DISCLAIMER:  I don't own 'em.  All the characters you recognize belong to someone who isn't me and are used without permission purely (!) for a little non-profit personal entertainment.

Codes/rating/warnings:  Spike/Angel, NC-17

This is basically an alternate ending to the fourth season episode 'Pangs.'

For those who've been hiding under a rock, the Initiative fitted Spike with an implant that caused him pain whenever he tried to hurt any living thing a couple of episodes before 'Pangs.'  This meant, of course, that he couldn't feed.  Anyway, I wondered what would have happened if Spike had run into Angel before he went to Giles' house.  (And there's a whole 'nother fic - why Giles?  God, don't get me started...)

A quick note:  according to the series, Angelus sired Spike.  According to Joss, that was a mistake and it was *Drusilla* who, er, sired Spike.  I'm going with the previous interpretation, because I like it better.  My story, my call.  Deal.

Also, religious/anti-religious themes.  Blood.  You have been warned.
 

Overlap
By Melissa
 

Spike was cold.  So cold.

Never in all his life had he been so cold, and so thirsty.  It was a constant physical ache, the need for blood.  Pulsing in what would have been the rhythm of his heartbeat, if he'd had one.

And every time he came near to slaking his thirst, even if he was only trying to drink from a rat, his head would explode, black ribbons of agony flooding through him, and he would stagger away, retching, shaking his head.  Trying to regain some equilibrium.  Fucking implant.

He was going mad.

He'd spent almost the entire day awake, crouching in the sewers, rocking himself slowly.  Remembering half-forgotten songs, nursery rhymes from his childhood.  The first time he met Angelus.  The first time he met Dru.

God, Drusilla.

Where was she, he wondered.

He wanted her almost as badly as he wanted blood.  He could almost taste her on his lips, the sweet musky tang she had.  He could see her in his mind, flushed from feeding, reclining naked and satiated on silk sheets, the moments when she'd been almost sane -

"Dru - "

God, was that his voice?  He sounded so weak, pathetic.

He snorted in derision, and that sound came out much the same.

He was dying.

Dying in the sewers, for godsake.  With the rats and the shit and the mucky rainwater.  *Dying*.

It wasn't fair.

He'd never thought he'd ever be so desperate for blood.  So starved he would have fed from a rat - if only he could - and now here he was, salivating at the thought of a disgusting, disease-ridden piece of vermin.  And bloody helpless to do anything about it.

He'd fed from hookers and royalty and crack whores and rock stars and models.  He'd had pretty much anyone he'd fancied.  And now -

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

He reached up to rub his face and his hand came away wet.

He stared at it for a moment, incredulous.  Tears?  Christ, wasn't it enough he had to die in the sewer like a rat?  Oh no.  Not him.  First, he had to turn into a bloody *wuss* and *cry*.

Jesus wept, he thought, and laughed softly.

There was insanity in the laughter, and he heard it clearly.

He was going mad.

He licked his sore, chapped lips, and drew his tattered blanket closer around himself.  God, it was cold.

"Our father, which art in heaven - "

Oh no.  He *wasn't* -

"- Hallowed be thy name - "

He was.  Christ on a crutch, he was.

He was saying the Lord's Prayer.

In the same sing-song voice he'd used when he was six and his mother first taught it to him, and he'd used it as protection from the monsters that hid in his closet and under his bed, and lurked in the shadows -

" - Thy kingdom come - "

Shut up, shut up, shut *up* -

" - Thy will be done - "

God had forsaken him long ago.  If he was sure of nothing else, he was sure of that.

The first time Angelus sank his fangs into the soft skin between neck and shoulder, and fucked him into a bleeding, crying mess, he'd known.

The Lord's Prayer wasn't magic, it was bullshit, and God -

"- On earth as it is in heav'n - "

God was bullshit, too.

The tears were flowing freely now.  He could feel them wetting his cheeks and soaking into the tattered blanket he was clutching, but couldn't bring himself to care.

" - Give us this day - please, God - our daily bread - please - "

A choked sob forced its way out from his parched throat, and a fit of shaking seized him.

" - Please - "

He drew a deep breath to calm himself, and found himself coughing - coughing?  When he didn't even really need to breathe in the first place?  What the fuck ? - and choking.

*And forgive us our tresspasses.*

The coughing fit passed, leaving him lying, shivering, on the filthy, wet concrete.

*As we forgive them that trespass against us.*

All right then, so where was God now?  Watching?  Laughing?  Getting his bloody rocks off?  And where was Angel?

Shit, some savior.

" - And lead us not into temptation - "

Oh *Jesus*, would he not shut *up*?  Ever?  How long had it been since he had control of his vocal cords, anyway?  How long since he had the option of -

" - But deliver us from evil - "

- Shutting the fuck *up* -

" - For thine is the kingdom - "

No it isn't, it *isn't*, he wanted to scream.  It was mine, before the fucking chip, mine -

" - The power and the glory - "

A dry sob escaped him.

" - Forever and ever - "

He was laughing again.  Oh, the irony.  The beautiful irony.

A vampire, surely the most god forsaken creature on the whole goddamned planet, lying sniveling in a sewer, surrounded by rats and shit and whatever the fuck else, helpless to stop pleading to a God who he pictured as more like the Marquis De Sade than Gandhi.

Beautiful.

A faint noise brought him back to the grey concrete reality he was lying in.  He looked around, vaguely, and saw a rat not five feet from where he was lying.

He began to shake again, wanting to grab it and drain it more than he'd ever wanted anything in his whole life, ever, but the thought of that pain, that awful fucking pain, was enough to keep him in check.

He forced himself to look away, but a faint sound drew his attention back to the rat.  Goddamned thing had moved *closer* - only two feet away now.  It was just begging for it.

Spike shook his head.  Better to not even try.  He wouldn't be able to get more than a drop or two before the pain hit, anyway -

The rat turned and began to scamper away.  Before conscious thought could catch up with him, Spike launched himself after it.

He missed it by more than a foot, and lay there, stretched out full length, staring at his empty hands.

Christ.  This was hell.  This was madness.

"Dru - "

And somehow, he couldn't bring himself to care any more.
 

*************************************

Spike opened his eyes, only to find a streak of daylight - more twilight by the look of it - less than an inch away from burning his outstretched right hand.  The grill over the top of him was less protection that he'd thought.

Roll over, he thought.  Get away from the sunlight, it burns, it'll burn me -

He didn't move.  Couldn't.

Looked like he was taking another personal day.  He opened his mouth to say so, and nothing came out.

Shit, he thought dismally.  So this is dying.  Really dying.  This is how it feels to be so close to death you can smell it.

With some effort he turned his head.

There was something in his line of vision, so close to his face he couldn't focus on it.  Not that he was seeing all that well anymore any way.  While he was sleeping the blackness that had been lurking at the corners of his vision had crept up further, leaving him able to see only a few feet directly in front of him.  He moved his head slightly.  It was something brown -

A rat.  It was a rat.

With supreme effort, Spike rolled himself up on one arm.

It was a rat all right.  But not just any rat.

A *dead* rat.

Oh, god.  Would it be okay to eat it?  Would the pain come back?

Spike hesitated only a moment before reaching out and snatching the rat and bringing it to his lips.  The effort it took to go into his game face made him see stars, but he ripped into the rat - still warm - and guzzled the blood desperately.

God, so good.

He drew out every drop, savoring the gamey, coppery, bitter taste until there was nothing left.

Panting from the effort, he drew himself into a sitting position and dropped the carcass onto the ground.  Oh, life was good.  So good.

He smiled weakly, and licked his lips, still able to taste the beautiful, tangy, salty remnants of the rodent's blood.  God help him, he'd never tasted anything so sodding amazing in all his life.  Nearly two centuries.  Christ on a crutch.

He lurched unsteadily to his feet.  The rat had been good, but not nearly enough to keep the pangs at bay.  He was still hungry - starving - but he was thinking again, and thinking was good.  Thinking was going to keep him alive.

Using the wall as a guide, he began the slow journey back up to the surface - the sun would be setting within the hour, if his watch was right - and towards food.

Happy meals on legs.  He smiled at the thought.  *Food.*

He had looks.  Charm.  And if all else failed, money.  Surely someone, somewhere, would offer him a pint or two in exchange for a little gold.  Or some of that Spike-charm his sire was always so jealous of.

Spike smiled wearily.  Blondes did have more fun.
 

****************************
 

Spike rubbed his cheek tiredly.  The pretty co-ed with the stunning neck had been the last of four girls he'd tried.

Managed to get his face bloody well slapped by all of them, too.

Well, it was body contact of a sort, but not quite of the sort he'd been hoping for.

Spike squinted at his watch.  Shit.  Only another three and a half hours until sunrise.  He wasn't sure he'd last another day in the sewers without losing it completely.

"Buffy!"

Spike turned sharply and ducked behind a tree, peering out after a second.

"Buffy - you forgot your bag!"

Spike could make out two shadowy figures in the distance.  A small one - Buffy? - and a larger one.  A *boy*.

The girl - Buffy - said something, and The Boy ducked his head.

Spike fought to keep himself from groaning.  God, he could hear the audio now; "aw, shucks, ma'am, wern't nothin'."

She said something else, and The Boy leaned in to kiss her, tentatively.

Spike was torn between extreme jealousy - god, he wanted so badly to be close to that neck - and the desire to make loud retching noises.

The Boy pulled back, and they stood there, staring at each other for a moment.

Oh, for god's sake, get it on or bugger off, Spike thought irritably.  Just do it *now.*

The Boy put his arm around her shoulders - oh Christ, that neck - and they wandered off together.

Spike relaxed.  Finally.  Peace.  The Slayer and her Boy were gone, leaving him to -

Oh, shit.

What about *Buffy*?  Slayer-blood was always the sweetest, and he had so much to offer her - the scrolls of Amarah, the gem of Tea'doean, the -

He felt the urge to go into his game face, and resisted it.  He had to save his energy.  He was going to need it.
 

****************************
 

Jesus *Christ.*

Almost two hours.

Two *sodding* hours.

Buffy and The Boy were still together, talking about whatever the hell it is teenagers talk about.  And it was getting on towards sunrise.

Spike fidgeted.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

What the fuck was he supposed to do?  He didn't trust The Boy.  Didn't want to approach Buffy when she was with him.  He wasn't positive, but he associated The Boy with his little visit to the vet.  And if the little shit had anything to do with the godforsaken chip in his head, he wanted nothing to do with him.

No, that wasn't entirely true.

He wanted to rip his arm off and beat the bugger to death.  With the sticky end.

Spike felt himself beginning to salivate.

Shit.

Well, if he couldn't go to Buffy, who could he go to?  Who else would appreciate what he had to offer?

Spike frowned.

Hold on - Giles.

Perfect.
 

****************************
 

He was a block away from Giles', and he was beginning to weave around like a drunk.

"Shit," he muttered.  "Goddamn sodding *shit*."

The burst of energy the rat - and his own fear - had given him was quickly dissipating.  Before long, he'd be helpless again.

He swallowed hard, and tried to force himself to walk in a straight line.

Nope.  No dice.

Shit.

He stopped to lean against a lamppost, willing the shaking in his arms and legs to subside.  After a long moment, he looked up towards the librarian's place, trying to gauge the distance left.

As he watched, a figure emerged, dressed in dark clothing, and headed down the street, away from Spike.

"Giles?" Spike asked, but he already knew it wasn't.  Giles didn't walk like that.  In fact, there was only one person Spike knew that walked like that.

"Angel?"

It was.  Shit, it was.

Spike began to run after his sire.  "Angel!  Wait!  Please!"

The figure turned, but Spike's legs gave out beneath him, and he fell before he could see his face.

He lay face down on the pavement for a moment.  Shit.  Shit.  Bloody, bloody, shit.

"Spike?"

It was Angel.  It was.  The incredulity, the faint air of disdain - oh yeah.  That was his sire, all right.

Spike pushed himself into a sitting position.  He didn't trust his legs at the moment.  They were too bloody likely to crumble underneath him.

Angel was standing less that a meter away.

"Angel."  Now that he was face to face - well, face to groin, anyway - with his sire, Spike didn't know what to say.

"You look like hell."

"Nice to see you, too," Spike said before he could stop himself.  "Look, Angel, I need your help, okay?"

"My help?  And what makes you think I'd help you?"  Angel was at his most righteous.  Head up, chest puffed out.

Spike gritted his teeth.  "Because you're the reason I am what I am," he said, doing his best to outstare Angel.  "Because you're too bloody obsessed with your sodding *morals* to sit back and watch someone starve.  And because - "

"Starve?"

"There's a fucking chip in my head," Spike explained wearily.  "Every time I try to feed, or even have a bit of fun, it's like Hiroshima in my head.  Underground lab.  Shit happens.  Look, I need to eat, all right?  I need blood.  Please.  The only thing I've had to eat in the last four days has been a sodding rat.  I need something real."   He looked up to gauge Angel's response, but Angel was as impassive as ever.  "Just find me *one*.  Just one.  Robbers, murderers, whatever.  I think I can feed, if they're already dead.  I'm really not feeling too picky these days."

Angel was shaking his head.  "I'm not going to kill someone for you."

"So find a body!" Spike said, feeling hysteria creep up on him.  "I'm starving, I'm bloody well starving!  You're such a fucking *moral* cunt these days, are you just going to let me sodding well starve?  You did this to me!  Shit!  Do you know what it's like to be so hungry you're about ready to open your own veins?  So hungry you'd - "

"You can feed from me."

" - Even - what?"

"You can feed from me.  Tomorrow I can organise a supply of fresh cow blood, but for tonight - "

"Feed from - you?"  Spike stared at his sire, dumbfounded.  Angel had let Spike feed from him only once before - on the night he sired him.  He had fed from Spike many times after that, but had never again allowed Spike to feed from him.

"Not too much."  And Angel was helping him to stand and pulling him into an alleyway.

Spike stared.

Angel looked calmly back, waiting.

"You're - you're just going to let me - ?"

"Yes."

"Why?" Spike asked bluntly.

Angel sighed, and leaned back against the wall.  "For a lot of reasons, none of which I really want to examine closely at this point.  Just do it, Spike, and get it over with."

"Just what every man wants to hear," Spike muttered half heartedly.

"Spike - "

"What if the chip bloody well zaps me?  I've not been able to feed from anyone else - "

Angel rubbed the back of his neck.  "I've heard about these implants.  Seems you're not the only escapee.  And word has it that it's the violent impulse in connection with a human being - not a vampire, and not the feeding - that triggers the electrical impulse."

"Electrical - " Spike stared.  Angel knew far too sodding much.

"Spike."  Angel had his martyr-face on, a slight widening of the eyes and a raising of the eyebrows.  An expression that said, 'I'm suffering for you, asshole, so move your sorry behind and do something about it.'

Spike stepped towards his sire.  "You want me to - "

"Yes," Angel said firmly, a hint of irritation in his voice.  "Just.  Do.  It."

Spike swallowed hard, and forced himself into his Game Face.

A sudden wave of dizziness assailed him, and he reeled helplessly.

Strong arms caught him and pressed him up against the wall in a parody of a lover's embrace, making the moment seem even more surreal.

Spike held on, unable to make sense of anything around him - sight, sound, touch - all his senses were revolting, as if the effort of going into his game face had sent him spiraling back into the sewers, insane and starving.

"Drink, Spike, for god's sake," The words seemed to come from a great distance, but Spike carefully noted the tinge of - desperation?  Fear?

And then he smelt the faint, coppery scent of blood.  Not warm and sweet, like human blood, but cold and rich.  Vampire blood.

His vision cleared slightly and he realised that Angel was pressed up against him, his bloodied throat pressed to Spike's face.

Tentatively, he licked the jagged wound - it was huge, not the delicate holes caused by fangs.  Fingernails? - and waited for the pain to start.

It never came.

After a second, Spike fastened himself onto Angel's neck, and began to suck the life-giving blood from his sire.

God, so good, tangy and rich and full.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered that he was hard.  He ignored it.  It was common, during feeding.  He was used to ignoring it.  Or fucking his victim senseless while he drained him.  Or her.  Whatever.  He did that on occasion, too.

Somewhere a little closer to the front of his mind, he registered that there was another hardness pressed against his own.

Angel was hard.

Angel was - ?

Spike paused for a moment, his blood lust diverted.

Angel made a small sound, deep in his throat.

On instinct, Spike thrust against his sire, using the wall at his back for leverage.

Angel whimpered, softly, and thrust back in a small, involuntary movement.

Feeling strong again, revitalized by the blood and the scent of pheromones, Spike pushed against Angel, reversing their positions.

Angel made no attempt to get away, but kept moving against Spike.

Spike continued to feed, sucking voraciously, as he thrust against Angel.  The friction of his pants and the feel of Angel's cock, hard and hot, mingled with the taste of blood and the heady faintness caused by the near-starvation.

From somewhere far away, Spike heard a voice.  He ignored the distraction and continued to feed, the blood causing a hot, hypnotic thudding in his head that drowned out everything else.

"Spike, Spike - "

Angel was saying something, he could hear that much.  What, he frankly didn't care.

"That's enough, Spike, you're taking too much.  Spike - ?"

Reluctantly, Spike forced himself away from his sire's neck.  God, he wanted to drain Angel completely, taste all there was to taste -

Angel's knees gave out, and Spike who was leaning heavily on him, went with him in an undignified sprawl on the ground.

God, he felt good.  Exhausted and kind of like he'd been hit by a ten tonne truck, but good.

Angel drew himself into a sitting position.

As the euphoria began to subside, Spike realised just what they'd done.   The stickiness in his pants was a sudden, unpleasant reminder.

Christ on a crutch, they'd just humped each other like horny schoolboys.

Of course, he and his sire had had sex before - well, Angel had fucked him and Spike had gotten off on it - but that hadn't really been Angel.  No, not the whining pansy at all.  Angelus.  Angelus, who was as likely to stick a red hot poker up your ass as his cock, depending on his mood.

Spike frowned.

Angel stared into space.

Spike stared at Angel.

Angel ignored him.

Finally, just as the silence got too much, Angel said, "I should go.  I need to go."  Just as Spike said, "So, what are you doing back here in Sunnyhell, anyway?"

They were both silent for a minute.

"I - there was a vision.  About Buffy.  Buffy in trouble."

Spike stared at his sire.  He couldn't recall ever seeing him so flustered.  "So you raced in, like a knight in shining armor, to rescue the damsel in distress?"

Angel frowned.  "Something like that."

What could you say to that?  "Oh."

Angel reached into a pocket with a hand that was less that steady and pulled out a card and a pen.

Spike raised an eyebrow.

Angel scribbled on the back of the card.  "Here.  This is where I used to get my supply from."

"Supply -?" Spike asked.

"Blood.  Cows' blood.  It's an abattoir."

Spike tried not to curl his upper lip in disgust.  "Ah.  Well.  Thanks very much."

Angel scrambled to his feet.  "I need to go."

Spike stayed where he was.  "All right."

"I - I'll - "  Angel looked at Spike, an unreadable expression on his face.  "I have to go."

Spike watched wordlessly as his sire made his way out of the alley way.

He leaned back against the wall, and shrugged.  It made no difference whether Angel stayed or left.  He'd be back eventually, anyway.  He always was.  Back for the bitch slayer of his.

The important thing now was to come up with a plan.

If he couldn't fight, what the hell could he do?  How was he going to stay out of the way of the slayer, and everyone else who was currently carrying a grudge against him?

He sighed.

He had a lot of thinking to do.  He had to come up with a plan.  Find a place.

But at least he was warm and comfortable in the meantime.  At least he was himself again.

And he had all the time he needed.
 

THE END

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