Most of Part 2 is NC-17 and can be found on my live journal (see profile for link) but because of censors, had to be excluded.

Chapter 4. Part 1.

The two marched into the office, demanding the attention of everyone in the room. Well, Angel marched, Spike more like limped in, flopping down on the nearest chair. Angel swung directly into boss mode, dealing out orders in a stern voice.

"Wes, I need you to find any information on the Pères de Tomes. They're an ancient French order of vampires, go back into the 1300s. Gunn and Lorne, you need to use your underground contacts and dig up anything about them. Enemies, weaknesses, location, allies, powers, whatever'll help. Fred, help Wesley research. No one do anything without my approval. No one mention anything to anyone outside this room. It stays in here. I don't want the Senior Partners messing in this. Everyone understand? Good."

Angel moved to his desk, picked up the phone, and ordered more blood while the rustling of people leaving faded away. In a few moments, Harmony brought in a jug of B positive and shrieked a very high-pitched scream when she noticed Spike.

"Blondie Bear! Oh, are you all right? I heard what happened and—"She had him gathered into a hug, which must've hurt like hell. Spike yelped, pushing her away.

"Bugger off, Harms."

"Oh! Did I hurt you? My poor baby."

"Harmony, I don't care. Now leave."

"Okay, okay. You don't need to get snooty with me. I get the picture."

She pouted and flounced out of the room.

They both shared a disbelieving look as Angel joined him on the couch.

"God, she is annoying."

"Don't know how you can stand her, mate."

"You're the one who slept with her."

"Yeah, but that was a long time ago and only 'cause Dru...Dru left."

Angel knew it still hurt to think about her. He felt a twinge of sympathy for his companion. He loved her, was devoted to her for eternity, and he lost her. Partly because of him. His un-souled alter ego, ruining their relationship.

"Do you miss her?"

"...Yeah," he replied his voice husky with emotion. He stared into the red reflection of the ceiling, himself conspicuously missing.

Angel chanced contact and pulled his childe closer, wrapping his arm around his shoulders, so the younger man's head rested on his shoulder. Spike didn't react, so he tightened his grip.

"I'm sorry."

He was. It was his fault after all. If Angelus hadn't made Drusilla, then William would never have been turned and none of this would've happened.

They weren't aware of how long they sat together, in comfortable silence. Angel drifted to sleep, the first real rest he had in weeks. Felt nice.

He awoke hours later, noting the slick sticky feeling which coated his arm and the smell of childe blood wafting in the air.

Angel could feel Spike's weight resting against his shoulder, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, and the wetness soaking both their clothes.

"Spike?" He nudged the body next to him, a tendril of fear wisping through his conscience when Spike didn't respond.

"Hey, Spike?"

"What!" He stirred; slowly waking. Clearly upset his sire had roused him, a sharp pain reminding him not to breathe.

"You're bleeding."

He checked himself over, frowning at the blood that covered his shirt.

"Hmm...Seems so."

"Take off your shirt," Angel ordered, standing in front of his childe, holding his hand out for the doused clothing.

"Can't wait to get me undressed, can you love?" The nickname rolled of his tongue with surprising ease.

"Just give me your shirt."

He carefully peeled off the shirt, wincing when it dragged against the wounds, only crying out a few times.

"You're never gonna borrow my clothes again." Angel threw the ruined shirt in the trash bin with a wet plop. "That was my favorite shirt!"

"Piss off."

Angel took a bag of bandages and antiseptic from a cabinet behind the counter and arranged them on the coffee table. Vamps didn't really need antiseptic, but it couldn't hurt to try.

"Hold still."

The older vampire nearly choked. The stab wound (where he was impaled to the floor) was bleeding extensively, from both sides. He gently cleaned the torn flesh, his "patient" hissing every time he hit a sore spot. He was going to need more gauze.

After the sword wound was bandaged and clean, Angel prodded his black and blue torso. Ribs weren't looking much better either.

Spike squirmed from his touch, shouting an indignant "Watch it!"

"You really should bind these. Before it sets wrong...Turn around"

He obeyed. Noting sourly that he still complied with the reflex established a century ago.

The red lashes and welts weren't healing. Just growing steadily worse, seeping blood. The burns surrounding it, Angel noticed, were black, seared and blistered.

"Jesus, Spike." It shouldn't be this bad, not after 24 hours. Vampire healing would have repaired at least half of it.

"That bad, huh?"

"To put it lightly. Does it hurt?"

Spike chuckled, which felt like his ribs were clattering around inside him, so he stopped. "No, Peaches...It feels like a sodding parade. You know, the kind... with the big balloons and Santa...Claus at the end."

"Don't joke, Spike. Why aren't you healing?"

"Now how am I suppos—oww—to know? Drank all the blood, what more do you want?"

((Blood! He needs my blood))

With out warning, Angel morphed into game face, slitting his wrist with his fangs, and held his arm towards Spike's mouth.

"Drink."

Spike looked at him like he was crazy. Like he absofuckinglutley nuts. Which he must have been. His sire had never offered him his blood before. Least not without being drained dry first.

"Are you fucking crazy?"

"Spike, you need the blood. MY blood. It'll heal you faster."

"No. No way. I don' need your blood or your tossing help." He was not going to drink from his Sire. That could reopen the blood bond, which was not good, a huge pile of not good. Wasn't going to be claimed again.

"Spike!" He yelled, exasperated, presenting his wrist once more.

"Bollocks to that."

He tried to get up and make for the door. Angel shoved him back down, quickly stratling him. Spike began to fight back, but a large hand clamped around his wrists.

"Will. Drink."

Spike, seeing no alternative—and risking a beating—relented, latching on to his Sire's wrist and sucking the invigorating blood from the wound. He felt the cool liquid slide down his throat, spreading warmth throughout his dead body. His head was spinning, felt like he was floating in a really big pool of beer, making the world contort. Like feeding from the hippy at Woodstock, except without the after taste.

Angel let his childe have a good amount of his blood, not stopping him until he couldn't make out the time on the clock. He was concerned about the Sire-Childe link, but ignored it. His boy's healing was more important.

Spike whined when he was wretched away from the intoxicating blood. Angel, feeling lightheaded, collapsed in the couch. He drank some blood his childe had retrieved for him from the kitchen. The shrill ring of the phone surprised them, making them both jump up ready for an attack.

Spike answered the phone, leaving his sire to rest and regain his strength. It was hard to concentrate on anything. Adrenaline rushed through his system and made the world tilt momentarily, enough so he stumbled back to regain his balance, nearly tugging the phone off the desk in the process.

"...Hullo?"

"Spike? Where's Angel?"

"He's...busy right now."

"Is he alright? What did you do?"

"I didn' do anything, watcher."

"Are you drunk?"

"No, not drunk, just a little..." His voice trailed off, not knowing what he should say. It really wasn't any of the boy's business.

"Hello? Spike?"

"Yeah, 'm here."

"Okay, when Angel is you tell him to come to my office?"

"No' a problem, mate."

"Right, yes...goodbye"

"Ta."

He struggled to get the phone in its cradle without falling headfirst into the desk. Damn, the hippie has nothing on this shit. He had forgotten how invigorating Sire blood was. Felt better already.

"Who was that?"

"The watcher. Wants to see you."

Angel groaned and rose slowly. "Okay. You should get some rest."

"Will do."

Chapter 4. Part 2.

"Whatchya got?"

Angel navigated his way through the stacks of books carefully. Still feeling a little light headed, he leaned against the desk. Fred was perched on a stool in the far corner, buried in a book ten times too big for her. Wesley sifted through papers, sitting on the floor.

"We haven't found much. The Pères de Tomes have proved to be shrouded in mystery. The only text containing useful information is in a rare demon language called...H'kswark. It was last used in the 1700s. I could find a demon translator somewhere. Maybe an alternate dimension. Like—"

"No. I don't want the guys up there in on this. Let me see."

He took the book, flipped through the pages.

"Unless you can find someone to read that, I think we're all researched out."

"Keep looking. There has to be something."

"Angel, why are we searching for an order lost centuries ago? It seems rather pointless."

"Spike. He killed at least ten of the members. In 1897."

"A year before you were cursed."

Angel nodded. "I...I didn't think they would be after him. It was almost a year later but..."

Fred looked up from her book. "Are they the ones who hurt him?"

"Yeah. And I don't think they're done. We need to destroy them. Before they kill again."

"I agree, but how are we supposed to find an order that doesn't exist anymore. According to records, the last member was dusted in 1933."

"1933?"

"Yes. Ring any bells?"

"No. I'll check with Gunn and Lorne. See what they've found. I want you two to keep investigating."

"Right. Only been going for five hours. What's a few more anyway?"

By the time he had finished speaking, Angel had already left, black trench swirling out the door.

He went directly to his room, warding off any lawyers, clients, or smelly slime demons on the way. Wolfram and Hart was loud and giving him a migraine. Voices echoed off the walls, pulsating through the building, up his spine.

Luckily, the rooms were sound proof, and any obnoxious lawyers arguing on their cell phones were blocked.

Spike was sprawled on the bed, covers twisted around his waist. Angel poured some more blood and took a seat across from the bed. He watched his boy. Studying the rise and fall of his chest, the curve of his lips, the straight angles of his jaw.

The bruises appeared to be fading. A little. The color was more blue and less black. The bright red cuts and black scorches also seemed dimmer. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking.

Spike's left arm was draped over the side of the bed. His right rested above his head, on the pillow. Angel noted how skinny his boy was. His wrists had felt so tiny in his hands earlier. Could easily wrap his entire hand around them.

His ribs also protruded significantly. Giving off the appearance of a skeleton, with skin taut over top.

He cursed himself again for letting this happen. He should have protected him. Should have done...something. Anything to keep him safe. But that wasn't his concern, was it? He was too wrapped up in saving the world—from an evil law firm that he just happened to be president of—to pay attention to his childe. His responsibility.

"Are you just gonna stare, or say something?" Spike asked without moving.

"Sorry. I..."

"...was just gazing at my astonishing beauty?"

Angel chuckled. "Something like that."

-------for the NC-17 continuation go to profile for link-------

Chapter 5. Part 1.

He tried to blame it on the exhaustion. Tried to blame it on bad blood. He also tried to blame it on a spell or a hex or a curse. Or even the Sire- Childe bond. But it didn't erase what was there.

Something.

Something was there. He wasn't sure what.

It wasn't what they used to have. His true sire was a bastard. Simply put. A drunk, obnoxious, sodding bastard.

The reincarnation of that sire was even worse. What was it...five years ago? Back in Sunnyhell. That sire was a fucking maniac. Obsessive. Particularly over the Slayer. And the family. Like him and Dru. Stupid prick.

Always had to ruin everything he worked so hard to create. He's the one who held the family together after Angelus got all souled up. Darla ran. Bitch. He's the one who kept Dru safe. Created a name for himself. Killed two slayers. But his sire didn't care. Left him in the bloody wheelchair and fucked Dru. Made him watch. Stupid tossing cunt.

Then there's Peaches. This one was a trip, he was. With the guilt and soulness. Always the pissing hero. Save the day and leave everyone in the dark. Like now. Ran out the second Gunn called. Left him—lying in the bed, still naked, still wet—to be the sodding fucking martyr.

Bollocks. This was spinning out of control. Like a tornado. Everything getting all mixed up and then tossed about, leaving him to pick through the rubble. Looking for his pieces.

He sighed and crawled out of the bed, scowling at the moist spots.

"Great, just bloody great."

He trudged into the bathroom, wincing and growling at his obvious limp, and turned the shower on cold. The icy water soothed some of his cuts; numbing whatever feeling he had left. He slid down the smooth tile, sitting in a heap. His head leaned against the knuckles of his right hand. How did this happen? It wasn't supposed to. He was supposed to become corporeal, steal the poof's viper, get wasted, and then go see Buffy and be happy. For once. That was the plan. The big-master-fucking-plan. But now that didn't work, did it? Nope.

So, he may not want to kill Angel. Not usually at least. But at the moment, his fingers were just itching for a stake. A nice wooden one. Maybe with splinters.

And, he just might've thought his sire was a little attractive and just might've have been reliving—in more detail than he would admit—some past...moments. Might.

Did Angel think the same things? Of course not. He couldn't have been. He didn't even get a happy in the bed. Although, he seemed a bit more than happy. Ardent, fervent was more accurate.

Damn.

He heard the water running before he opened the door and could smell the salty tears, which would later be blamed on the soap. Although there wasn't any around.

Quietly, he opened the door. His childe was curled in a ball on the shower floor. The water splashed over him, running off his nose and chin. His eyes were closed, but Angel could tell from the heavy breathing that he wasn't asleep.

The dark haired vampire moved into the bathroom, letting the door creak to announce his presence. Spike didn't respond.

"What are you doing?"

"Taking a shower," He replied with out opening his eyes.

"Sitting down?"

"You have a problem with that Peaches?" The bitterness in his voice stung.

"What's wrong with you?"

"Nothin."

"You're brooding."

"Am not." That was hardly the fiery response he was looking for. But then again, his childe never did respond well to kindness.

"Yes you are. Now get out of my shower."

"Why?"

"Because it's my shower, this is my room, this my building, and I want you out." He dragged the younger vampire from the shower, noting with surprise how cold the water was. And how cold his childe was. His skin was like ice. How long had he been in there?

"So what, we fuck and then you kick me to the side? Is that all this is? An easy fuck? Just so you can get a bloody hard-on?" He exploded, pushing Angel away and storming into the bedroom.

"No Spike, it's more than that!"

He snorted. "Bollocks! You're just using me, aren't you? You don't really care! You never did. 'M just convenient! Was a hundred years ago and still am now! Your bloody whipping boy, aren't I?"

"Where is this coming from?" I never said—"

"Ya didn't have ta' say! It's all I ever was to you and all I'll ever be."

"What are you talking about? This is more than a good fuck! More than just convenient! You're more than just convenient. Can't you feel it?"

The blond stared at the floor, jaw muscles clenching and unclenching methodically, panting. "Just leave me alone." He picked up some of Angel's clothes with shivering hands.

"Spike, wait, we need to talk about this."

"No. I'm done talking."

"We didn't even start. You just yelled at me the whole t—"He was cut off by the door slamming shut.

"Dammit," He groaned, collapsing heavily onto the couch, mulling over what just happened.

Chapter 5. Part 2.

He spent the first day in a bar. Drinking as much as he possibly could.

He had actually forgotten everything for a few blissful moments. The whole lot disappeared. Angelus. Buffy. Confusion. Guilt. Love. Peaches. It all didn't matter. Just vanished. Like it never existed. He thought he was in heaven. But then he realized he passed out and hit his head on the table.

After the bar lost its appeal and the beer just quit working, he stumbled into the alley and passed out again. Luckily the buildings provided enough shade.

On the second day, he fed. Didn't kill them though. Soul wouldn't agree with that. Give him hell for it. Just took enough to satisfy his demon and moved on, heading west, towards the docks.

The blood helped heal whatever injuries he had left. The sire blood didn't hurt either, but he pushed those thoughts aside before they had a chance to cultivate.

Stupid goddamn soul. Always having to be so reasonable. Analyze every piece of fucking information.

Walked a good twenty miles in that night. Got to the warehouse before dawn. He had considered that the Peres de Tomes would still be there, but with a severe hangover and still being properly pissed, he couldn't find the energy to care.

Part of him wished they were there. Wanted to beat the shit out of them. The demon was still reeling from the torture and humiliation it suffered only days ago. Listing the number of ways to eviscerate a vamp while keeping them from dust.

But the place was empty. Even the rotting bodies had been removed. Good. The building had reeked. Especially when face down in a puddle of blood for days, having nothing to do but play guess-which-vile-smell-you're-lying-in- now.

He got in and out as quick as he could. As much as he'd like to pretend otherwise, the place made him nervous, tense.

He found it behind a stack of boxes, thrown carelessly in a heap. Bleeding wankers. That duster was special. Had a lot of memories with it. Good times.

The third day, most of the superficial injuries gone, he got back into the fighting circuit. Was surprised to realize he missed it so much. Was also surprised so many people had heard of him. So many also heard he had a soul. Was harmless. Well bugger them; they were in for a rude awakening.

The first few rounds were easy. Stupid fledges, hardly a year old. Dusted them right quick. The following got a little more interesting. Some demons thrown in the mix. Most were simple kills. Slow and dumb, easy to take down, snap their necks.

As the night progressed, word traveled that 'William the Bloody' was back, and a crowd gathered. Pathetic tossers were betting against him.

By the last rounds of the night, the place was packed. Vamps, demons, and even some brave—or incredibly foolish—humans.

He won every match. With only a black eye, split lip, and few cuts from a T'wrat'shan demon. Ugly buggers. Poisonous spit and razor sharp teeth scaling their bodies.

But the last one, named Rek, was the champion. A legend. Never lost one fight. He was a hybrid—Wartivk and Nysichari. Now this one was the ugliest one he ever saw. Forget the chaos demon Dru cheated on him with—this one won the jackpot.

The fight started out normal enough. Traded punches, got in a few body blows. Spike appeared to gain the upper hand, knocking his opponent to his knees. But suddenly the bastard jumped up and threw one punch—one fucking punch—that sent him flying across the makeshift "ring" and crashing through a table. Like a surge of power from an electrical outlet. Which, as it turned out, he actually had. Metaphorically. He could charge his movements, using some electrical field crap to enforce his punches. Whatever.

The bloke strutted over and picked him up by the lapels of his jacket, tossing him back in the designated area. Boots landed furiously on his freshly healed ribs, snapping them like twigs.

The blond cried out and tried to grab the other guy's foot, but only got his hand grinded into the hard floor.

The fight continued for what seemed like hours. Rek drew it out as long as possible, protecting his territory and proving his dominance. But Angelus did worse. Years with his sire had taught him one thing: he was in control. His sire had the power. He did not. Neither did the sodding pillock pounding his face into the wall like a bloody woodpecker.

Spike growled and flung his head back, crushing Rek's nose. The demon stumbled backwards, stunned. With a manic laugh, the vampire laid into his opponent, beating him with punishing blows. The crack of Rek's collarbone could be heard over the scattered cheers and boos of the raucous crowd. So could the snap of his neck.

Within minutes, Rek landed in a heap on the grimy wooden floor and declared "loser".