignoring his body's aches. He'd found clean and fitting clothing for the both of them and discarded the torn ones Spike wore and the ill-fitting ones he'd stolen the night they'd left.

Angel dipped the sponge into the warm water again before squeezing it to let the fluid run over Spike's burnt, but healing body. When he cared for Spike, when he did this, the memories and the nightmares fled to the corners of his mind.

Shivering under the assault of the water, Spike slightly lifted his arms, mobility he'd finally regained. He gave a slight hiss.

"Are you okay?" Angel asked, his arm holding Spike partially off the ground.

"What do you think, Angel? I'm a sodding invalid under your care, body practically burnt the crisp. Fucking dragon." Spike's words spit like fire, but his eyes didn't reflect their passion.

"I'm sorry," Angel whispered as he rubbed the sponge over a healed area on Spike's upper arms.

Spike shook his head. "Will you stop with the sorry? Signed up to follow you, didn't I?"

Almost closing his eyes all the way, Angel looked at the ground. "I found us a place. It's cheap and rundown. But there's curtains and a real bathtub."

"Then why are you giving me a bloody bath on the floor?"

*****

"God, this place is awful," Spike complained as Angel carried him into the motel room. Garish brown and golds decorated the room. "Like a mixture of baby puke and Manilow."

Angel shook his head. "Would you like to go back to the sewers?" Pulling back the comforter, he laid Spike down on the double bed in the middle of the room. He felt tired, but they both smelled as their journey north had taken three nights.

Spike groaned as Angel started to strip him. He moved his arms a bit, but his body remained still. "Fucking hurts. Can't I sleep in the bed? Even if it does have scratchy sheets."

"You smell." Grunting, Angel tugged off Spike's boots, the only object on his body to survive the battle. His fingers undid the buttons on Spike's slacks.

Closing his eyes, Spike pushed himself up with his forearms as much as he could. "Don't smell too nice either."

Angel's arm moved around Spike's charred body, removing the last of his clothing. "You don't have to help me undress you. I've got it." He stacked Spike's clothing on a nearby chair. In one swift move, Angel lifted Spike back into his arms and carried him into the bathroom.

Spike groaned as Angel placed him in the bathtub. "Fuck." He moved his arms a bit in protest of the hot water.

Shaking his head, Angel adjusted the water. They both needed to be clean, and he tired not to look at Spike's contorted face under the assault of the water. A contortion which would only grow when he started rubbing Spike's wounds with soap. "Hold still." Angel pulled the dingy shower curtains back, still supporting Spike's head.

Trying to move again, Spike grimaced. "Spike, the invalid. Can't even hold my own bloody head above the water."

"Yes, you can." Angel let go of Spike as he reached for a washcloth. He took a deep breath as he watched to see if Spike's head sunk. When Spike's head remained above the water, Angel let himself relax for a moment.

"Okay, nursemaid, you proved your point." Spike looked at the ceiling as Angel begun to scrub his arms.

Angel tried to avoid looking at the wounds and their crossings over Spike's body: the constant reminder of the battle, of his dead friends. Silently, he prayed that he won't see the faces of Gunn, Wesley, Fred, Cordelia, and Doyle in the red gashes. He dragged the washcloth down Spike's stomach, lightly over the burns from the dragon, the sword punctures from Ritaro demons.

Groaning, Spike shifted his hips in the bathtub. His mobility regenerated a little more everyday, and Angel hoped that in a few days, Spike would once again be able to move.

Working diligently over Spike's body, Angel didn't say anything as he continued. His face was grim and focused as he charged ahead with his task. The water turned brown as the dirt and grime washed off Spike's body. Every wound exposed and jagged.

Spike was also quiet. Only a moan escaped his mouth when Angel's hand began to wash his cock, and it stirred to attention.

Trying to ignore Spike, Angel continued, acting as if Spike didn't give him any response. He wouldn't take advantage of his position; and he saw all the times they'd been together flashing before his eyes: his own cock plunging inside of Spike, fucking him until sunset in London, St. Petersberg; in farmhouses in Tuscany and France; in Sunnydale, making plans of how to kill Buffy and her friends. He shook his head; the wolf, ram, and hart always bringing him back.

Spike's eyes moved from their position on the ceiling, and he looked directly into Angel's eyes. "Please, Angel," he whispered.

Angel knew that look. The same one which gained Spike entrance to his bed so many times before. His eyes averted away from Spike's and instead removed the washcloth from the tub. Gently, he took Spike's cock into his hand and started quickly stroking him again.

Continuing to focus on Angel's eyes, Spike gave a low moan.

Working his hand over Spike's cock, the rest of Angel's body remained frozen. All he had left was Spike, taking care of Spike. He didn't want to think of the future, about tomorrow. And he silently cursed himself for letting Spike's blue eyes pierce him. A tear ran down his cheek.

"Fuck." Spike's body shook as he came, never breaking contact with him.

Breaking Spike's gaze, Angel finished washing and drying the other vampire. After he laid Spike back on the bed, he stripped from his own clothing and stalked into the bathroom. Thankfully, there was still hot water. He groaned as it splashed across his back. Greedily, he rubbed the soap all over his body. Biting back the sting of the soap, he avoided thinking about what had transpired earlier. He'd done what he'd refused to do since Spike showed up in his office over a year ago. All those midnight visits, he'd rejected Spike's offers and come ons.

He maintained his anti-sex stance, despite that life with Spike was far from perfect. Life was not perfect, and part of him was glad that his cell phone had been smashed under the hoofs of a Silmat demon. Not that he didn't have Connor's phone number stamped in his brain. But he wouldn't be confronted by Nina and her soft worrying or god forbid, Buffy and her army of Slayers.

Tuning off the water, Angel grabbed a towel from the shelf. The rough cloth rubbed his still healing skin. He grimaced as a scar on his side stretched as he dried his legs. Even though he didn't have a reflection, he was glad that the mirror had fogged over. Somehow, he imaged that the Circle of the Black Thorn's tattoo would show darkly on his chest, reflection or not.

Going through the bathroom freebies, he found a toothbrush and a razor. He started what had been his morning routine, only without the fancy showerhead and twelve kinds of styling gel. He wrapped the towel around his waist.

"Taking your time? We both look like undead warmed over," Spike shouted from the main room. "I'm hungry."

Finishing, Angel went to check on Spike and gathered their clothing to wash in the tub. "Go to sleep, Spike. It's daylight. I can't go out."

"Can't sleep anymore," Spike muttered. He shifted on his back.

The springs squeaked as Angel sat on the bed, letting the dirty clothes fall to the ground. "You're not going to heal if you don't rest." His hand traveled through Spike's hair; the roots had grown out, showing honey blond against bleach.

"You need it too. Haven't slept in over three days." Spike closed his eyes.

"I know." Moving his body lower, Angel joined Spike in bed. He pulled the scratchy sheets over them and watched Spike sleep. Despite his broken body, Spike was as handsome - and as irritating - as he always had been. His thinly muscled frame offset by those eyes. And that attitude, the one that kept Angel on his toes for over a century, created and molded for Angelus' entertainment. The only one of his offspring, besides the woman who walked around displaying his sins, that he couldn't kill. And now, the only vampire besides him to bear a soul. Leaning forward, he kissed Spike's forehead.

"Don't tell me that you're going soft in your old age," Spike muttered in his sleep. "Well, something's going soft other than just your body."

"Go back to sleep." Angel adjusted himself to sleep as well. Spike's remark didn't leave a burn. He no longer had the extra weight from otter blood and sleeping on a state-of-the-art bed. They were both practically starving with all their extra energy going toward healing.

*****

"If you signed it away, then why am I not a real boy? Wasn't that what the Shan-whatever promised?" Spike sat up in bed, flipping through the channels.

Frowning, Angel once again felt the urge the yank the remote from Spike's hands. "Shanshu," he corrected. He'd dozed off in the chair once again. The vigilant watch he kept over Spike had started to fade since the other vampire could now stagger along with only a little help. "Prophecies are lies, Spike."

"So's you sleeping in that chair."

"I'm fine. And I'm not sleeping here, just resting."

"Yeah, resting," Spike snorted. "You know, you're such a git. Give me a hand job in the bathtub - which isn't like it's something that you haven't done before - and now you're acting like a self-flagellating monk. And that went stale in the middle ages, long before either of us was born."

"Will you give it a rest," Angel spoke through gritted teeth. They had agreed not to fight, and everything had been fine, but Spike always had to start their arguments back up. His head hurt again, and for the first time since the fight, he wished that they had demons on their tail to kill. If only he could snap someone's neck…

Swinging his stiff legs over the edge of the bed, Spike attempted to stand on his own. "Fuck," he grunted in pain.

Standing up, Angel hurried to Spike's side, only to see sheer horror on his face. "You shouldn't do this alone. You're not strong enough."

"Maybe I don't feel like being around you when you've got the 'I'm going to reenact the bloodiest scenes from every Tarantino film' look on your face." Jerking his arm, Spike made an attempt to push Angel away from him.

"I don't have a look." Frowning, Angel forced his hand back on Spike's arm to steady him. Spike needed the help, and Angel was going to give it to him. He wasn't going to let Spike falter or push him away. "Besides, I've had plenty of opportunities to kill you before, and there's no reason to now, except for your trashy taste in television."

Spike grunted, trying to make his way to the small cooler they kept filled with blood packets. "Better than bloody hokey or Cary Grant movies. The bloke didn't even like women. Of course, maybe there's some self-identification going on that I just don't see." He stumbled further. His body swayed out of Angel's range with every step.

"Why don't you just let me get it?" Angel was losing his patience with Spike.

"No." Turning, Spike used all his force and shoved Angel away from him. Angel's hand lost its grip, and he did his own stumbling to remain upright. No matter how weak he was, Spike's passion always provided him with an extra something.

However, it wasn't enough. And Spike's knees soon gave out underneath him, and he cried as they bent down. Angel heard the internal tearing of flesh; using his speed, he caught Spike before he ended up with the same view as the dust bunnies. He carried Spike back to the bed, laying him out.

Blood clotted around Spike's lip where he'd bitten it during the fall, probably in an attempt not to cry out. "Going to say, 'I told you so?'"

Shaking his head, Angel sighed, watching as Spike's tongue snaked from between his teeth and licked up the blood. "I'll get your blood." His own stomach growled fiercely.

"You need to eat too." Spike sighed as Angel moved to their makeshift kitchen area. "We're leaving this shithole as soon as I'm better, right? Getting that itch for a spot of violence. Don't want you to take all the fun and glory."

"Sure. Glory." Angel waited impatiently as the hot plate heats of the first mug of blood. The first one always for Spike, Spike needed the blood more than he did. The deep scratches across his own chest were faded, barely noticeable. Once in a while, the white, whiter than he normal was, scar tissue ripped or the Circle of Thorns brand itched, and he'd slather it with calamine. But Spike still bled, still needed to be bandaged in some places.

"Stop brooding." Spike winced as he sat up in the bed, ready for his blood. "If you don't stop, I'm going to turn on that Full House marathon and make you laugh along with the canned." He shook his head. "So I'm still hurt. Not like I had a child of the Senior Partners to drink his blood. No extra superpowers for Spike."

Switching the mugs, Angel brought Spike's over to the bed. "Then tell me how I'm supposed to feel, Spike? You're hurt. Illyria's missing and doing God knows what. Connor doesn't want anything to do with me, and I can't risk anything happening to him. Wesley, Gunn, Cordy, and Doyle are…dead." He tried to keep his voice even, to stop it from breaking. Spike didn't need to see him like this.

"Been dreaming again?" Spike raised his eyebrow at the same time that he lifted the mug to his mouth for a sip. "You were twitching on the chair."

"It's nothing." With a low sigh, Angel grabbed his mug off the hot plate and drank it in silence. Each gulp sliced its way into his belly, hot fire healing the remaining damages to his physical body. Somehow, he found himself sitting on the bed next to Spike.

"Don't lie to me. You were never very good at that, at least not after the first few years." As Spike turned to set his empty mug on the table, Angel swore that he heard Spike's back crack. "Besides," Spike rested his hand on Angel's thigh, "you talk in your sleep."

Then Spike knew. Knew of his dreams, of how he watched his friends die over and over. Lately, it'd been Wesley again. Wesley being stabbed in the gut, lying there bleeding in his arms. His blood smelled so good that Angel would drink the rest. Or the other times, when Angel held the knife and sliced into Wesley, a knife into butter. He felt nauseous.

"It's not your fault, mate. We all get bloodlust dreams and either get off or get disgusted." Spike's hand reached up and touched Angel's face. "Look paler than normal, which is hard to beat considering most of us already need sunglasses around you."

Tears formed themselves at the corners of Angel's eyes as Spike attempted to comfort him. Spike. Angel started to laugh, deep and low in his belly and rising up. Laughing, he'd forgotten.

Feeling Spike's lips pressed against his, he closed his eyes. Another feeling he'd forgotten. Needy always so needy. So Spike. He felt Spike grip his cloth-covered bulge and groaned.

His mind remembered just how to take off Spike's clothes without hurting him, without ripping them. They don't exactly have unlimited credit cards now. Though as Spike's shirt ripped, Angel decided that orange really wasn't his color anyway.

Moaning, Spike made futile attempts to rub himself against Angel. Flesh on flesh. "Fuck me, Angel," he whispered. "Stop thinking and fuck me." And Spike gasped as Angel rolled him on his stomach. Angel's slicked cock pressed against him, pushing in slowly.

"So fucking tight, Spike." Angel closed his eyes again as he began to thrust into Spike, slowly. He couldn't hurt Spike. His hand reached down to stroke Spike's cock.

Spike rocked back with considerable force, especially for someone who moaned in pain every time he sat up. "Fuck me, you bastard. Harder, Angel. I'm not some little girl whose virginity you're taking."

One sentence like that and all Angelus' deeds flooded Angel's mind. The girls he was no gentle lover to as he ripped them in two with cock and fangs. "Shut up, fuckhead," he growled and thrust frantically into Spike, forgetting again.

Of course, Spike never listened, but instead of insulting Angel again, only moaned words of pleasure and came in Angel's hand.

The bed shook violently, headboard clanking against the wall as they continued. Angel's mind narrowed to the sensation around his cock, to the smells and sounds of Spike underneath him. "God," he gasped as orgasm flooded his body. He continued to hold himself up, not giving into the weak feeling in his knees, that called him to rest on Spike's back, and he pulled out.

With a whimper, Spike tumbled to his back. He looked up at Angel, who started to move off the bed. "No. Bloody don't do this, Angel."

Picking up Spike's torn shirt, Angel began to wipe off Spike's stomach and groin, then his own cock. "Not doing anything, Spike." He tossed the rag on the floor. Tinges of guilt began to make their way back into his consciousness, and he felt as though he should put on clothing.

Then Spike began to cry out in pain, causing Angel to rush back to his side. Wondering just what he torn while fucking Spike, Angel wrapped his arms around Spike's body, holding him. "Where does it hurt? Do you want more blood?"

"Lower," Spike commanded between wincing and grimacing as Angel moved lower to the bed. "Right there." With a sigh, he moved into Angel's arms.

Angel shook his head. "If you ever do that again..."

"I know; you'll rip my head off before I can beg for my life. You sing the same tune too many times, pet."

"Don't call me 'pet.'"

"Don't tell me what to do, you self-righteous bastard."

"Moron."

"Idiot."

"Don't leave me again."

Angel turned his head away from Spike and closed his eyes. He remained silent, tears free flowing down his face.

*****

They slept together every night; bodies curled around each other as if they need the warmth. Angel couldn't decide which one of them was clinging harder to the other one, except in the end, it was Spike. Spike who always fought for exactly what he wanted, no matter how noble or stalkerish the cause.

Angel's sword sliced cleanly through the Quigher demon, its head falling to the ground. He looked around for Spike who insisted on coming even if he'd only been able to stand and walk completely on his own for four days.

"And stay down," Spike shouted as he shoved his sword into the second demon's heart. He smiled when he saw Angel. "Told you that this was just what I needed."

"Yeah." Angel turned his back and started walking toward their hotel room. They needed to move; the place was filthy and Wolfram & Hart would find them if they'd stayed there too long. It'd already been too long when he could see the intent from Spike's head on the pillow.

Spike tossed his new leather jacket on the chair, causing Angel to roll his eyes, but still be thankful that the other one burnt to a crisp. Angel didn't ask questions when Spike appeared two days ago with an armful of expensive and new clothing. "So what's the telly tonight? Or is it a round of sit and brood? Maybe a shower?" Spike raised his eyebrow.

Angel wished that his body wouldn't respond the way it did to Spike's every move, every innuendo. They were always the same. If he lost his temper, he'd end up throwing Spike on the bed and fucking him; and if he'd kept his cool, he'd end up doing the same thing to shut Spike up. He watched Spike's tongue flicker over his lips.

"Fine, gramps. Have it your way." Bending down, Spike unlaced his boots and continued to strip.

Angel's eyes didn't leave Spike's body as his shirt came off, exposing his abs, which make Angel alternatively want him and also want to feed him fattening otter blood. Spike's jeans unpeeled from his body; of course, he wasn't wearing underwear. Angel didn't understand why, after all these years, that he expected for once to see Spike wearing underwear. He wondered if Spike ever wore boxers at Buffy's request, but shook off the image.

"Going to keep staring at me. I'm not free cable porn here for your enjoyment. Got my own life. My own mission." Spike turned to head to the bathroom.

Angel sat on the bed. "You know, you could strip in the bathroom. And let's not pretend that you don't do this on purpose. And as for a mission, what mission, Spike? The mission to annoy me? To turn me on?" His voice had raised, and he didn't realize that he was yelling.

Spike slammed the door shut on the bathroom, and Angel buried his head in his hands. He let his sword collapse to the floor and took off his clothing, climbing into bed. When he woke up, the cloud of Spike's anger would dissipate.

"You shouldn't be so angry at him."

Angel grunted as he rolled over. His nose wrinkled, and he blinked his eyes. "And why is that, Wes?" He can smell the blood from the wound in Wesley's gut.

"You're the one who needs the mission. Really, Angel, you should take your own advice. You know that Spike's not going to kick your arse in gear like Doyle or Cordy or I did." Wesley was as naked as him. The sheets now barely covered his groin. "Spike was right. You do leer."

"I don't leer. I appreciate." Angel's comment received a smile and a laugh from Wesley. A laugh that caused his hand to touch his bleeding wound. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay. One perk to being truly dead is that it doesn't hurt anymore." And suddenly, there are glasses on Wesley's face, and he was pushing them higher on the bridge of his nose. "The mission, Angel. You must find your mission again."

Angel shook his head and laughed. "You mean the one where a higher being took over the body of the woman I loved and then slept with my son." Funny how they can laugh over Connor, over the mistakes of a power hungry fallen power. His face straightened. "I'm not going to be a pawn again."

"Oh, Angel." Wesley placed his hands on either side of Angel's face. "Don't you understand that you were always a pawn and will always be a pawn. You sodding, shagging...

"...pounce," Spike shouted in his face, "wake up. You're having a nightmare again." His hands gripped Angel's shoulders so hard they were bound to leave marks.

Angel groaned and then growled. "It wasn't a nightmare." His head pounded, making him wonder if the floor was littered with empty bottles.

"Yeah, it was nothing." Reaching over the nightstand, Spike grabbed his cigarettes and lit one. "At least it was only tossing and turning, but now not the screaming and grabbing. Don't worry, doll, I won't tell anyone about the crying."

"Shut up, fuckhead." With a scowl, Angel threw his legs over the bed. Determination to leave Spike and this mess crossed his eyes. He grabbed a pair of pants and proceeded to quickly dress.

Rolling his eyes, Spike leaned against the headboard and took a long drag of his cigarette. "Going out there, aren't you? Kill something'll make you feel less worthless; that's it, right?"

"Thought I told you to shut up." Angel felt his skin crawl with a stronger need to leave their hotel room and his seemingly eternal purgatory and bedmate. He snatched his sword from its resting place and slammed the door as he walked out.

The streets were quieter than he was accustomed to. It seemed like every move they made further north meant that things grew silent and dead earlier. And it would stay in that steady pattern unless they veered off toward Vegas.

Angel imagined that Spike would fit nicely in with the garish neon of Vegas. No doubt, they'd end up with a dozen assorted call girls in their room and a fight between Angel and Spike that would only calm after the women ran screaming at their game faces and they spilled blood on the wall. Or the finally sight of him pushing Spike against the wall and roughly fucking him amongst the blood.

Shaking his head, Angel attempted to vanish the image. Blood. He'd been hungry since his dream, seeing Wesley. How many times had he longed to reach out and touch, to lick, the bleeding wounds Wesley had received in battle. How he'd hungered for Wesley after drinking from him. The ocean had sucked him so dry that he hadn't properly savored the taste.

A garbage can lid rattled and Angel turned around, sword ready. But only an orange tabby cat jumped from the trash and scampered down the alleyway.

He continued passed the Chinese take-out restaurant and the salon next to it. Everything so calmly deserted and tucked away. He recalled the satisfaction he'd had at tucking a baby Connor into his crib, knowing that his son was safe for another day. Now he couldn't even send smoke signals to Connor without fearing the Senior Partners.

Another thing Spike didn't know shit about. Angel frowned. He wasn't obsessed; he was cautious. He couldn't accept that the Senior Partners wouldn't seek retribution for taking out the Circle of Thorns beyond throwing several thousand demons and a dragon in their path for a night.

Maybe dream Wesley was right and he needed some sort of path, which probably meant that he should be searching for something or someone mystical instead of looking for the lone vampire or demon to slay.

It meant Angel would have to go back to L.A. and face the destruction of the city. When they stayed in Vegas on their never-ending inch north, he decided it was time to knock a few heads together.

Something mystical, right. He'd have to start raking up old contacts and hitting the demon bars.

Angel watched as a figure leap down from a second story building. A vampire with blood on his mouth that Angel could smell two blocks away. Clutching his sword, Angel ran toward the vampire.

Or his dreams could be his guilty subconscious fucking with him.

*****

Angel heard about the centering crystal and the witch long before he needed it. When Darla came back and the Swami failed, Lorne suggested it as an alternative to finding his path. Another plea that shattered like glass. It was too much work to find the crystal then, even if the witch’s burial ground was down the street from Caritas.

It meant Angel had to go back to L.A. and to face the destruction of the city. When they stayed in Vegas on their never ending inch north, he decided it was time to knock a few heads together.

Thankfully, the demon bar hadn't moved and the secret passwords to the backrooms were still the same. He didn't consider telling Spike where he was going until confronted by two large Fyarl bouncers, guarding a game of poker. Spike would've helped.

The first one was easy to kill. "I'm looking for this crystal," Angel said. "But since I don't speak Fyarl, you can't help me." He stabbed it with a silver dagger he carried under his belt. Luckily, Fyarls didn't bleed a lot as he finally had clothing that fit and was his.

However, the second one proved to be a little stubborn. It punched Angel, sending him crashing against the wall. The poker players continued undisturbed.

Angel shook the plaster from his hair and vamped. "Now you've made me angry."

The Fyarl growled and charged at him again. This time, Angel punched it in the face, distracting it long enough to make the kill.

Angel looked over at the poker table. "Now that I'm done with guards, are you guys going to put up a fight?"

"I believe we're already dead so fighting's not important, and we're very much women, thank you," said a blonde who upped the bet on the table. "In fact, you are very much the cause of our deaths. Not necessarily literally, but by the twists of your fate with ours."

"Literally from me. You did take the final drink for some," said the woman, matching the other's bet. She leaned forward into the light. A lilac scarf dangled onto the table.

It figured that Lilah Morgan survived Wolfram & Hart's destruction and was set to taunt him. "Where's the crystal, Lilah?" Angel growled. He thought about seeing how fast her head popped off.

"Such animals." A woman leaned forward with blood splattered on the side of her face. "You probably don't even recognize me. You did let those vampires ravage my home."

"Estelle Manners," Lilah introduced her. She pointed to the other players. "That's Tina and, of course, you know Eve. What can I say, we needed a fourth player."

All of them were his failures, one way or another. Sure both Lilah and Eve had sold their souls to Wolfram & Hart, but Angel had been the one to sign their deaths. Not that anyone who died stayed that way anymore.

"Tell me, Lilah, what do I have to do to make you give me the crystal?" Angel asked. He wasn't' in the mood for another one of Lilah's games.

Lilah sighed and rolled her eyes. "Unfortunately, nothing. There was this prophecy and well, it's all yours."

"Though you'll have to take a trip," Estelle said and the others nodded.

*****

"So where's this magical mojo swami mage with his hootzits and whatzits that are going to cure your brooding?" Spike stood next to the dresser; his elbow rested on top of it.

"She." Angel frantically pulled out their clothing and tossed it into the suitcase that sat on the floor. "She's not going to..." Explaining things to Spike seemed to be the low point of his unlife and frankly, he was a little tired of trying. He'd already gotten what he needed with the relative ease of cracking of few skulls and dealing with only one shopkeeper. "She's going to set me back on my mission."

"Ah, yes, the great unending mission for redemption. So they can make you a real boy, even though you bloody signed it away. And, oh yeah, all your friends died trying to get you there." Spike grabbed a navy blue t-shirt before it fell in the growing mound of clothing and pulled it over his head. "And no, I don't count. I'm not your friend."

"Good to know," Angel muttered, zipping up the overstuffed and lumpy suitcase. He needed to clear his head. Pausing for a moment, he looked up at Spike. "Spike, we're two vampires with souls. The only two. We're cham-"

"No, don't fucking say it. I burned up once and that was for a girl. Sure I'm kind of fond of this place and don't care to see Armageddon coming down the road, but I'm not you."

"Then you don't have to come." Angel slung the suitcase strap over his shoulder and grabbed the cooler in one hand and his sword in another. Without glancing at Spike, he headed out the door.

"Jesus Christ. Angel!"

Angel shut the Volvo's trunk. He'd bought it with the money he'd taken from Spike's pockets. The money that he didn't even want to know where or how Spike came upon it. Climbing in the car, he turned it on and grimaced as some god-awful punk band's music blared. The passenger side door slammed closed loudly as Angel turned down the music.

"You took my clothes and my money! It's always your way, isn't it? Take anything you want from Spike, doesn't matter his feelings because it's all yours." There was blessed silence for a moment. "You realize that this car is old and build like a tank, not penis-shaped like the last twenty?"

"It was all I could afford." Angel could hear the protest rising again in Spike's throat. "All you could afford." He looked behind him as he backed up and pulled out of the motel parking lot. "Besides, anything cool at this price would mean hours of rebuilding labor."

"Because we aren't going to live forever. Have all the time in the world, you stupid pounce." Spike kicked his feet up on the dashboard. "Now let's see just how fast this baby goes." He leaned over in front of the dash, causing Angel to push him away. "Peg her at 85."

As Angel pulled onto the highway, which he hoped led to the interstate that would take them back to Death Valley, he wished he would've brought duct tape. Five hours on the road with Spike, he could do it, and it'd still be dark when they arrived. He'd spent days in the past traveling by horseback. Of course, knocking Spike out never made him feel guilty when he was evil.

"Silent treatment all the way it is." Spike took his lighter from his pocket and began to light it again and again. "Maybe I'll just take a nap."

"Maybe you should." Angel's hands gripped the steering wheel in frustration. Why he couldn't tell Spike to fuck off once and for all, he didn't know.

"Isn't Death Valley that way?" Spike pointed to the road sign. "This way's practically going to end up with us in downtown L.A."

"What do you think L.A. is now, Spike? Don't you ever watch anything besides porn?" Angel felt his foot starting to crush the gas peddle and eased off.

"Yeah, sometimes I watch I Love the 70s just to be reminded that at one point you actually had worse hair."

Angel turned toward Spike. "If you don't give me that lighter, I'm going to rip your hand off." He reached over to grab the lighter from Spike, who pulled it closer to the window. His hand batted toward Spike's.

Spike laughed as a horn sounded. "Better watch the road, precious."

Looking back at the road, Angel noticed that they'd drifted into the other lane, into on-coming traffic. Jerking the steering wheel, he turned them back toward their own lane; the tires of the Volvo screeched in response.

Spike continued to laugh. "What a hunk of metal. The Lamborghini'd've done that without the give."

"Was that how you sunk my Lamborghini in the bay," Angel growled. His instinct was to throttle Spike, but instead he concentrated on driving.

"Not your Lamborghini anymore. Not your Viper or Enzo or Porsche. Not your helicopter or your jet. No fancy glass for you." Spike slipped his lighter back into his pocket. "Could write a song about it and sell it to Nashville. Of course, you had Lorne kill the cowboy, didn't you?"

Flooring the Volvo, Angel attempted to speed passed a motorhome on an uphill stretch. His Viper would've whipped around it in five seconds. "Lindsey couldn't sing anyway."

"That's not what Wesley said."

Angel looked at his clock and started repeating his mantra that he wouldn't stake Spike as they continued to drive down the freeway. He sighed and settled on ignoring Spike and watching the scenery.

"Los Angeles 60 miles. 59.9 miles. 59.8 miles," Spike counted.

"Shut up, Spike. Stop counting the fucking mile markers." Angel wished, not for the first time, that they were already there.

"Hey, it's not my fault you won't play alphabet games with me." Spike flicked the ashes from his cigarette out the window. "Or tell me exactly what you stole from those demons last night. All that slime, they had to have something good."

Angel's hand banged down on the top of the dash. "A crystal. Happy, Spike? A crystal that could probably fit inside even your small hands." He pulled the crystal out of a small black pouch hidden in the dash.

Spike frowned. "So what's the special thing this crystal's got? It's obviously something. Otherwise, you wouldn't have gone to all that trouble. Unless it stores a Senior Partner, and then you'd destroy a whole metropolis."

Angel took a deep breath. "No, it'll call the witch that we're looking for."

"One you're looking for," Spike corrected him. "Oh, look the Green Dome. They had excellent blooming onions and imported beer straight from England. Bloody brilliant."

"You drove an hour out of L.A. to sit in a dive bar?" Shaking his head, Angel took the next exit. He tired to ignore the desolation on the road. The closer they came to the Los Angeles, the worse it got. People lived on the outskirts, but not in the center; as if the ghost of Wolfram & Hart lingered and drove out everything living, everything green and growing, away. Or maybe it was the land cleansing itself. But every broken road sign and crumbled building reminded him of dead family, friends, and lovers.

Angel continued driving over what was once road and now covered with dirt. Dirt flowed like water, tons of it drenching the formerly proud and busy city.

"Best L.A. traffic ever." Spike tapped his hand on the door in beat with the music. The music they'd fought for an hour or more over. "And possibly the best thing you ever did for this city."

"We took out Wolfram & Hart and their minions, Spike." Angel veered off to the side of the road and parked the Volvo.

"The L.A. branch." Spike kicked his feet down from their place on the dash. "You forgot their Seattle and Atlanta ones or London and Rome. You remember Rome, right? C.E.O. with gigantic tits that could swallow even your forehead. Evil's still afoot."

"And that's why we're here." Making sure the pouch was secure in his coat, Angel got out of car and moved to the trunk to find his sword. He'd had bad experiences with swami impersonators in the past and wasn't going to let another ten feet away from him without a weapon.

The desert surrounded them, wide and far. The desert was not the place to be for two vampires, even if there were nearby abandoned buildings. "You really don't get sarcasm, do you?" Spike drug his feet through the dirt, dust flying through the air. "I think Dodger Stadium was here."

"Mother Earth ate the land," Angel muttered. He held the crystal in his hand, fingers threatening to crush it. He thought he saw the skeleton of a dragon in front of him. There hadn't been just one; there had been hundreds, swarming the sky like giant locusts.

The earth quaked below their feet. "Great, now look what you've done." Spike pointed to the knee-high pyramid shape that had appeared between them. "Probably filled with snakes or something else nasty."

The crystal in Angel's hand started to glow and felt hot against his skin. "Spike, we're not Indiana Jones."

"That's just because you'd fight me over the starring role." Spike joined Angel on the other side of the object, and Angel watched the other vampire's arm muscles tense up as Spike adjusted his grip around an axe.

"Shit." Angel dropped the crystal from his hand and looked down at his newly scalded flesh. Bending over, he went to retrieve the crystal from the dirt, attempting to balance it on his sword.

Spike shook his head. "Oh for fuck's sake." He snatched the crystal out from under Angel's fingers, growling at the contact. "Did you not see the gaping hole on the side of this thing?" He placed the crystal inside the indent.

A brilliant light flashed, temporarily blinding Angel.

*****

When Angel regained his vision, the first thing he noticed was that his sword was missing from his hand. And the second thing was woman sitting by a brightly glowing fire. A smile appeared on her dark face. She was younger than he expected. "Welcome, Champion," she said.

Angel hoped she was Toypurina the Witch, the one who was said to guide heroes back on their paths. He'd had enough with false prophets and gods for all his lifetimes.

"Only in the corporeal world," Toypurina answered as if reading his mind. "I am many more things here. You see what this land can give. Champion, come sit by my fire. But your protector must stay out of the circle."

"He's not my protector." Angel didn't mean to snap at the witch, but he could definitely watch his own back.

"Yeah, what he said. Besides I saved the bloody world and I've got a soul." Spike also seemed dazed without his weapon.

Toypurina lifted up her hand to silence Spike. "Young protector, you've not earned your right. Do not test me."

"How's Angel going to stay safe without me? From what he's told me, you Powers That Bugger You Without Lube are so very trustworthy," Spike said. He never did know how to shut up.

"Shut up, Spike." Angel started moving toward the fire. His suspicions were somehow eased by Toypurina's chastising of Spike or at least, Spike's tongue. Angel would never admit that Spike's gut was often right, despite his sometimes divided loyalties.

"The young protector's correct. She whose name holds power slipped passed us. We will not be held up again. People may enslave each other, but a Power should not. Our Champion of Angels has passed."

Angel's eyes widened. He felt like giving Toypurina a thank you or a slap in the face for giving him a half-apology. Angel didn't think of Cordelia and how she held the sword until her death.

When he looked back toward Spike, Angel couldn't find him. No doubt, Toypurina had cloaked him with her magics. Spike had come this far; he was unlikely to just leave and really, where would he go.

Toypurina ignored Angel's questions about Spike's disappearance. "Sit and take my hand." She waited for Angel to comply before turning to stare into the fire.

Angel swore that the fire was growing. It reached toward the night sky, connecting the stars in the sky. His vampire eyes couldn't adjust to the bright and he closed them.

When he opened them again, Angel looked over at Toypurina. Only she was no longer there, instead Cordelia held his hand and they were standing in the middle of the Hyperion lobby. "Cordelia?"

"The one and the only," Cordelia said, smiling. She turned and wrapped her arms around him. Even here she felt luxuriously warm. "God, I'm so glad that you didn't die." She unwrapped from his arms and hit him on the shoulder. Apparently, her strength hadn't lessoned since her death. "Seriously, where was your strategy, general? Huh? Why didn't you call for an army of Slayers, not like you don't know one or two and their pretty powerful witch friend."

Angel winced and rubbed his arm. Cordelia's words still stung more than her strike. He looked down at the floor and frowned.

Cordelia shook her head. "You never change. Anyway, I'm here for the non-cryptic part of your journey. Well, they wanted me to do this whole act with doves and my eyes turning, but been there, done that. And every Tom, Dick, and Jane that has PTB favor points uses them."

"You're bored, aren't you?" Angel noticed that she was a little too excited to see him, a little too twitchy. She should be madder at him, should've hit him harder, or cursed at him.

"Heaven's heaven. You have to create your own fun."

Angel stepped away from her. He couldn't forget that they weren't in the Hyperion. That this place was something Toypurina created. "There's something you're supposed to tell me?"

"Yes, you lughead," Cordelia said. "I'm supposed to tell you that the Powers are sending you another seer. After the whole 'Jasmine' issue, they'll be monitoring their heroes a little more closely. Think airport security without the wandering hands. Also the new seer's already partially demon so no worries about exploding brains."

Angel crossed his arms. He didn't like the idea of the PTB imposing another player on him. "Does the new seer have a name, gender, species?"

"Now that would give it away." She winked at him. "However, the seer has yet to be called, so you're getting a temporary solution." Cordelia caught his eye. He swore he saw the sadness, the longing, he'd missed that the first time she'd come back, before the nurse's phone call that informed him she was dead.

"I miss you, Cordy." Angel's words felt hollow as he said them.

"I know, but I better not see your souled ass here anytime soon," Cordelia said. She had tears on the corners on her eyes that he wanted to kiss away.

So he did. Angel pulled her into his arms and kissed her. Thought of nothing else besides her lips against his. When she disappeared from his arms, Angel found himself still at the fire and still holding Toypurina's hand. "Keep teasing me with Cordelia and I'm going to start thinking that she's really coming back."

Toypurina's skin seemed to be glowing and almost moving. She seemed more alive than anyone he'd touched in years, since holding an infant Connor in his arms. "All life is cyclical, unless you become stuck, Champion."

"Like a vampire," Angel muttered.

"Yes. But one day your soul will come unhinged from its body."

"The Shanshu." Angel's response was automatic, trained for his time with Wesley and Cordelia. From the summer, they killed every demon in every vision, destroyed the evil from the land in a way that reminded Angel of the Biblical teachings of his youth.

"Or death. Death eventually finds us all, no matter how immortal we may seem."

Angel once thought that he knew death. Anymore he wasn't so sure. "So what's the game?"

"Game?" Toypurina tilted her head in a way that made Angel think of Spike. "There is no such thing. Only war. Only struggle. And people like you who fight the remaining demons."

"You don't by chance have any charts I can see on how that fight's going, do you?"

"You have spent too much time in the bowels of your enemies," Toypurina said. She frowned, her brows creasing together. Her hand tugged from his.

"Thought we were fighting for the same team?" Angel placed one hand on the ground and pushed himself up. The fire had started to feel too warm.

"We are. And while we applaud your destruction of the one the humans called Jasmine, you lost yourself in the protection of The Destroyer." Toypurina's stare never wavered from Angel.

"Connor," Angel said, "his name's Connor, and he's my son."

"While we don't deny that connections to the world will keep you on your path, The Destroy has his own destiny, separate from yours."

"Let's hope it includes fat grandchildren."

"You must go on." Toypurina pulled a small dark sack from her waist and held it out for Angel. "Inside this pouch are three momoy seeds. With the power of each one, you will be led closer to your seer."

Angel "And how do I know that the visions aren't going to be hijacked by some former Power set to destroy my life?"

"I have already given you my word. Our past neglect was our error and we seek to stop future abuse. But do not anger us, Champion. Do not knock the world off its balance."

The bright light flashed in front of Angel's eyes once more.

*****

They settled into a place that Angel knew would be safe from demons and other beings with evil intentions: Wesley's old apartment. They found the doors aligned with the same marks as Lindsey's apartment, the only thing that lacked was the vampire barrier. Angel sighed and crossed the threshold.

"You're not going to go through with this." Spike was surveying Wesley's liquor collection. He grabbed a bottle of Scotch as old as Spike himself. "No, wait you will. Once a sucker, always a sucker."

"Talking about yourself again," Angel said. He went toward the refrigerator. He knew there would be blood, but he doubted it would be fresh. Angel promptly closed the fridge at one glance of the congealed fluid.

"Wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you." Spike drank straight from the bottle. He'd never learned to use a glass.

Angel shook his head. "We're going to set things right." He sat on the couch, his hand still in his pocket and rolling the pouch between his fingers. He needed to do this. Just get it over with. He knew a test when he saw one. "I'm going to do this."

"Not like you're ever cared a bit about what I thought. Look how your last brilliant plan turned out." Spike's hand waved toward the window where the desolation of L.A. laid out before them.

Angel took the pouch out and tossed it around from hand-to-hand. "It was flawed."

"This is insane." Spike took a large swallow from the bottle. He offered it to Angel.

Taking it, Angel looked around the room. They shouldn't be here. It was wrong. Wesley, the Wesley with all his memories, wouldn't want Angel here. They'd move tomorrow.

"What the hell." Angel swallowed the first momoy seed and promptly passed out.

The vision came like a dream. A hallucination of Wesley speaking to him, reading from books in Latin. Angel's Latin was rusty. But there was no mistaking that Wesley was condemning him, condemning him to burn.

Wesley wasn't the first one and wouldn't be the last one.

Angel saw Jasmine shake her head, saw the eternal plot where she laid buried. Daughter of Connor, granddaughter of Darla. Even Angel had no place on the outskirts of heaven.

But his mission played out for him on the big screen. All he had to do was watch and memorize. Take down the pictures coming in full surround sound better than a high school cheerleader ever did.

*****

Angel felt groggy, but he had this mission. That was important. The mission itself wasn't too hard. He and Spike had to take out a nest of vampires holed up under the Sausalito side of the Golden Gate Bridge.

He'd seen the Bridge, huge above him in the vision. The signs on roads flashing with directions and places. Of course, there was the traditional blood and guts. All the things he remembered Cordelia screaming at him, all the things she later excepted with a calm demeanor that he once believed was her confidence in his abilities.

Angel looked out the window, trying to clear his head.

Spike drove most of the way and complained that they needed a stereo. Angel started to agree with him after being treated to the vocal-styling of Spike's take on Circle of Jerks. He supposed that it could've been worse; Spike could've liked light jazz.

Angel's head had cleared by the time they reached San Francisco, and the vampires they slaughtered were young and stupid. A bunch of newly sired ones trying to raise an army by feeding on the masses of homeless that had made their way north.

Angel saw every mistake he made that night mocking him in the golden eyes of his kill.

Spike tossed his sword in the trunk when they were done. "Where to next, boss?"

"I don't know," Angel said. He fingered the bag in his pocket.

"Wherever it is, I'd like a shower and some new clothes." Spike leaned up against the car and lit a cigarette. "Maybe we'll get something to cheer you up. New sword? Can't have too many of those."

*****

They kept driving north. Angel felt drugged and tired after the second seed. He figured that the PTB's new visions were more specific than those given to Cordelia. They had names, places, and cities, not relying on Angel's memory of the area or clues they'd have to search for on America's highways. Spike had made all the appropriate jokes about Angel's thick skull.

Everything was normal or heading there. Almost.

In the silence, Angel missed them. He missed Wesley with his books, Gunn with his axe, and Cordelia with her wit and strength. He missed holding a baby in his arms and looking into his son's clear blue eyes. And seeing him grown, standing there as a man that Angel didn't recognize.

They were searching for something slimy and evil. Something that carried a token on its third eye. Angel just hoped that the eye was metaphorical.

"You ever think it was going to be like this?" Spike asked from the driver's seat. Spike seemed to be asking a lot of questions lately that Angel didn't want to answer, much less think about. "Almost feels like when we used to roam the continent. Only with worse transportation."

Spike was at least half right. The car was crappy. They both knew that, especially after Angel's collection at Wolfram & Hart. But almost anything was better than watching a horse shit while yanking the reins.

Angel considered telling Spike, for the thousandth time, to shut up and drive. He felt like sleeping. He felt like crawling in himself for while. But Spike never once shut up.

"I suppose it's good that we have souls this time around," Spike continued. "I mean, the nunneries are safer."

"I doubt there are any active nunneries in the Cascade Mountain passes," Angel said. "Did you just make a nun joke?"

"Yep." Spike lit another one of his infernal cigarette. Angel was surprised that he didn't have a bottle of Jack between his legs. "If you can't beat your past, you need a sense of humor about it. Oh, wait, I forgot who I was talking to. At least, Angelus could take a joke."

Only if Angelus thought it was funny, Angel silently added. Instead, he went with his chorus of shut up.

Angel looked at the map again. They weren't too far from this Ashland place. Apparently, it was just across the Oregon border. If Spike drove a little faster, they just might make it before sunrise.

*****

"I did some research." Spike dropped a printed page from Demons, Demons, Demons on the hotel bed. "Nice dark library just off the sewers. And I only managed to frighten one child and upset one mother."

"You shouldn't look up porn in a public place," Angel said. He rubbed his hand against his forehead wondering where Spike found all this energy.

"I wasn't looking up tits, you git." Spike shoved the paper against Angel's chest. "These aren't exactly the Furbies of the demon world."

Angel rolled his eyes. "I know what they look like, Spike. Vision, remember?" This from the guy who was always telling him that he was getting rusty in his old age. Not that they were actually getting any older.

"Also got you this." Spike handed him a packet of blood. "It's cow and I warmed it already. Apparently, some people are still trying to be farmers."

"Huh." Angel ripped the corner off and drank. He'd been less hungry since visiting Toypurina, but knew that he needed the substance if they were going to kill the not-Furbies or Fuberies as Spike's computer printout read.

Spike had settled down on the bed and was flipping through the channels. He always flipped through them, never watching anything. Angel doubted Spike would even pay attention to porn if Angel let him order it.

"I'm bored," Spike said. "Wanna fuck?"

"Spike." Angel sighed. He knew that Spike wasn't going to let it go, wasn't going to stop bringing it up.

"So you can take advantage of me when I'm weak or you're in a maudlin mood, but don't want to touch me when I'm all healthy." Spike paused and lifted an eyebrow. "I can bend much better now."

Angel tossed the empty bag into the garbage. "Let it go."

Life was finally moving again and he wasn't at a stand still.

*****

Angel tried to sleep before heading out, but he hadn't done much of that recently either. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Wesley staring back at him, Wesley with a knife plunged into his gut. Angel thought about his own hands smothering Wesley with a pillow.

Before his eyes filled with sleep, he heard Connor laughing, and he jerked awake to see Spike staring back at him.

The excuse had always been that they only had one bed and could only afford the one. But Angel will never admit to liking the passion and the sorrow encapsulated in the taste of Spike's lips.

When they fucked, it wasn't the thing that story books were filled with. It was about blood and longing. About the sharp stabbing pain in Angel's chest as he thrust into Spike again and again. All the times that Angelus sunk his teeth into Spike's neck and all the times that Angel wanted to. Angel knew that Spike would some day ask him again for that.

Spike, the petulant child, who always got what he wanted in the end. Here was Angel, cock buried in Spike's ass, giving him exactly what he'd denied him earlier. Spike wore his needs, wants, and desires outlined with details on his sleeve.

And Angel gave it to him. He gave it to him out of responsibility, out of family, and out of love and hatred. Out of his own need to keep something of his close to him. Spike smelled of Buffy, of Dru, of Angel himself, and of Darla.

Angel came with groan.

*****

The last Fubery stabbed Angel in the leg. And Angel fell to the ground in pain. He didn't expect it, couldn't see it coming by his opponent's movement. He clutched his leg and watched Spike behead the Fubery.

Spike stood above him, licking his split lip. "Going to live?"

The punch line was, of course, forever. But it wasn't a joke that Angel would say on a good day, much less one where he was bleeding profusely from his leg. The joke was cruel anyway.

Angel grunted Spike wrapped his leg with a piece of his torn shirt. The wound was small but deep. He would go back to the hotel, the bleeding would stop, and his leg would heal. They would sleep as long as he needed and then they would go to their next destination. The last one.

He'd have his full mission again.

*****

Angel's leg didn't heal. And he sent Spike for another day in the Ashland Public Library, searching on Demons, Demons, Demons and Potions: Of the Mystical Variety.

His head almost felt clear. The last momoy seed weighed heavily in his pocket. But his leg had turned a blue-shade around the knife entry. Angel kept himself comforted with Jerry Orbach in the daytime and a fussing Spike in the evening. The only time, he was alone was when Spike went out patrolling. More than often, Spike came back smelling of cheap booze and with a rant about Oregon's no smoking laws.

They didn't talk about the non-healing wound.

"Sure you didn't see this is one of your visions?" Spike asked. He redressed the wound at least twice a day.

"Don't you think I would've avoided it?" Angel frowned. This was going anywhere. The wound wasn't healing and Spike was driving him nuts.

Spike rolled his eyes. "Could've avoided the whole thing," he muttered.

"Fuck you, Spike." Angel sank his head into the pillow. He didn't want to listen to any more of Spike. Not that he wanted the silence either.

Spike finished bandaging him and went for the bottle of Jack Daniel's that sat on the dresser. "Maybe you needed to be knocked down a notch."

"All my friends died. How much more knocked down can I get?" Angel regretted saying it, only because he felt it then. He felt it all. All laid up and just as helpless as he ever had been.

Their money was running out. Angel needed to take the other seed and get on. He didn't want to leave Spike - soul or not - to find their way. He had to get on with this. Angel reached for the last seed and swallowed.

It started out like looking at the back of his eyes. Bits of light raced by back and forth. Spike had gone to the library again and found that the seeds were used in ancient rituals. And they did not have the strong effect they had on Angel.

Magic. Angel let the magic move over and through him. He listened to the voice that drew him on his path. "Hello, Wesley."

"You're late." Wesley looked down at his watch. "Not that I'm currently busy."

"Got caught up." Angel pointed down to his leg. "You could've given me a heads up."

Wesley chuckled and waved for a drink. They were sitting in Caritas as it had been the first time that Wesley took him there. "I'm sure Spike's only projecting his worry." Wesley shook his head. "Really, Angel, I was trained as a Watcher and destiny... Well, you know all about that."

The Wesley in his hallucinations was always younger, less tainted than the one Angel took into that final battle. This was the one that Angel knew, that Angel trusted. Either Wesley was projecting himself like this or the PTB were trying to make him relax.

"I'll miss our talks," Wesley said. He sipped his beer.

Angel didn't respond. If Wesley was indeed all seeing, he already knew Angel's response. "What do you have today?"

"Impatient."

"You said that I already lost time." Angel's elbows were on the table as he leaned closer to Wesley. "Tell me how to heal my wound then."

Wesley sighed. The Wesley Angel knew would've given up the information. But this was not Angel's Wesley. "You have a mission, Angel. Plus, you have Spike to help you."

"Spike is not like having another limb."

"I don't know about that. Sometimes, I thought you two were attached at the hip." Wesley did watch him a little too closely for Angel's comfort. "But then again, you were probably just making up for Connor. Or was that Cordelia?" Wesley raised his eyebrow. "Buffy? Darla?"

"I get it, Wes." Angel grunted as his shifted his leg. The booth wasn't very comfortable.

"Fine." Wesley pushed his glass up on his nose. "Here is your vision. Goodbye, Angel."

Lorne's stag melted into a dark alleyway and Angel's beer into a map of Portland, Oregon. There was a large red 'x' on it. He quickly memorized it, looking for the best path from the freeway to the alleyway.

A girl stood alone. Her light blue hoodie and sweats reflected against her dark skin. She held a stake in her hand and killed a group of vampires. Angel thought that she looked a few years older than Buffy did when she was called. But there was no doubt that the girl was a Slayer.

Angel watched her battle. She didn't need his help. This Slayer even managed to answer her cellphone while staking the last one. Angel still hadn't figured out how voicemail worked.

This wasn't like the typical vision. There was no death of innocents, no blood spilled. Quick and clean and from dust to dust. Angel knew that this Slayer didn't have Faith's problems either as he watched her help a young boy and his dog up from where they had huddled when the vampires surrounded them.

Angel's leg throbbed as she moved closer and took off.

"Stupid fucking," someone shouted over him. "You bloody moron."

Angel felt a slap against his face. Spike. He automatically vamped and growled, reaching to punch Spike.

But Spike had already moved in anticipation of the blow. "You know, you really need to warn a bloke when you go and do something like that."

Groaning, Angel pulled himself to a sitting position. His leg still throbbed with pain. "How long have I been out?" He watched Spike pace around the room. "How long, Spike?"

"Three days." Spike finally stopped and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Three fucking days."

*****

The Volvo shook worse than Angel remembered, rattling around. It also made a loud noise when it went into second gear. A really grating noise that had sawed through Angel's last nerve. Spike's driving didn't help.

He tried to sleep, but his head banged against the window. So he settled on glaring at Spike.

"Nothing happened?" Spike asked him again for the thousandth time. "She just killed some vamps and went on her way?"

"Yes."

"She wasn't in trouble?"

"No." Angel shifted. He wished that he would've let Spike steal the pillows from the hotel.

"You're officially the worst seer ever." Spike fiddled with the radio. "You can't even see someone who's in trouble. Remind me again why we're rushing to Portland to save a girl who's not in trouble?"

"Because that's where the mission is."

"And if the PTB jumped off a bridge would you?" Spike held up his hand. "No wait, don't answer. You would. Hook line and sinker."

Angel folded up his jacket and placed it under his knee. "Shut up, Spike." He wanted to just close his eyes and sleep.

"Yeah, because going without a plan helped so well last time."

"We had a plan, Spike."

"No, we didn't. You kill this, I'll kill that, and then we'll meet up isn't a plan."

Angel turned away from Spike and tried to look out the scratches on the window. But the black paint covered the view and blocked the sunlight. "We're just meeting a Slayer."

"She could be evil." Spike jerked the car from the left to the right lane and back again.

Angel was thankful that vampires didn't get car sickness. "She's not."

"How do you know?"

"I had a vision, assface." Angel sighed. "Just keep driving." They only had an hour or so more at the speed Spike was driving.

*****

By the time they reached Portland, the sun was down and Angel wanted to scrap the paint from the windows. He wanted to look out on a city that wasn't destroyed. It was the end of their journey, and this place might be their new home. Angel wondered if it was big enough for both him and Spike.

Rain pelted against the car and the wipers screeched. Angel missed his cars. "Take the next exit," he said.

"I know." Spike swerved over to the exit only lane as Angel tried to mess with his window. "This thing's going to fill with water with the window open, and we have to sleep here tonight."

Angel shook his head. "I think we'll be okay."

"Yeah, maybe. Just don't know about this girl. She cute?"

"Is she what?" Angel paused and then started to laugh. Another girl. He was chasing another Slayer and Spike was following him.

"Probably shouldn't go there." Spike snorted.

"Buffy," Angel muttered. He thought of seeing her in front of her school, sucking on a lollipop. If he'd been honest to himself then, he would've noticed how young she'd been. Instead, he'd been drawn to her power, to her hope.

"There will never be another Buffy."

Angel knew that they'd run into her again, especially if this Slayer held their new mission. "There really won't."

"We need beer," Spike said.

"Yep."

They drove in silence through the streets. Spike had been quiet a lot lately. There were actual moments where Angel found that he could think, and it was new. Everything was new and different and yet exactly like Angel had left it. He was going to meet another Slayer. He was hurt and without anything like the first day he saw Whistler, the moment he saw her.

Of course, this Slayer was no Buffy. There would never be another Buffy. But there would be others and that was what counted. Whatever he had with Nina showed him that. His continuing, constantly changing and seemingly never-ending relationship with Spike proved it. He only wished to share that with Connor.

Angel's son would be his only selfish regret.

*****

Rona, the Slayer, turned out to be nothing like Buffy. (Even though she definitely knew Buffy and had helped fight the First in Sunnydale. Angel had felt ashamed for not remembering her face among the surviving newly-minted Slayers. Especially when Spike chatted with her like they were long-lost best friends.) She also turned out to be something of an accomplished healer, trained by the same coven that had taken Willow in.

Angel found them a small house in Portland with three bedrooms after a week of sharing Rona's couch with Spike. He never thought he'd get that cramp out of his neck.

Rona was still pretty disgusted by them drinking blood and stored the blood in a mini-fridge that she found on the side of the road. She said that it'd probably be discarded by former college students. Spike complained that it made his blood smell like rotten milk; Angel didn't mind.

But, otherwise, Rona was okay with them. Cooled down after her long distance call to Giles and two different stories of just how they found Rona. Giles, of course, already knew because there'd been a prophecy. There was always a prophecy; Angel really hated them.

Angel's leg healed, and they went out on patrol every night. Rona wasn't a seer like Cordelia or Doyle, but she was pretty good at scrying, enough to keep herself hacking up vampire dust and Spike grumbling about sewing up his beloved jacket.

Rona was attractive. But she wasn't blonde and petite, so not really Angel's type. And besides, Spike kept ending up in his bed. So much so that they converted Spike's room into a gym. Originally, Angel had wanted an office, but Spike pointed out that he would just brood in the dark instead of work.

"Stop stealing my fries," Rona said. She smacked Spike's hand. After a rough night slaying, she always ordered burgers and fries.

Angel still couldn't figure out what Spike found attractive about human food. It always tasted like paper to him. Of course, Spike had probably been one of those kids who ate paper. Angel wondered if Connor had eaten paper as a kid in his not-real-real life.

"Stop brooding," Spike said. He handed Angel a beer before turning back to Rona who was trying to grab one for herself. "Not you, missy, I don't think you're old enough according to those laws of yours."

Rona rolled her eyes and took it anyway. It wasn't like Spike ever stopped her or that Angel hadn't seen her wipe the floor with his ass several times over. "You're a bastion of morals, Spike."

It was Spike's turn to roll his eyes. "What are we going to do about broody over there?"

"I'm not brooding." Angel crossed his arms. He was not sulking.

"Sure you are," Rona said. "You're like Broody McBroody Pants." She smiled and looked over at Spike. Her eyes were bright with a mischievous glare. "You could just take him into your guys' room and fuck him. Then Angel'd have that 'I just go laid' smile."

"I do not have an 'I just got laid' smile."

"Yes, you do." Rona smirked at Angel. Her expression mimicked the one Angel had seen on Spike's face a million times.

"I think that's a good idea." Spike grabbed Angel by the sleeve of his jacket - his new jacket - and pulled him toward the bedroom. Angel never protested. "Have fun with your fries."

"Have fun with your cock," Rona shouted as Spike slammed the door shut.

"You ganged up on me," Angel said. He finished his beer and set the empty bottle on the dresser.

Spike yanked him down toward the bed and started to strip him of his clothing. "You don't seem to be protesting. Much. In fact, I'd say that you rather like it. You just always like having-"

Angel kissed him, kissed Spike roughly. Finally making Spike shut up and finally having something else to concentrate on besides the constant thrum in his head of should've beens.

When the kiss broke, Spike grinned. He rubbed his erection against Angel's leg. "Fuck me."

"Planning on it. Planning on a lot of things." When Spike tried to kiss him again, Angel grabbed Spike's hair and wouldn't' let him get close. "Think there's something that we haven't tried yet?"

"In the glass elevator on the Space Needle?"

"Spike." Angel smiled. This was the way his life was now. Not perfect, no, it would never be perfect. But not too bad. Maybe the PTB had let him off light this time, at least for a decade or so he could hope.

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