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Learning To Share - Chapter 5

After that night, he moved in. Permanently. If Cordelia and Wesley noticed, they didn't comment. Perhaps they assumed we were just playing out the Sire, Childe role. Forming our own little lair. And they may have been more right than they knew. Because I think that is exactly what Spike did think we were doing. He played his role so beautifully. The disobedient childe, the needy young minion, the ever-willing subservient. I don't think he even wanted to look beyond that role. He didn't really see me at all. He saw only some projection of the old demon Sire he had always known. He never seemed to see my need. He didn't understand what he did see. He was always teasing me about my broodiness. Why did he never ask himself why I liked to sit in the dark? On my own. Why did he never ask why I shunned human company, shunned all company? Why? Because if he had asked maybe I'd have been able to tell him. Tell him of my fear to let go. Tell him of my loneliness and my inability to find any balance in my life. But he never asked and the game continued.

It wasn't all bad. At first. Maybe it would have been better…now I know what was to come…maybe it would have been better if it had been worse in those early months. But it wasn't. I was desperate for him, and he for me. We hardly left the apartment for the first month. I needed to know every part of his body again. Inside and out. I needed to re-bond with him, know that he was mine.

After that first frenzied night, the apartment had looked like a bomb had hit it. Every piece of furniture damaged or destroyed. The couch was ripped and stained with our blood. The coffee table in pieces from our weight as I took him spread eagled on the wooden surface. My bookcase was upturned, all the books scattered, his clutching hands pulling it down on top of us as I took him pinned against the old philosophy. My wooden floors had gouge marks and bloodstains from our nails repeatedly being torn in pain or ecstasy, or that blending of the two which such passion, such need can produce. My bed was a mass of torn sheets and covers which had been used as temporary restraints. My pillows brown from the blood of his body as I penetrated him.

But we reveled in the mess. We laughed at our excess, reliving old times when these things were daily occurrences. We bathed in water awash with our own blood and drank it, savoring the coppery liquid. And we started again, this time soft and gentle, loving and intimate. I opened him wide to inspect his tight, beautiful entrance. I lapped gently at the wounds I saw there, becoming hard as his moaning grew to begging, a quiet insistent repetition of my name, 'Angel, Angel, Angel,' as if he were in prayer. And in some twisted parody of religion, I suppose he was. What can come closer to a living God, than the creature that made you? What can come closer to the promise of religion, than the reality of eternity? What can come closer to salvation, than total happiness here on earth? And I gave him all those things. I bathed in his adoration. I grew hard from his worship. I penetrated him with a knowledge of my divine right to do so. And it was good. Very good.

So, for a while, it did become enough. It was so new. Having someone there with me in the good fight. And who better? I never really appreciated how good a fighter Spike could be until he was fighting with me. We were a synergy of power. And when the fight was done, we took that energy and charge into the bedroom with us. I used his body like a fighter uses a punch bag, to play out my fight for redemption. Not hitting him…no, that was to come later…but to pound and thrust into him with a burning need. And when I was spent? I allowed him to use me for comfort and reassurance, playing my allotted role.

But he was never there for me in the quiet times of every day's most pressing need. Times when I needed routines of domesticity to anchor me to life, he was gone, on business. As he said, doing 'bad, evil things'. He wouldn't clean the weapons with me; we never trained together. As for laundry and cleaning…I never actually saw him lift a finger to help that whole time. In one month my life was turned upside down and what I had taken for granted, was no more. When I came into the apartment, he was there. When I left it for the fight, he was there. But it wasn't me he saw. It was Angelus with a new and human face. It was what he wanted me to be. He never saw my pain. He never felt my total inability to make the connections I needed to this world. When I faced the incomprehensible humans I had allied myself with, he never took my side. I had his body, but never his support. Never his friendship. He shared nothing with me. I felt like a blind man in the land of the sighted but he refused to be my eyes to see by. He refused to interpret the world for me, so I could continue to love it and save it. But it would all have been so easy for him. This is his world. It was then he never fitted, in the old days. Now, he is this world in the flesh. Its excess, its excitement, its physicality. But he kept his knowledge to himself. He never shared his incessant television, his loud, raucous music, his addictions and his passions.

Was I wrong to expect more from him? Should I have loved him for what he was, what I had made him? In truth? I didn't trust his needy minion act for one moment. I saw him looking at me when he thought I didn't see him, studying my face, my mood…and when I would turn? He mirrored that mood. Like a chameleon. So I didn't trust him for one moment.

So the rot continued to seep through the cracks of our affections. Until, on that fateful night I found myself, whilst in the middle of thrusting into him, pulling out to study his face. I don't think he realized that I had stopped. He expected some addition, something new and fun to follow. When I remained just starting at him he got angry. It was then I turned and offered myself to him for the first time in his one hundred and twenty six years. And he could have no idea of the leap of faith I was making in that act. How, in that offering I was offering him not only my body, but my power, my role, my very sense of self, to take and make his own. To make me him, and him me. To find that ultimate, illusive blending of beings. Two wounded creatures to make one. Shared pain.

But the Childe in him was too deeply engrained and he slid around my offered body, till he found my mouth. Greedily sucking on my lips he tried to push his tongue in, to offer me that small penetration instead. I closed my eyes, as if in that darkness, acceptance was easier and allowed him to make his small offering.

But if I am his God, who answers my soul when it cries out? If I give him eternity, who gives my soul rest? If I give him comfort, who will be my salvation? The total lack of support he gave me in that first month only awoke a vast, brooding, needy monster in me. And that monster started to need feeding.

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