Spike stopped moving. He'd awoken with the sunset, lured by the nightly death of the sun and his goddess's return. Spike's first thoughts had been that he'd dreamed the past days; his childer were whole and for once not spurning him. The cold body next to his was Brutus, his solid weight holding Spike down when he would claw at himself in his sleep. As consciousness set up residence in Spike's mind, however, he realized that all of his hazy memories were correct and that the demon holding him close was his Sire.

For once, stark reality was better than dreams.

Angel felt all the changes in Spike as his childe first woke, then took in his surroundings. The elder vampire waited as Spike realized who he was with and relaxed. In the span of a second his childe went from the bonelessness of sleep to stiff, tense terror, and then to a soft-firm point in between. Awake and aware, but relaxed. Content. Waiting. It was the waiting that concerned Angel. What, precisely, was he going to do with Spike?

The day's sleep had given Angel much time to think. While his childe had rested, being so obviously exhausted, Angel had drifted from thought to unconsciousness and back again. If Spike was going to stay with him, Angel was going to take his childe in hand. Angelus had wasted this precious creature, letting him go before he'd ever been cursed. Angel's unsouled predecessor had been bound by the traditional restrictions of vampire culture that involved training up and releasing childer.

Spike had never been just another childe. He was Angelus' compliment, giving where Angelus was intractable, forceful when Angelus didn't care, resistance when Angelus needed someone to shove. Angel hoped, prayed and was nearly to the point of begging, for Spike as he was now to be that for him. Why? Angel was lonely, lonelier than the abandoned church he'd made his home.

Funny how the presence of others made solitude acute and unbearable.

For decades, the only person in Angel's life had been Gabriel. Ah, his precious grandson. In him Angel had the closeness, the adoring love that he'd missed out on with Connor. To be fair, as Gabriel got older, Angel had told him all about his father and mother, Angel's own life, and tried to help the boy understand why he got those awful nightmares. Gabriel had inherited Cordelia's visions, along with her demonic nature, Connor's strength, and neither of his parents' inherent paranoia.

That said, Angel and Gabriel's relationship was distant. It wasn't due to any failing on either man's part; Gabriel was more of a loner than Angel. He simply didn't need a close relationship with Angel. Their understanding was quiet and from afar; Gabriel had moved out of the hotel at 17 to work at a city mission. At 30, he was one of their most relied-upon employees, as well as Angel's seer. Angel missed his grandson, but understood at the same time that Gabriel needed what he needed, even if that wasn't what Angel could provide for him.

But that left Angel alone. The vampire saw a deep irony in his solitude. For years he'd put up with people wanting to be near him but not too close, because of the curse and his own vampiric nature. The curse, the goddamned curse... it was meaningless now. Angel knew that if he stayed hyped up on the strongest drugs and buried deep inside his true love for an eternity, he would never be in danger of losing his soul. Between Connor and Cordelia and the dark coming, Angel's soul would never know true happiness.

No one could ever fathom Angel's relief. He could never become Angelus again. That alone almost made everything worth it. And through the years, Angel almost grew accustomed to being by himself. After all, since being cursed the first time, he'd only shared his bed a few times, most of them bittersweet.

But now Spike was beside him. With him. Again. ::And your childe shall forsake you so long as your blood and his flow in different directions.::

"There's blood in the kitchen," Angel murmured, releasing Spike. The blonde immediately rolled out of bed and crossed the room. Angel let himself enjoy his childe's presence, even as it melted into shadows and floated away to other places. His mouth watered as he remembered how that skin tasted. Angel's fingers ached to touch, to stroke and press and grasp and slide that impossible silk. And he wanted. Oh, he wanted so much. Wanted Spike to come back and give himself to Angel, as he'd given himself to Angelus. A scraping, metallic sound in Angel's head gave him pause. No, that wasn't what he wanted. Angelus would want that. Angel wanted, needed, something else. Something more than the flesh and blood that was their beginning.

Something pure and holy, that would light Angel's way when the moon no longer rose. Spike, beside him, at his feet, protecting his back.

He needed his childe.

Spike located the kitchen with his nose, following a faint trace of animal's blood to the tiny room. It was a disappointment of a church kitchen, too small in which to prepare anything of note. On one side of the sink was a stove, complete with small aluminum pot. A quick search located a glass decanted and chalice, old but still whole. Spike poured a large measure of what smelled like horse's blood. It was remarkably fresh. Angel must've known the butcher rather well to get such new, untainted food.

Each of Spike's movements was a precise, razor-edged dance step. Reaching for a stirring spoon became an act of celestial grace, with muscles striving for perfection underneath a glory of wanting skin. Even in his absence, Angel the Sire was there, watching. Knowing. Spike had to do his best, had to expend that extra bit of effort. Everything Spike did was in honor of, because of, and in gratitude of his Sire. Only the best would do, be it the most debased of scutwork or the ultimate sacrifice.

Steam began to rise from the blood and Spike watched, hawk-like, until the first tiny bubbles appeared at the pot's sides. He decanted the ruby liquid quickly, rinsing out the pot before it could get sticky. He retrieved the chalice and walked back to Angel's bedroom.

Angel smelled Spike's return long before the blonde reached him. There was something obscenely sacred about the vision Spike presented. Body white as driven snow, broken only by the deep shade of blood suspended in one writer's hand. Chalice extended in supplication. His childe, the demon priest. All he needed was a god to worship, an altar to lay himself upon.

Spike stopped by Angel's bed and poured a ration of blood into the chalice. Angel sat up and accepted the glass, oddly thankful that Spike had found it instead of his usual chipped mug. Then he noticed that Spike hadn't brought one for himself. After a moment, Angel held the glass out, which Spike refilled. Instead of drinking it, however, Angel placed it into Spike's free hand, trying to ignore the velvet that was touching his childe. "Drink."

Spike glanced at Angel, surprise plain on his face. Angel, however, kept a firm countenance. The blonde slowly drained the glass, trying to hide his hunger. He'd not fed in so long...

"Take more," Angel ordered. He'd seen the flash of starvation in his childe's eyes. That wouldn't do. If Spike really wanted this, their connection renewed and reborn, he was going to have to learn to take care of himself. "You're starving."

Spike flinched and nodded. It was true, he wasn't healthy. That disappointed his Sire, which in turn shamed Spike. His best, he had to do his best. Angel wouldn't want a sick childe, nor one who was unappealing in his filth and disrepair.

Angel waited until Spike had taken his fill. The elder vampire stood up, pushing the bedcovers aside. He stood up and waited, wanting to see just how much reminding Spike needed.

Spike glanced at Angel. It was night and Angel had work to do. Perhaps he was supposed to leave until Angel called for him again. Something wasn't right, wasn't completed... Angel couldn't go out like that. He had to be covered, protected, finished. Spike walked over to the closet that faced the bed. Inside it he found the expected soft, dark clothes, which he removed for Angel.

Angel allowed Spike to dress him. The blonde was almost as efficient as Angel himself was, but the barely-there caress of Spike's fingers on him made the waiting worthwhile. Angel could carry those touches with him all night, knowing that Spike was at home, waiting for him.

Spike stood back and waited for the order to leave. Surely Angel would give it now, when he was ready to leave. "I've got to work now," Angel murmured as he ran his hands through his hair. "Stay here. I'll be back before sunrise." With that, Angel swept out of the room, stopping by the bathroom to fetch his wallet. Then he was gone, out into the night in search of his latest damsel in distress.

Spike stood in the bedroom for a long time, unable to move. ::I am to stay. Stay, here in my Sire's home. He wants me to stay. Perhaps one day he will want me.:: Eventually Spike became aware of his motionlessness. ::Surely I am not to just stand around. There is too much I should do here.::