Out-take From "There Is No Seven"
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.