From: Tesla1321@aol.com   
      
   Title: Out-take from "There is no seven"   
   Author: Tesla   
   Genre: Angel/X-Files crossover   
   Rating: NC-17 Ha! Really, more like R   
           Slash alert!   
      
   a birthday drabblet for Chase.   
      
      
   Mulder discovered that he had lost the taste for a lot of things, but   
   found new things to savor. Like the smell and feel of blood going   
   into his mouth from a victim. Like the adrenaline and fear that   
   spiced the blood, like the marijuana that was in some dealers' blood   
   and hit his dead tongue, like whiskey used to.   
      
   Of course, whiskey still tasted pretty good.   
      
   Three days with Spike, and Mulder was fine with whiskey. Spike killed   
   pints like Mulder used to drink iced tea, and so did Mulder, now.   
   Mulder knew that he was in the cliched position of yes, if Spike   
   jumped off a cliff, Mulder would, too.   
      
   It was Spike's smell.   
      
   Family smell.   
      
   Mulder would follow it anywhere. Vampire, now. Conditioned to follow   
   it. Conditioned, now, to follow Spike.   
      
   Spike's chip was a bitch of secret-government lab technology;   
   sometimes it would fire as he only watched Mulder take down a sleek,   
   cocaine-scented illegal immigrant smuggler. So, Mulder drank to   
   bursting and brought it back to Spike.   
      
   The first time Spike bit him, Mulder felt like he had just lost his   
   virginity, like Drusilla had just brought him to life. Compared to   
   Spike, he had the experience and maturity of a fruit-fly. He clung   
   and couldn't let go.   
      
   "You're just a fledge," Spike said, unfazed by Mulder's   
   neediness. "Went through it, myself. Yeah, like that. Never knew you   
   federal agents were so kinky."   
      
   "Gun culture," Mulder said, his hand squeezing Spike's cock, as Spike   
   licked the last trickle of blood from Mulder's neck.   
      
      
   But when Spike let Mulder bite him, it nearly took the top of   
   Mulder's head off. Sire-blood, family blood, tinged with magic; not   
   the blood of the not-so-innocent, but the blood that the demon   
   demanded, the blood at once magically alive and decades old: blood.   
      
   His blood, now.   
      
   It was better than sex. It was better than anything.   
      
   Mulder wondered what biting Angel, the infamous progenitor, would   
   taste like.   
      
   He bet it would be good.   
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
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