The thirst never truly went away; all Angel could really do was repress it, substitute cold and lifeless animal blood from the butcher for the life-giving elixir the vampire part of him craved. He could drink other things, and sometimes did, a coffee perhaps, or a soda, even a beer once in a while, but they did nothing for him. He could drink a gallon of coffee, two gallons of water, and he would still thirst for the one thing vampires needed to survive.

Whenever he was around people, he felt like an alcoholic faced with an open bar, everything he could possibly want, right there, within easy reach. It was maddening, but he wouldn’t give in to temptation, he wouldn’t do what the demon inside him constantly urged him to do, he would never feed from a human, because to do so would make him a failure, and the guilt he would feel afterwards would be unbearable.

He knew, because years before he’d met Buffy, after decades of abstinence, he’d let the thirst take control, fed from a human, and while he’d relished every mouthful, afterwards, when the shame of what he’d done hit him, he’d wanted to die. He’d been too much of a coward to end himself the way he probably should have, but he’d spent the next however many years as a down and out, skulking in New York’s alleyways, just barely surviving on the blood of rats. Which was where Whistler had found him.

Now, any time he felt the thirst start to take control, all he had to do was remember the overwhelming guilt he’d suffered the last time, and it was enough to strengthen his resolve again, deny himself the fix the demon within him hungered for. He’d never drink human blood again.


The End