Blood was everywhere.
The inside of his van, the outside of his van. The walls of the abandoned house where it had all started. On his neck, wrists, legs, skin. On Angel's mouth, chin and fingertips.
Angel laid naked next to him on the wooden floor.
"What….?" he asked, his voice trailing off sadly. "Oh, come on," Spike said, rolling over, "what's the matter with you?" He snaked his arms around Angel's stomach, resting his head in Angel's neck. "We're more than 'work friends', aren't we?" Spike laughed into his shoulders.
"You have no idea."
"What, not even gonna ask?" "Ask what?" "Nevermind."
….
"Look, Spike, I'm not going to lie to you. I… you are…"
"Yes?" Spike asked, later on. "I don't think what happened last night was normal."
"Which part?"
"You know what I'm talking about. Don't play dumb."
It had been centuries since they had been intimate. (Was that the right word? Spike wasn't sure. It was animalistic, rough. Angel's fangs were still tinted with the dark red color of Spike's blood. He searched for a better alternative, but found nothing.)
He'd never admit it but the words stung like the wounds all over his body.
"It is," he managed, "for us. Used to be, anyway."
"Yeah, right."
"You loved it. The blood, the look of terror on your victim's faces…."
"And you're telling me this why, exactly?"
"Because this is who you are, Angel. A monster."
Angel refused to make eye contact. He looked down at his feet, and Spike let a smirk slip through his lips.