"I want him."

Angel's mouth was twisted into a scowl, his eyes narrowed and insane. He was actually surprised how easy it was to play a maniac. He wanted to believe that it was just memories of a time when he would have killed anything, even the people he loved the most. But the truth was it was hard for anyone, human or otherwise, to hide the darkest parts of their nature.

Spike laughed, a cold sound that seemed to echo down the silent block of houses. "And what do you want him for? To give him tea and crumpets and play a little Monopoly?"

"Fuck off, Spike," Angel growled, his fingers clenching the edge of the rooftop.

"Oh, that's right. You're back playing for our team again. It's amazing what a little true bliss can do to a powder puff like you." Angel could feel Spike's eyes studying him, still waiting for the catch.

Spike was a smart guy, but Angel was smarter. All it took was a little brawl and a small show of bloodlust to show Spike that Angel was the big, bad variety of vampire again. His victim was hacking up hookers anyway, at least according to Doyle's sixth sense, and that was how he eased his conscience.

Only it wasn't true. Angel hadn't reverted to his demonic old self. He bit his lip so hard he could taste blood, crouching above a small white house with green shutters, hating to pretend that he was anything like Spike. He had been doing it for a month now, hanging out with Spike and getting involved with his insipid plans. But it was for a good cause, because he knew where Spike was headed. He wanted a new play toy - someone to chain up in his new living quarters and starve until he was weak, then drain the blood from him bit by bit while performing ungodly acts of torture. And Angel would do anything for that not to happen.

They tensed as a figure passed by the basement window, its lean form visible through the thin white curtains. Xander. Angel could tell from this vantage point that he was getting ready for bed, stripping out of his clothes and leaving a pair of flimsy plaid boxers. Then he would crawl between his cool sheets and sleep so deeply he would snore. Angel knew this first hand. There was a time when he had been there often, but it seemed like a lifetime ago now.

Spike made a clicking noise with his tongue and drew out his first word. "Therrrre's our lunch." Angel thanked his lucky stars that Spike had brought him along. Spike wanted to claim Xander as his prize to mount on his wall like a deer head. Angel convinced him that it would take both of them to do it if Buffy caught on.

Angel clenched his teeth, trying to look hungry, but inside all he could be was sad. Xander was a sweet kid when he was a teenager, and he had grown into a sweet young man. He still had the grin of a 14-year-old but everything else had grown. When he was 16, he was build like a mass of twigs, his limbs long and lean. Now he was strong and handsome.

"Are you going in first?" Angel asked, ready to end this now. When Spike made the play for Xander, Angel would turn on him and kick some ass. He only hoped that he could.

Spike smirked. "No, we know where he lives. That's enough for tonight." He slid off the roof and landed easily on the ground, glancing up at Angel. "Come on, Peaches. Time to eat."

Angel followed him quietly off Xander's street and down closer to the park. The wind was warm and strong, tossing the short strands of his hair and making him squint. It made a ghostly noise in the trees, the leaves brushing together softly like whispers. Or maybe they really were whispers - the ghosts of his victims coming back to haunt him, clamoring around to threaten him in their own quiet way.

They found lunch in one of Sunnydale's old parks, sitting on a rotting bench under the arm of a twisted tree. Spike must have had some sort of blood radar, because he walked right towards the guy. He had dirty clothes, a large hat pulled over his head to hide his greasy hair, his balance unsteady from alcohol. You'd better enjoy that bottle, buddy, Angel thought. It's the last one you're ever going to drink. In his mind, he invented things this guy could have done wrong. Maybe he beat his wife. Maybe his children were in bed sobbing, wondering when their dad would come home, knowing he was drunk again. He wondered how many people were going to have to die so he could save Xander. He was amazed that he didn't care. At least not much, anyway. He drank after Spike, the blood thick and sugary running down his throat, and the wind grew stronger.

****

Angel spent the next night wandering the streets, happy to be away from Spike. He sat on a bench across from the campus pub at the university, watching the busy building with kids filtering in and out like bees around a hive. Xander was in there somewhere, feeding and watering the mob.

He left after a few minutes in case Buffy saw him, knowing that would be a whole new kind of trouble. For one thing, she had no idea what had been going on between him and Xander. For another, it would be hard to throw her off his trail in light of their now-dead romance. So he walked back to the little white house with the green shutters, the wind dying off a little as he climbed in the basement window.

Xander's room was pretty much like he expected it - little piles of dirty clothes scattered around, a tiny bar fridge with Star Wars action figures on top. He peeked inside the fridge, seeing rows of McCain juice boxes and a half-eaten pizza. A single old dresser sat beside the bed. Angel sat down and opened the top drawer. Spare change, old keys, a couple of Hustlers and an old, Celtic-looking cross. He closed it quickly, a shiver racing down his spine, and laid back on the bed. So this was what Xander saw every night. There was nothing spectacular about it. An old brown water stain bled across the paneling, probably white once but an eggshell shade now because of age. He wondered what he thought about when he laid here. Buffy? Anya? Him?

He went back to Spike's den around 3 a.m., the cavern quiet as he navigated the stone steps. At the bottom he found Spike standing back, his arms crossed like he was surveying a masterpiece. He followed Spike's gaze and found a boy chained to the wall, his limbs limp and his head tilted at an awkward angle.

"Oh, honey, you're home," Spike said. "I have dinner waiting for you."

Angel nodded, stepping closer to the kid. He looked to be 18 or 19, about Xander's age, his limbs slender but with a faint trace of muscle, like he worked out but hadn't been doing it very long. He touched the boy's chin, turning his head and noticing silver hoop earrings on each ear.

"Who is he?"

Spike laughed. "What the fuck does it *matter* who he is? He bleeds, doesn't he?"

Angel couldn't help but shake his head, his fingers tracing the narrow jaw, his other hand turning the kid's arm so he could read the tattoo. It was a rose dripping blood with the words "What nourishes me destroys me" in Latin.

The kid's eyes fluttered open and Angel jumped.

"Jesus!" he shouted in spite of himself. "He's not dead?" He turned the kid's head again, and the kid fixed his blank stare a few feet past Angel like he didn't care what happened to him anymore. He had a deep gash on his throat, still oozing blood.

"Of course he's not dead," Spike said. "I thought I'd play with him for awhile. But he's a cute one, isn't he?"

Angel tried to keep his steps even when he left again, his stomach swimming when he climbed back onto the street. The wind was howling now, the leaves clattering together until it was almost deafening. He could have found the cemetery with his eyes closed, and he sat against the old stone mausoleum he'd called home in the good old days. He buried his head in his knees and cried until his insides ached and his tears turned scarlet from the pain.

-end-