Any Devil Else

Love, any devil else but you

Would for a given soul give something too.

The trip from out on Mill Street and back to the Apartment building was like a surrealists' nightmare. Xander tried to concentrate on the real, the here, the now, but his mind kept bringing him flashes of blood and viscera and the still-clean face of an innocent woman that had been his friend, but would never smile at him again. Would never poke his ribs over some shared joke. Would never get him drunk on tequilla while she told him family anecdotes and offered him advice on his love life. Would never again look for a love of her own, or date…or see Charles.

A part of him wondered if this was what Spike saw at night when he closed his eyes - this Technicolor panorama of gore and pain.

It made Spike's insanity so much more understandable to Xander, as he fought the images back and tried to concentrate on the sound of Illyria's voice. She was telling him something important, but it was as if, no matter what she said, she wasn't really expecting them to understand, when she said that they 'weren't family' to Mr Pak. Her definitions might have made sense if Xander felt a bit less 'in shock'. How Wesley and Spike, even Oz, certainly Dawn, were family. Her family and his. And how Nyugen was not, and in a way that made her skin itch, marked too deeply by the Imugi's claim to make anything comfortable.

"And…" she had said, "…Xander...you are more than that."

He had felt her eyes on him as he had struggled to get the information out to Wes, her neck turning this way and that, as if it ached with the need to do something, to move, to set things right. Then finally, Spike and Wes had gone off to the furniture shop while they went home.

Xander…you are more than that.

He needed to hear that. He didn't feel like more. He felt numb… empty… and weak.

*

Xander climbed shakily out of the back of the van and watched Nyugen being led away by Oz, his own swollen eye blank with shock and sadness. He turned to Illyria and whispered softly, "It was bad."

She nodded. "Yes, I am sorry," she agreed. About this, at least, she could be honest. She couldn't have said she was sorry about Jin's death. Regretful, perhaps, but sorry just did not seem to fit the feeling. "I am sorry. I don't know what the words are. Hate, I think. For whatever did this. Hate, hatred." She reached up and touched his face. "I am good at hating."

He didn't jerk away from her touch, but pulled back slightly, his chin dropping down to his chest. "I ran away, Illyria. I saw her there and couldn't even go to her to check… I just fucking ran way. Dragged Nyugen away from his cousin and ran."

She looked at him for a moment, uncomprehending, her head tilting to the side as she tried to process not only his words, but the sentiment behind them. Then her eyes burned bright blue. "Good," she said with an odd ferocity. "Now you are both alive."

"Yeah." And then he laughed; a dry humorless chuckle that seemed to hurt him more than relieve his tension. "Not like I could have done anything, right? Just Xander, after all… not some big hero or anything."

His voice cracked, "Poor Jin…. She… she was so sweet and… Why would this… thing… go after her?"

"Because it could. Because it was there, and so was she, and there is no reason. And what else should you have done? Stayed, and risked Nyugen? Sent him away, alone, and risked both your lives to prove something there is no need to?" Her hands were very small, and very strong, holding his upper arms. "You cannot be a hero if you are dead. You cannot be anything."

"I know… I know…" He huffed out a breath. "I just hate this helpless feeling. What if it comes here next? Can we even do anything if it does?"

That thought suddenly sank into him, giving him chills all over.

Illyria looked at him with real sorrow in her eyes. "Perhaps we can. Perhaps we will not be able to. Perhaps we will not need to. But if we do not know how to fight it - we will run. Go elsewhere, do what we must, build up our resources, find a way. But I will not fight with my hands and feet bound in chains. I fight to win, beloved, not because I can fight. Any fool can bring a weapon to his hand and lash out. But he will not win."

"I'm afraid, Illyria." Xander suddenly admitted. "This is not like fighting vamps… or even Evil. This thing just kills. No games, no explanation… nothing."

"I…." His voice broke. "I have too much to lose now. I don't want you to be hurt… or Wes or Spike." His fears were hard to admit… but honest.

Illyria nodded, slowly. "I am afraid, sometimes. I have never had anything I could lose, before - no, that is not right, nothing I would mind losing. But - I was a protector. And when those things...in the parking place...I could fight, but I did not protect." She shrugged a little, but her hands did not let go. "I am afraid I will fail, I think."

That was what Xander needed. He was much better at reassuring someone else than reassuring himself. "Everyone has those fears, Illyria. We'll just work harder… train harder… Wes will figure out what we need to do and we'll beat this….Striped One." His voice had been confident right up to those last words. "We will…"

She dropped her hands, then wrapped her arms around him. "We can. We will."

*

It was the next evening when Spike left Wes in a stack of books, his nose almost pressed down on the page to decipher the crabbed script. He'd been feeling antsy all day.. ready for the sun to set so he could get out... away...

Not away from Wes, but away from the feeling. Dealing with everything that had happened in the last few days had been rough. It brought back unwanted memories of things he had done in the past. Blood and death and… No... he didn't want to think about that or about what he might have done as keyed up as he'd been feeling. Sitting in the corner, twitching and babbling wasn't a good look on anyone... and Wes had dealt with enough of his lunacy. He'd figure this out on his own.. Get over it or....

No... what he'd do instead was not something he wanted to consider right now. Just out... and burn off some energy... and he'd be better... good to go.

Spike had wanted to walk the 5 blocks to the park to get out of the range of Uncle Shen's wards. Where he could take his frustrations and twitches and fears out on someone who deserved it. Some demon lurking for fresh meat. Because that was all that seemed to chase the other demons away - the demons in his head.

That option wasn't open to him though. The look on Wes's face when he'd mentioned it had him quickly backtracking and promising that he'd stay within the wards, at least until Wes had a better idea of what protective steps they could take. The man had enough worries just then and this was all about taking the strain of being a baby sitter for a half-looney vampire off of him… not adding too it.

So instead, it was up to the roof… for a smoke and twitching in private, and pacing… endlessly pacing…until he could settle down enough to get Blue to do some sparring. Surely, that would help take the edge off.

**

Wes paused in his study of the tiny cramped script of Misha Crenshaw's diary as Spike closed the door behind him. His thoughts, which should be… needed to be… on the task at hand, simply weren't. They were following the sound of Doc Martin's down the hall and up the stairs.

He didn't know what, or when, or how things had started to go wrong, but he knew they had. Knew that it was probably his fault, knew that whatever it was, he wasn't wanted. Wasn't needed. Wasn't even considered as an option. Perhaps it was the coward's way out, to immerse and barricade himself in the research - but it was necessary.

It was the one area where he knew he had value, knew he was the best, knew he could do what people wanted. He was honest enough with himself, though, to admit that it was a cold, empty substitution, that by going along with Spike's continual half-truths, whatever they were designed to hide, he was storing up later pain.

But the half-truths were survivable. He had a feeling that whatever lay behind them...whatever lack in him was causing this....would not be. So he raised the page closer to his eyes, and attempted to blot out fear with the cramped text of someone who had understood the value of this work.

It was a successful stratagem for a short time, until the same stress and anxiety that had Spike restlessly pacing the roof, caught up with him and he drifted off into dreams fantasy, where he figured out the puzzle and set things straight. But not the puzzle of the Striped One… but the more mundane puzzle of how to live his life.

Twelve steps left… Twelve steps right… Twelve steps left… Twelve steps right. That was the pattern, the width of the roof before you hit the retaining wall. Back and forth, back and forth, with the pigeons's heads turning to watch you pass, in between pecks at the grit scattered across the roofing.

Twelve steps to think in and another twelve to change your mind. Twelve steps to build your resolve and twelve to lose it again.

Spike was shit at introspection and he couldn't brood worth a fuck. Instead he just got a turmoil of confused thoughts and ideas and none of them seemed to be the right path to follow.

Twelve steps left… Twelve steps right… Twelve steps left… Twelve steps right. One…two…three…four... and he froze, the pigeons taking flight as if something unexpected had startled them. No.... couldn't be. Not again. But there it was… that scent of perfume. It couldn't be anyone but her. Lilah.

Why this vision of all the damned people he had killed over the years? The rest, at least, had been afraid of him - Lilah never was.

Spike looked up and she smiled at him with the look that had always made people give her their attention, the look that was almost - but not quite - a promise.

"Forgotten me so soon?" she asked lightly.

Spike resumed his pacing and walked right passed her. Twelve steps left… Twelve steps right. Hell, if she'd been standing in his path he'd have walked through her - anything to dispel the feelings she evoked.

"No. Not seeing her. Not there... Not there. All in my head." Spike muttered under his breath.

"You're wrong." Lilah reached up her hand and patted the wall, almost affectionately - and quite loudly. "I'm very, very much here. And you are going to listen to me....because you're not being given a choice in the matter. I'll just -" she shrugged. "Follow you around. It's a dull job, but hey." Her smile widened. "It's mine."

Spike's eyes narrowed. None of his other guilt driven visions had ever made sounds... Or maybe they had? They had all seemed so real when they were happening. And Fuck... Maybe he wasn't here at all. Maybe he was just dreaming again... and any moment he'd be awakened to the gentle loving sound of Wes's voice... soft and soothing. "Just bugger off, you...."

"I don't think you really want to finish that sentence." Lilah arched her eyebrows at him, then made a small moue, her eyelids lowering. "Actually, I'm sure you do. But it wouldn't be sensible. In fact - what would be sensible...right now...is for you to be as nice as possible to me." She looked away with affected unconcern. "Not that I'm going to do anything differently, no matter what you say....but what you don't say..." she smiled again. "It's a very different thing. I'm sure Wesley knows that."

"You bloody well stay away from Wes." He couldn't bite back the growl that escaped him.

Right. Now you're talking to the crazy visions, Spike…

Lilah held her hands up, mock-placatingly. "Of course, Spike. Because....you could stop me, couldn't you? Just like you can stop me being here." She lowered her hands, and examined the nail on her left index finger. Then she looked back at him, smiling brightly. "Oh. That's right. Just like you can't stop me being here. Can't. That was the word."

"What the hell do you want from me? Want me ta say I'm sorry I offed you? I'm just not. I've killed more people that you've ever known... and I'm sorry for every single one of the whole sodden lot. But you? You deserved it. None of them did." And that was the point, wasn't it. His mind was after him for the fucking audacity of playing God - deciding who should live and who should die - like he had the morals to judge it.

Lilah laughed. "I'd be very, very upset if you apologized," she said. "Ruins your image. No, what I want....is to pass on a message." She smiled. "But you're going to have to wait for it." She leaned in, and brushed her lips across his cheek. "Ciao."

And then, without even a flickered warning, she was gone.

"Fuck!" Spike dragged his handkerchief out of his pocket and scrubbed at his cheek. No... she hadn't left lipstick there... but her heavy perfume seemed to linger. Or maybe it was just his memories of it. Cloying and rotten - "Eau de Bitch" he had called it, and it clung even in death.

He sunk down there... at the base, curling up forlornly. This was getting worse and worse. Not just hearing and seeing but smelling and feeling... and not just the blood now - perfume. Bloody fucking perfume. He sniffed at the handkerchief. He even smelled it there..

No… That wasn't his handkerchief… it was a scarf. Her scarf, he suddenly realized.

His regrettable visions and horrific dreams might cause a lot of things, but they bloody well did NOT leave bits of clothing laying about. He vaguely remembered having shoved the scarf into his pocket after the last time he'd seen her. Why hadn't he shown it to Wes? This could prove it. He wasn't going crazy… it was… Well, he didn't know what the Hell it was…but it was real. This proved it!

He jumped to his feet, hurrying towards the stairs and almost colliding with Illyria as she came out.

"I came to see if you wished to spar now." Illyria's voice was as precise as usual, in spite of having almost been bowled over by Spike's haste.

"Later…. Just… later…" Spike went passed her and down the stairs in a flutter of coattails, dust and pigeon feathers.

Illyria looked out over the roof, watching as the pigeons came back to their roosting spots, settling in to coo the night away. She knew that Wes found the sounds to be soothing, but she was unsure if the detritus of feathers and dung outweighed any pleasure the birds gave.

She turned leave the birds to their resting place when a flutter of cloth caught her eye. She bent over to pick it up. It was a scarf… filmy and elegant, the material, soft and delicate.

Spreading it out between her hands, she suddenly paused. There was something….

Her shoulders tensed and she straightened, a grim look covering her face.

This meant something. A danger to her 'family'. This was something she would not allow, no matter who's scruples it violated.

Illyria headed down the stairs. She was going to have a little talk with Uncle Shen.

"Stairs.. Stairs…Stairs… Down and round and… What's that? No.. It's all good. All good. Show him and he'll help. He's good that way, the heart of hearts." Spike stumbled as he reached the landing, almost tumbling. "He'll know… he'll know and it'll be right…"

But when he reached the door to the apartment he paused, pulling himself together. "Can't go in like this. No one listens to the crazy vamp. And shouldn't either. Gotta stand up and be calm."

He cracked open the door and slipped quietly inside. Wes was slumped over his desk asleep and Spike wasn't sure if that was better or worse. Better since it gave him more time to pull himself together before he showed Wes the scarf… and better because, well, Wes needed the sleep. But he wanted to get this over… get it done. Prove to himself that he was still hanging on to at least a modicum of sanity and that Lilah's visits were something else altogether.

He gave a nod and went into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

Wes woke at the sound, eyes blurred with languages and code, with greek-sumerian-latin-wait-no-etruscan still fluttering incomprehensibly against his eyelids in elegant script and frantic chicken-scratch and beautiful Japanese scrolls like blackened woodcarvings. For a moment, they blotted out the room, before he scrubbed his hands over his face and the patterned smear of words was replaced by the much more familiar one of the slowly-focusing room.

He stared out of himself, feeling as though he were trapped behind Gunn's metaphorical glass to a tune of five fathoms, heavier and denser than water, and got slowly to his feet.

He didn't want to talk, he didn't want to think about how little he was accomplishing, how little he understood. He wanted to simply make sure that no light could get into the room, to curl into Spike's arms in their new bed and fall into sleep and safety.

There was suddenly a loud thumping sound from the bedroom, then an oddly incoherent shout, and a drone of words, "No… It's here… It's here someplace. Where! Can't be lost… Can't be…"

Wesley was about to shout through something to the tune of 'we don't own anything that important you can lose!' before the tone penetrated his exhaustion, and he was moving through what would one day be a living room quickly, making sure his feet were audible on the wooden floors, before he opened the door with a small, hard sound of the handle turning. His heart pounded, not fast, but hard, almost irregular - not now, God, please, I thought we were past this, I thought - but he kept his voice steady when he spoke.

"You do know, of course, that there is a small god who eats everything that you're convinced you put in a safe place?"

Calming words, surely, but if Spike heard then, he gave no sign. The beloved duster was on the floor all the pockets turned inside-out… their contents scattered across the room - lighter, cigarettes… change and kerchief along with other bits of detritus, sprinkled like dead butterflies across the wide expanse.

"It was here. It was here." Spike's words were frantic and now he was searching his clothes. He'd ripped his shirt off, not bothering to unbutton it and was now digging through it's one pocket as if it were a black hole that held whole cities inside.

"Then it's here." Wes moved forward, and this time it wasn't the small gesture of love you that closed his hands around Spike's wrists, it was the one he had made on the first night of rain and anguished madness. See me. Be here. Stay with me. "Spike. It'll be here."

Spike flinched, almost pulling away before he realized it was Wes. Wes's voice…his soft warm hands. "Never hurt me. He promised… Never…leave…"

But how could he expect that promise to be kept. It was made to someone who was sane. That wasn't him. Not right now. And he suddenly felt the ache of loss so acutely that he slumped, almost dropping to the floor and taking Wes with him. "Sorry… sorry… "

"It's - well, no, it's obviously not all right, but for God's sake don't apologize..." The words might have been hard, but Wes's raspy voice ached with the desire to put things right - somehow, any how. "What are we looking for?" He didn't let go of Spike's wrists.

That seemed to bring Spike's mind back to the search, he pulled one hand free and scrabbled for his duster again. Going through the pockets methodically and repeatedly. "It was here, Wes… It was. I promise. Wouldn't make that up… she… she was… It was here, Wes."

His voice was low and anguished and then he suddenly stopped, was still in the way that only a vampire can be. And when he spoke again, his voice was calm and cool, if a bit rough. "Not important, I guess… Silly."

Wes's eyebrows drew down over his eyes, slanting them. "It is important, and if it was here, we'll find it. I'm sorry, everything's been upside down for weeks, and I haven't even tried to keep things where they should be....and why in God's name would I think you were making it up?"

"Not sure I had it, really." Spike muttered out. "Sorry… Just… I think I got mixed up." Was the scarf something he'd actually had today? Or was it something that he remembered from Dru? She was always tucking bits and bobs into his pockets. Now he wasn't so sure that he was actually remembering something current… or if it was just a memory he'd gotten confused. And God, which was worse?

Hardly surprising if you did," Wesley pointed out. He let go of one of Spike's wrists and ran his hand soothingly over the too-tense neck, feathering his fingers into the hair. "It'll turn up. And if it doesn't, it's not the end of the world - it'll be out there somewhere and turn up in fifteen years at the back of a drawer..." His voice was quiet and soothing.

"But it was--" important. But then it wasn't. And if it was, there was nothing Spike could do about it at the moment… and Wes's hands were there, soothing him and making everything else seem so unimportant that nothing else mattered except for more of that warm touch.

"Yeah… 'spose you're right. Sorry… 'm just tired." He leaned into the beloved touch, tension draining away and leaving him limp.

"We all are, " Wes said, a simple fact, meant to be consoling. "This morning I carefully put the kettle back - or rather into - the fridge. While I was doing that I discovered that the reason I thought that something needed to be put in the fridge was because the milk had been poured out into a bowl and put down for the non-existent cat Illyria claims lives here...." He rubbed his thumb in a small circle just above the heel of Spike's palm. "We'll get there. We will. I believe it."

Spike chuckled at Illyria's wishful cat thoughts, and then looked up at Wes, "Coming ta bed, love? Always sleep better when you're here. And you need some, I think."

Need was an understatement. Spike could see the dark circles under Wes's eyes even without vampire sight or better lighting. The man was wearing himself out.

"Spike, I think I am asleep. And possibly dreaming in 18th century Arabic. You are, in fact, dealing with a hologram I cunningly constructed earlier to - dear God, I'm talking absolute gibberish. You're right. Bed."

"Bed." Spike nodded, and forced himself to let go of Wes long enough for both of them to get undressed.

Wes was already drowsing, wrapped in a tangle of limbs and coverlet and pillows, when the too-awake question was asked into the darkness.

"Wes? Do you ever think about Lilah?"

He blinked awake. "Do I - no," he answered honestly. "No, I don't. How odd."

Spike wasn't tense, exactly, but he was obviously waiting for something more. Wesley tried to put it into words, but there was no good way of putting it, and he kept falling into second-long sleep even as he tried to respond. "I haven't hated myself enough to think about her since the night you forgave me," he said with slurred and sleepy honesty, and was asleep long before any response could be made, falling into sleep as though from the top of a cliff, into an endless depth of black.

*

Fog… there was always fog, floating and drifting around their feet in cloudy damp masses of muted shadow. As if all the nights they had traveled together were all blended into one haze of memory. Or as if his mind were somehow trying to ease him through the guilt that the soul made him feel - softening the blow.

"Ya comin', Will?" the dim lilt of Angelus' voice drifted back to him. "Got somethin' special for ye tonight."

Spike remembered Angelus' surprises; had delighted in the delicious evilness of them.

Now he just felt sick.

"What is it?" Spike's voice was hesitant as it had never been at the time.

"Catch me up and ye'll see it soon enough."

Spike could see him, up ahead, his figure silhouetted in the doorway of the cottage they had been staying in. Angelus' hair was tumbled down, surrounding his face like a wild mane, his eyes glowing out of the cloak of it.

"What is it?" Spike repeated as Angelus waved in through the entrance and into the main room.

"A treat I've been savin' fer ye. I know you've gained a taste fer them."

Spike couldn't help but grin, just a bit. This was Angelus at his best and most biddable - ready to please and be pleased.

"Do ye like it, Will?" Angelus' voice was almost a purr.

Hanging from the rafters was a man… or what was left of one after seeming hours of Angelus' attention.

"Oh, God…." The man was naked, crushed and broken… some limbs bent at unnatural angles. Blood ran from several cuts on his chest and back… and from his mouth. Darker blood in other places, making it obvious that Angelus had used the man to slake his desires before he'd gotten to this state.

"Oh, God." The broken face turned toward the sound of Spike's voice.

"Wes…."

No! Nonononono!!! Spike's mind revolted at the sight. Mine!

"Never! Never!" He screamed out, slamming into Angelus and taking him to the ground in his maddened charge.

"Wha's wrong, Will? Ye loose yer taste fer a bit o' Watcher? Told me their blood was sweeter than enathing but a Slayer." Angelus' voice taunted him. "This one had sweet flesh as well…"

Spike grabbed Angelus by the throat and slammed his head down on the hard stone floor, "NO! NO! Nononnonono!!!"

"Christ!" There were hands on his wrists, ice-cold not with Angelus's dead flesh, but with fear. "Spike." It was a choking rasp.

"Never hurt him! Never have him! He's mine!" Still mostly asleep, caught in the dream, Spike raged on, lifting the body beneath him, to slam it down once again.

Wes twisted in his hands, his left arm swinging out blindly and his hand scrabbling for the gun on the bedside table. The click of the hammer drawing back was louder than his rasping voice. "Wake - up." His eyes were steelier than the barrel they were looking down.

Flinching away from the sharp sound, Spike finally blinked himself totally awake…. His eyes went wide and he threw himself off the side of the bed, curling up in a miserable twitching ball, between the dresser and the nightstand, "No… hurt you… can't… can't ever. Wouldn't… not ever..."

Wes took in a deep, shaking breath, and put the gun down on the bed. "What -" He tried to swallow, and rubbed at his throat, feeling the rawness there, the bruises on the skin. His ribs ached mercilessly. It was one thing to know how strong Spike was, it was quite another to have experienced it.

Distantly, Wes registered that his hands had begun to shake, the tremors moving up his arms. "What - the hell - was that?" he rasped out. He knew he should be doing something. He knew he should have been offering comfort. But all he could see was Spike's face, without recognition or sanity, the snarl of hatred.

Angel's voice. You're a dead man, Pryce! No breath. No breath. Dead air in dying lungs.

And oh, dear God, he had just pointed a gun at Spike.

A small shaky voice drifted up from the huddled mass that was once a master vampire, "Should've done it. Not safe… Not safe."

Spike looked up at Wes, his eyes fever bright, "The vagaries of the mind, and the hard service of the flesh - Death is the only release. The only release from being the puppet of the senses."

"Fuck," Wesley said coherently, and managed to get himself together enough to slide off the bed. He thought he would probably be a damn sight more help if he could make his body be as detached as his mind seemed to have become, but no, perfectly clear thoughts and disorganized limbs. He managed to connect the two parts of himself together enough to put a hand out, and touch Spike's arm. "Hey," he rasped, and swallowed again, roughly. "No. Don't - I'm sorry."

The arm jerked away, as if from fire, "I hurt you… I shouldn't ever do that. Don't want to… I'd die first. God, Wes… so fucked up. Damn dreams are so real. So fucking real."

"I - yes," Wesley said helplessly. "It's - I - I'm not - I'm not helping any more, am I." It wasn't a question.

"It's not you." Spike's head came up. "'s me. Got all this in my head. Got to work through, I guess. 's only right for me to suffer with it. I caused so much of it."

Wesley closed his eyes. They couldn't be back there. Back here. This wasn't happening. He was not watching everything they'd accomplished fall apart like badly mended china. "No," he whispered, and had no idea what he was rejecting. All of it, perhaps. He put his hand out again, blindly, touched Spike's wrist. "No."

"'s true, Wes. You know it." Spike hung his head. "Now I'm even trying to hurt you. The one person who I should never hurt. Could have killed you just as easy if you hadn't woke me up. Oh, God…."

Those last words were rung from Spike as if he only now was coherent enough to realize exactly what he had been trying to do. "Could have killed you."

"You weren't - " Wesley stopped, dug inside himself, found certainty. "You weren't trying to hurt me." He glanced upwards at the gun. "And you - I stopped you." He shuddered. How the hell had it come to this?

"This time." Spike's voice was a mere whisper… but strong for all that. "Can't let that happen. I won't." He climbed to his feet, slipping cautiously past Wes to tug on his jeans.

"Going out." he announced.

"Spike -" Wesley looked up, and was closer to pleading than he had been in a long time, before he closed his mouth, hard. I trust you. It was one of the first things he had ever told Spike. I trust you. And he had to show that, now more than ever. "Be careful," he managed.

Spike gave a terse nod as he pulled his black t-shirt on over his head and stomped his feet into his Doc's. He moved towards the door, but stopped half way there, turning to look at Wes, one hand reaching up towards his cheek, but not touching. "Won't hurt you again, Wes."

"Won't let that happen… no matter what." The words were unspoken, but all there in Spike's eyes.

"I know." Wesley was sure. He knew he was sure. Knew that his conviction showed in his voice and his expression. So why, in God's name, did his traitorous fucking body decide otherwise and flinch back from Spike's hand?

They stared at each other for a moment. Wesley opened his mouth to say something - anything - and realised there was absolutely nothing left.

The door closing behind Spike felt like the end of the world.

*

Illyria knelt facing Mr Pak across the small inlaid table, her hands folded neatly, her back straight.

"I respect your mourning," she said levelly. "I do not respect your decision. You knew of the Striped One's enmity, and you chose to conceal it. In doing so, you have compromised our faith, and I cannot respect that. You have compromised our safety, and that of your family. I do not understand that, not do I wish to. And you endanger those I love, and that I will contest."

"It is not your decision to make, Lady. This must be done, and endured."

Illyria bent her head, as though in agreement, before reaching into the pocket of her jeans, and pulling out the silk scarf she had found on the roof.

"And this?" she asked softly. "Is this another....endurance?"

"That is not your concern." Mr Pak's eyes met hers, all the power of his will in his hard gaze. Illyria's eyes did not lower.

"No," she said flatly, and her cool tones were more than equal to his, a refutal of his command and not acquiescence to it. "You are a protector. You made your choice when I was not granted one. And you are failing." She dropped the silk scarf on the table. "You have failed. This has caused pain. I will not sit meekly by and watch that pain continue."

"You will." Shen-Riu, the Imugi, was as uncompromising as she. "You will, or the failure will be unimaginable. You will, or you will watch their deaths. And then you will truly be forced to sustain the unendurable, will you not?"

Illyria glanced out of the window at the garden, absorbing the threat, felt it hover, pass, diminish, and hissed softly through her teeth, turning back to the Imugi. "You are letting them destroy themselves," she said, soft and accusing, and she was no longer a nearly-mortal child, speaking to a mentor, but an Old One, sitting in judgement. "You must stop this."

But he only shook his head, imperturbable. "This must be done, Lady." He smiled at her, seemingly unaware of how close he was to being decapitated. Then his eyes softened. "In time, you will see that this is for the best." He lifted the pot. "More tea?"

Illyria glared, but presented her cup obediently, turning her attention back outwards, to find Xander, drawing her own brand of comfort from knowing he was nearby.

"There is only one thing I must know," she said, and ignored his faint look of impatience. "Why?"

He only shook his head. "And that is the one thing I will not tell you," he answered. "You must have faith."

Illyria put her cup down neatly, and got to her feet. "But I do not," she said, and her anger was like ice. "Not in you."

"But in your Wesley?" Mr Pak said gently.

And to that, there was no response.

*

Dawn knew, both from being told and first-hand experience, what you did when people were in mourning. You brought food, and flowers, you tried to act as though life hadn't changed. Which meant she had a bag (now squashed) of Willow's cookies, and a pot plant that was probably a fern, because cut flowers just died and looked sad and made everything worse. Looking at the fern, she didn't really think it was that much better, but at least it was pretending to be alive.

She was going to go to Mr Pak's house, but lost her courage at the last moment, even though she knew Illyria might be there, and instead went around to the back, looking for Oz.

Oz sat on the edge of the dojo's deck, a long stick in his hand. He was intermittently poking it into the grass between his feet as if it would dredge up the secrets of light. He was numb, really. He had known Jin. Had known her as a nice person... a friend... She was like a sister to Nguyen and had dragged him into her affection as if she'd known he needed it. Like Uncle Shen knew he needed it. This wasn't fair or right... but he knew life wasn't. Didn't make it any easier though.

"Hey." Dawn stood at the end of the deck, one arm awkwardly hugging the slightly drooping fern, and the other hand clutching the bag of cookies. "I - Willow baked. And I got a plant. I thought maybe - I mean, I didn't really know Jin, but, you guys seemed close, all of you, and - I wanted to say I was sorry."

"Oh... yeah...." Oz looked up at her, his eyes so blank for a moment that Dawn wondered if he even recognized her. "Uncle's not here right now."

He blinked, then gave a shaky smile, "Thanks, Dawn."

She smiled. "That's okay." Normal, remember? she told herself sternly. He is SO not going to want you offering hokey sympathy right now. She put the fern down, and walked over to sit by him, proffering the crumpled bag. "Do you want some of these? I squashed them a bit, with the fern, - it is a fern, right? - but they should still taste OK."

"Willow's?" Oz looked in the bag and took one. "I remember these." But he didn't eat it... just held it in his hand staring at it.

"Yeah?" Dawn tilted her head and looked at him through her hair. "Do you remember how to eat them, too?" Her voice was light and teasing. "Cause, you know, I owe you about fifty, I think."

"Fifty?" Oz looked up blankly. "You owe me something?"

"Yep." Dawn leant back on her hands, smiling up at the sky. "Hash brownies. Lots and lots and lots of hash brownies."

"Oh." A half smile appeared on Oz's face as if that, at least, he could track on. "No... you owe Dev. Those were for him."

"Uh...." Dawn was stumped for a moment, then giggled. "Have you got a phone number? Or I could Fed-Ex him some." She peered into the bag. "I don't think they could get any more squashed, really."

Oz gave a shrug, "Nah... I'll bake more when he's back in town." He took a bite of the cookie in his hand. "Good."

Dawn let the toes of one foot do a tiny dance of victory inside her sandal. "Yeah, the dough was pretty good, too." She snorted. "Buffy had about a zillion giggle fits over it, and I am so not asking about her and cookie dough, but I swear there's nothing but chocolate chips in them, which is really dull, cause I bet Wils could have made them zippy."

"Zippy?" Oz looked at her curiously. This was good, he thought. Distraction. He needed a little of that or he'd be wallowing in helplessness for the rest of the day.

"Yeah...like magically unbreakable except when you're eating them, or instant cheer-up stuff, or -" Dawn slammed her hand over her mouth. "Can we pretend I did so very not say that?"

Oz took her hand and gave it a bit of a squeeze, "It's okay." And it was. He knew she didn't mean harm, and couldn't be expected to feel as badly as he did over someone she had barely known. She was trying. It was all okay.

She scrunched her nose up at him. "Not really, but I'm learning. I only slammed doors twice yesterday and yelled at Buffy once that she wasn't being fair. And that was just to make her do that thing where her eyes cross."

"You're the only one that makes her do that." Oz chuckled slightly. "Good work."

Dawn beamed. "See, I knew I was good at it! Plus, it makes Angel wince instead of brood and glower and loom, and he puts his hands over his ears and closes the office door really, really hard. No-one else gets him to do that, he just -" she heaved a dramatic breath - "siiiiiighs and looks all patient."

"Life with Vampires." Oz nodded understandingly. "It's good for him."

"And stops me from yelling at him for real," Dawn agreed. "Hey, do you want to go and do something? Something not here?"

"I...." Oz looked around. "I'm not very good company today, Dawn. And I kinda want to hang around here in case Uncle needs something."

He wanted to leave, very much. Get away from the horrible feelings and badness. But then he'd feel guilty, because Jin's family couldn't get away from it. Not for a minute.

Dawn shook her head. "No, you really don't. Trust me. If he does, he won't want to ask you, and if you figure it out, you'll offer, and then he'll have to say no, and then you'll both feel worse." Unspoken was the addendum - I know.

"I can't go, Dawn." Oz gave her hand another squeeze then let go of it, looking down at the cookie in his hand. "She was special, you know? Jin. She didn't deserve this."

"I know." Dawn tucked her hair behind her ear. "You know, you're allowed to say stuff like it's not fair. It doesn't change it not being, but it kinda puts it into perspective. It's not fair, cause there are loads and loads of people no-one would miss, and probably deserve worse." She shrugged a little, looking awkward. "You can't make it fair and right. It's happened."

"I know." Oz nodded. He knew it with his head, but his heart still ached. Ached for the friend and ached for her family.... and it all just hurt. "Thanks, Dawn."

He leaned against her slightly, just shoulder to shoulder, needing that little bit of comfort. That knowing that she, at least, was alive and well.

She gave that odd little shrug again. "Any time," she said peaceably, and then settled herself more comfortably, one leg tucked underneath her, seeming perfectly content to remain where she was.

"Wes is home." Oz suggested. He wasn't trying to get rid of her, not really, but she was young, fresh, alive... and his thoughts were so dark and ugly at the moment - full of hate and vengeance.

Dawn slanted a smile at him. "Yeah, Wes is home, and it's daylight." She grinned. "So he is NOT gonna be thrilled to see me, whatever he's doing. And I'm pretty sure if I interrupt, I'll be dealing with Spike sulking, and he does it so much better than me. I guess I could use it for lessons, but...nope. Think I'm just fine here."

Oz's lip twitched just a little at that, "Yeah... Spike pout. Kinda scary."

"Hey, I learned from the best, thank you so much!" Dawn said in mock outrage.

"Yeah." Oz bumped his shoulder against hers. "Want some milk for your cookies?"

"Sure!" Dawn scrambled to her feet, and discovered that while having one leg underneath her was a comfortable way to sit, it wasn't such a good idea when standing straight up from that position. She wobbled precariously for a moment, then giggled. "I have no foot," she announced solemnly, lifting it off the ground and turning her ankle back and forth.

"Sparkles," Oz nodded. "Here. Don't want any more falling around here." He held his hand out towards her.

Dawn grabbed it, still giggling. "Oh, my God, I am such a klutz," she said, stamping her foot and trying to balance on the other one at the same time. "And I save falling over for parties, these days."

"Yeah... " Oz looked at her and frowned just slightly. "Why, Dawn?"

"Cause if I did it all the time someone would have me locked up?"

"No." Oz shook his head, his eyes closing briefly. "Was it just the brownies? Why me?"

"Oh, you mean why did I kiss you?" Dawn smiled at him. "That's easy. I'm in love with you, and I'm old enough."

"Dawn..." Oz shook his head. He wouldn't insult her by saying she was too young, she wasn't. But she didn't know him. Not really. Didn't know the darkness he'd gained over the years. She remember him as Willow's boyfriend, probably. Pretty much a kid...

"S'okay." There was no uncertainty in her voice. "I've got pretty good at waiting."

"Not for me, Dawn." Oz spoke simply, as usual. "You're leaving. There will be school and new friends."

"Nope." Dawn shook her head. "I'm staying here." She sounded perfectly matter-of-fact.

"Here?" Oz needed clarification on that.

"Yep." Dawn swung her foot. "Here. L.A. here. Hyperion here. Wes tutoring me here, and hopefully, hopefully, college here, because that would just be the best. And if I'm not smart enough, then just here."

"You're smart." That was Oz's automatic answer, but true none-the-less. "But why?"

Dawn grinned at him. "You're supposed to be smart too. I just told you why."

"Dawn." Oz shook his head again, denial of her reasons. "It's a good place though. What college?"

"UCLA," she said, calmly accepting his avoidance. "I think."

"Major?" UCLA was good. Better area than USC too, although farther across town from them. Westwood as opposed to almost in Watts. Safer. He'd have to check on the demon haunts though.

Her mouth twitched. "Classics." Well, that explained the Wes-tutoring, anyway.

"You'll be good." Oz nodded. "Milk?"

Dawn put her foot back on the deck, and nodded. "Yeah," she said, and if her smile was a little knowing, she felt she couldn't really be blamed. "Milk."

Oz led her into the dojo. They had a little fridge in there, mostly filled with water and juice but there was also a quart of milk. He snagged down a couple of glasses and filled them. It was kinda nice that Spike and Illyria were sparring in the basement now, things made of glass could be left out in the open. "Here."

Dawn took the glass. "Thanks," she said. "Do we get to take these outside?"

Oz shrugged, "We can."

"It's kind of...empty in here, you know?" Dawn looked around her. "I mean, I can see how it would be good for meditating and training and stuff, but considering it's nice outside, not so perfect."

"Dawn, " Oz looked around the dojo, seeing not it's emptiness, but it's simplicity and clean lines, "this is my life, you know? Like this. I need it."

"Yeah, I get that." Dawn looked around her. "But you know...it's kinda lonely, too. No stuff, nothing to - I mean, there's got to be something more, right? Even 'Lyria has a few things, and she needs to be told she can."

Oz cocked his head. It was lonely? Yes, he supposed it was, in a way. "Dawn. I just.... " He stopped. He wasn't sure what to say. How to discourage her. Or if he wanted to.

She waited, her head slightly tilted. "You just?" she prompted.

Oz shrugged, "I'm not enough, Dawn. Not enough reason to change your life." He was okay. He was a good person and all that, but not enough for her to leave her only family. She needed her sister, and Willow too.

"Um?" Dawn stared at him in complete disbelief. "Look, I'm not being funny, but I have thought about this. I change my life less if I stay!"

She was serious. Oz shook his head again. Opened his mouth. Shut it. "Okay."

"Gee, thanks," said Dawn wryly. "I wasn't really asking permission, but - nice thought." She smiled. "I really do think about stuff before I open my mouth and announce it to the world, honestly."

"I wasn't giving permission." Oz picked up his glass and moved toward the door. "That's not up to me."

Dawn's toes wriggled happily inside her sandal again. "Nope," she agreed cheerfully, and followed him back outside.

*

Illyria knew there was a word for what she had become. She could call it 'observer', 'watcher', 'witness' all she wanted, but in all honesty, it was 'spy'.

But she was suited for it. She had learned to observe in silence, in her first days at the apartment block, to observe and assimilate and keep her own counsel. She had learnt that to intervene was impossible, that she must keep to the shadows and to herself, and after the Imugi's warning, she knew that to continue to do so now was imperative.

It did not make it easier.

She had never been so aware of her human shell as now, standing barefoot at the top of the stairs that led down to the basement, flattened against the wall and feeling cool concrete beneath her toes, moderating her breathing to nothing, her heartbeat to imperceptibility, sending herself into a realm of pure quiet where even vampire hearing would not detect her - though she did not think that the vampire she was concealing herself from was capable of it at that moment, in any case.

A small muscle twitched involuntarily in her index finger.

"He brought me back ta my senses through. Smart man had his gun there. " Spike spoke low, his tones saying that he was ashamed that Wes had needed it, but glad he had it. "If I'd hurt him... actually hurt him... " His voice cracked. "I'm counting on you, Wolf. Please."

Illyria contained a hiss of annoyance. Smart man? No. A smart man would have had a stake on his bedside table, not a useless gun. A smart man would never have taken a vampire into his bed. A smart man would not have fallen in love with Spike, and Wesley, the most frighteningly intelligent man she had ever encountered in any form, was a great many things, but when it came to Spike, 'smart' was never among them.

"Promise me. If I get too bad. If you have even the slightest idea that I'd hurt him... take me out. " He looked up at Oz. "Hurting him would be it for me anyway..... you know that."

Oz just nodded, his eyes wary. "Shouldn't you be talking to him?" Apparently that wasn't enough, judging from Spike's lack of reaction. "Sounds like he could do it himself."

"I'm afraid he wouldn't - that he'd wait too long." Spike glanced back towards their apartment, as if he could see through the walls. Illyria froze in the shadows. "I can't take that chance. I... I seem to be a'right when I'm awake and I'm staying away from him when I sleep from now on. But if that changes.... " He let the words dangle.

Illyria focused, and slipped into Oz's mind. She did not need to know Spike's thoughts - he was honest, always, gave away nothing he did not mean. She had no reason to intrude on the pain that must remain after what had transpired. But Oz...

"Yeah." Oz nodded. "Okay."

Illyria's eyes opened wide, as she was almost assaulted with the barrage of what lay beneath his simplistic agreement. He thought that what might be best for Spike was to get the hell away from Wes and stay away, but he didn't think that advice stood a hope in hell of being listened to. He doubted -

Illyria clenched her teeth.

He doubted Wes could feel love - doubted he was capable of it.

No question but that the man's one of the good guys, but putting anyone before whatever he thinks is 'right'? I can't see that. Ever. I'm going to keep an eye on Wes, because one hint of that man who was going to sacrifice Willow coming to the fore, and it's not going to be Spike whose existence is coming to an end.

Spike put one hand on Oz's shoulder, "Thanks, mate. Knew I could count on you."

Illyria vanished to the garden, shaking.

What do I do...oh, what can I do?

But no answer came to her.

Cold in the blazing sun, she shuddered convulsively.

*

This was one of the first times in Xander's life that he was actually looking forward to learning something that didn't involve physical labor. Or at least he assumed it didn't involve physical labor. Actually, he supposed, there must be a bit of some kind of labor involved in doing magic because every one he knew that did it looked pretty fit. Or maybe that was just a side effect.

Okay, honestly, Xander had absolutely no idea what his new studies would entail but he was still looking forward to them.

He knocked on the door of Wes and Spike's new upper floor apartment, following up with a questioning, "Wes?"

"Now you learn how to knock?" came the irritable response from within, before the door was yanked open. "Since you obviously have hands with which to do so, I'm surprised you didn't just push the door open with them and march straight on in."

Xander frowned and shifted, "Well, then... maybe I should come back later instead. Like when you're done being an asshole?"

"In that case I won't see you for a month," Wesley responded without missing a beat. "Because trust me, it's going to be a long, long time before I'm 'done' with being an asshole." He moved back towards the desk, something about him stiffer than offended pride or imagined insult. "We were supposed to work on magic today, weren't we?"

"Yeah...." Xander answered, still lurking by the door. Something was going on here that was way more than Wes's usual day to day snarkiness. He wasn't sure what it was but he could feel...something. "...we were."

His eyes skimmed around the room, taking in the piles of research on the desk, and Wes's rumpled clothes, "But we don't have to if you're too busy. I can... " He jerked his thumb back down the hallway. "Or... maybe help with that." He waved a hand, taking in the research chaos.

"Don't touch the desk!" Wesley yelped, then raised a hand to his throat. He was devoutly hoping that Xander was assuming the turtle-neck was to prevent him from seeing bitemarks, rather than the still-livid bruising that was stubbornly refusing to fade. "No," he said more calmly. "Believe it or not, there's a system. Just....clear a space on the floor, and perhaps we can work on, um -" his brain went suddenly, utterly blank - "focus," he finished rather lamely.

Xander had a sudden urge to suggest de-caf to Wes as a beverage choice, but decided against it. The man was wound tighter than he had seen him in a long time. "We're okay to work in here? It won't bother Spike? The magic... smell... I mean?"

"No," Wesley said shortly. "And if it does, he is quite welcome to move back off the bloody sofa."

Yeah, Xander had wondered about the blanket and pillow stacked neatly on the foot of the couch, but had assumed that Spike had just been napping there to be closer to Wes when he worked.

Great. Things were not happy in Wes and Spike Land. This was bad. Very bad. Especially with all the other things that were going on. Jin's death and the funeral and the Striped One.

Xander decided that at least pretending to live in Cairo might be for the best at the moment. "Uh... over here okay?" He indicated a clear space sort of near the kitchen archway.

"Fine," Wesley said, not even looking. "If it's a space and you don't need to rearrange anything, then it's fine." He closed a few books on the desk, and came over.

Okay... this was going to go so well. How could he work on focus when all he was going to be focusing on was what the hell had crawled up Wes's ass... aside from Spike... and jeeze... that was so not what he meant.

"So... um... what do I start with?" Xander fought the nervous fidget he felt coming on.

Wesley looked suddenly a lot more human, and slightly amused with it, as he put an empty, if not particularly clean-looking coffee cup down on the floor between them. "Knocking this over," he said.

Xander looked at Wes, a quirk suddenly on his lips in spite of his uneasiness. "Usually you yell at me for knocking over the china."

"That's when you break it," Wesley pointed out. "Which isn't going to happen this time, because you're going to be knocking it over very, very gently. Without flames," he added, as though the thought had just occurred to him.

"Okay.... " Xander folded himself up and sat down on the floor, staring at the cup. There was a long moment of silence during which absolutely nothing happened.

Xander looked up at Wes, "Uh... help me out here, Wes. What do I need to be doing? Or not doing?"

Wesley's mouth twitched. "Focus," he said dryly, "on knocking that cup over. Gently," he repeated. "And if you use your hands and then come up with something you claim Mr Pak has told you about seeing past words to hidden meanings, I'll be the one breaking china. On your head. You remember how it felt to visualise the flame? The same thing applies. But, like I said - very, very gently, or you'll be replacing floorboards as well as a mug."

"'kay..." Xander stared at the coffee cup. Visualize. But what?

He squinted. Maybe like a force field of some kind? Like on Star Trek. A repulsor beam?

Xander set his jaw and suddenly the coffee cup skittered across the floor, hitting Wes in the knee. "Ooops."

Wesley looked for a brief second as though he either had a splitting headache, or something rather worrying was occurring to him, before he said in an odd voice - "Do that again? Um. Without hitting me in the knee, this time."

"Sorry." Xander put the coffee cup back on the floor between them, this time visualizing the repulsor beam being controlled by a slide bar set to gentle.

Wesley watched him carefully, and waited. When he saw the cup begin to move, he slammed up every mental barrier he possessed against it toppling - and failed, as it landed, very gently, on its side.

Xander blinked as he broke his concentration, "I did it.... I think."

"Yes," Wesley agreed rather absently. "Yes, you - try that again? Or - no, put it back. Upright. Right side up." There was a pause and then he added - "Er, please." He was looking at Xander rather as though he were an unexpected bit of text written in proto-Bantu in the middle of a perfectly normal Latin treatise.

Okay. Lather, rinse, repeat. He could do that. It wasn't any different than when Uncle Shen kept him at the same exercise for hours on end, right? Xander looked at Wes and then put the coffee cup back between them.

"Ready?" Xander watched for Wes's distracted nod and then started his visualization, remembering to keep that slide bar set to gentle.

This time Wesley actually tried to stop the process, rather than simply impeding it, and if coffee cups could look confused, this one managed it, revolving for half a turn in mid-air before shattering, as though someone with too much strength had gripped it with very large fingers. The bits crumbled sadly to the floorboards.

"Oh, crap!!" Xander cringed. "Sorry, Wes. I'll get the broom. I don't know why that happened. I was sure I did everything just the same. Shit...."

"You did," Wesley said, rubbing at what felt like a knot between his eyebrows. "I tried stopping you - no, leave it a second, would you? When you visualise doing these things, where are you taking the energy from?"

"Uh, energy?" Xander looked blank and a bit confused. "Is that what I did wrong? I never really thought about how this was being powered. I was just thinking of a repulsor beam and how it would work, so I guess the power came from the warp engines and... yeah... that's really stupid, isn't it? I mean there's no such thing so I guess I wasn't really directing this at all, huh?"

Wesley was staring at him with his mouth open. "Warp engines," he said rather faintly. "No, that made sense...." He tried to think of a way of phrasing any of this that wouldn't sound demented, and decided they were long since past that stage anyhow. "Where....exactly.....are these non-existent warp engines?"

"Engineering?" Xander gave a sheepish grin. "You know... and there are power conduits that run all around and power the controls." He slid his hands forward as if shoving a whole bank of slider bars, then looked at Wes. "Dumb, huh?"

"No..." Wesley said slowly, "but I think I may need to brush up on my re-runs of horrible TV - never mind." For some reason, he was imagining the control room out of Galaxy Quest, and he was fairly sure that wasn't what Xander was talking about. For one horrific moment, he imagined Andrew on the other end of a phone, giving them instructions while dodging Anya's orders, and slammed his thoughts back on track with an effort. "And you - you aren't powering the controls?"

"Uh.. Well, I'm working the switches, but no... I guess not. Not directly." Xander grimaced again. "That's wrong, huh? I should be powering it somehow, shouldn't I?"

Wesley nodded. "Yes, you should. I assumed you were - I was trying to teach you how to use that control. But if what you're doing is simply visualising power and using it....then you're - there's nothing of your own going into it at all."

"Oh..." Xander's face fell. "So I guess that's that then. I can blast holes in stuff and break things but no control. Better if I don't try at all then, huh? Because uncontrolled stuff is bad. Even I know that."

"Uncontrolled stuff, yes," Wesley agreed, but he was grinning - admittedly a rather pale copy of the usual face-splitting look of glee that Xander had got used to showing up at unexpected times, but still a grin. "On the other hand, controlled 'stuff' is going to be bloody useful." He sighed at Xander's confused look. "It's still all about focus, Xander. You just need to learn how to....redirect it."

"So... this is good?" Xander tried to look past Wes's expression and get to the gist of the matter. "I can help with this... if I learn how to... redirect? What does that mean... exactly?"

Wesley sighed. "You know the, um, warp engines?" He waited for Xander's nod, and then continued, "I think....you were using me."

Xander's eyes widened in horror. "No. No. I wouldn't do that, Wes. That's like what that Rack guy did. He sucked power from people. I'm not like that. I'd never..... Shit. Really?"

Wesley nodded, not looking in the least upset. "Really," he confirmed. "You latched onto the nearest available source. None of the books have dried up or blown away, so you weren't using them, and the more focused you got, the less I could do, so - who the hell is Rack, anyway?"

Xander looked down at his hands, his knee bouncing nervously as he talked. "He was this guy in Sunnydale. He was sort of like a 'pusher'... only instead of drugs he pushed magic. He'd suck power and emotions from people but give them this big overwhelming jolt of power euphoria. It was bad, Wes. Willow got tangled up with him for awhile."

"And I suppose asking the question 'was she out of her mind' would be just a bit redundant, wouldn't it?" Wesley said dryly. "No, Xander, I can emphatically say you are not like Rack, in that case." He thought for a moment, tapping his fingers on his knee, then said abruptly, "Do you remember what I said about my power? That I only know how to use what I have inside me, and that's why I'm not as gifted as Willow?"

"Yeah... I remember. " Xander nodded. "But you do okay, Wes. We haven't needed to ask for help even once."

"I wasn't fishing." Wesley was completely matter-of-fact. "Willow has power of her own - immense power, I imagine, given what she has achieved without a great deal of help. But she also draws it from other sources - you've seen her. It's a self-perpetuating process. It feeds her, she has the ability to draw more power, and so on and so on, until -" He broke off, and winced. "Well. Until. But I can't. I don't know how to feed what I have, so I'm my own resource. But you - you have nothing to feed. So it can't stay in you. You use it up and burn it off with whatever you're focusing on. Like - " he thought for a moment - "a conduit?"

"So...what?... I'm like some kind of magical train station? " Xander tilted his head, trying to get a clearer picture. "I don't store up the power. I just draw in the little trains of it... then direct them off down the track?"

Wesley snorted in surprise, tried to choke something back, and snorted again. Then he gave in and laughed, head down on his knees. "Sorry....." he managed eventually. "I had......model railways there, for a second. But yes. Yes, exactly like that."

"Just call me 'Mr. Conductor.' " Xander rolled his eyes. "But you said this can be good, right? If I learn how to redirect it? I need to do that, Wes. I need to learn it, because I'm not going to be like Rack and I'm not going to go around accidentally sucking power from you because I don't know any better."

Wesley shook his head. "I don't think you completely understand," he said quietly. "If you want to learn how to control this - right now I'm your only option. But you haven't exactly been going around doing it involuntarily before, so I think we can take that one off the list of worries." He looked vaguely apologetic. "We need to work on you taking it deliberately from me." Then he smiled. "Really, I'm rather grateful we started with coffee cups...."

"You want me to do that on purpose?" Xander frowned. "Won't that leave you kinda on the short end? I mean if you can't draw it from outside?"

"Xander." And it was easy to forget how rarely Wes touched people, until he did, and right now he had both hands on Xander's shoulders, all the focus that normally belonged to books or Spike firmly on the other man. "I asked you to think of a flame. You made a bloody gas-powered jet. I can't do that without feeling like living death. But you can, and you hardly made a dent in me. I didn't even notice until today exactly what was happening. So let me put it this way. If you had a choice between hacking away very slowly at a demon with an axe and hoping it eventually lay down and gave up, or annihilating it, which would you choose?"

"The second one, of course." Xander at least knew that answer was right, but he was still puzzled. "So you think that I not only take in this power and send it on... but magnify it, somehow? And that's why you didn't notice it? Because I'm not drawing as much as it seems like I should?"

Wesley nodded, before letting go of Xander's shoulders and snapping his fingers. "I was right! Model railways!" At Xander's look of complete bewilderment, he explained - "Small amount of electricity to power the batteries, and then once they're charged....the whole thing runs. Because the conduits are efficient. That's what we need to work on. It's not the amount of power. It's what you're thinking about while you use it. You're like a sort of.....efficiency magnifier." There was a pause, and then he added, "And I really don't have any sci-fi references to help with that one."

"Neither do I." Xander chuckled. "And hey! Me. Efficient. Bet you never thought that you'd use those two words in the same sentence."

Wesley's voice was suspiciously devoid of emphasis when he replied lightly, "Oh, you'd be amazed." Then he turned a surprisingly hard look on Xander, the one that went along with the steel tones that had snapped out Sit down! when Xander had first brought up the idea of learning magic. "Of course, my main problem won't be that at all. It'll be getting you to use them together in the same sentence. As a personal description."

"Yeah... still not so good with the self-image thing." Xander shrugged. "But I think I'm getting better." He paused, then slowly grinned, "Hey... I got a warrior god to fall in love with me. Gotta be doing something right."

"Please," Wesley said fervently, "do not tell me what."

*

Spike walked into the area that would God please soon be their living room... but was now just four walls, a desk and a couch... Not cozy by any stretch of the imagination, but useable. Wes had directed Xander to concentrate on the exercise room and the public office space first, and that was okay, he guessed. He'd certainly lived in worse places... with less to recommend them. At least it was private and clean (apart from an occasional waft of sawdust) and, yeah... it had Wes.

Wes. Spike sighed. Things were so awkward with them at the moment. He wanted to fix that... but how?

Wesley, back at the books and the papers Miles had sent over, had moved on from simply resting his thumb knuckle on his lip to rubbing it across his teeth as he read - something that was even beginning to irritate him, given that it was actually sore from the repetitive motion. On the other hand, it beat chewing the cuticle - something that invariably ended with a hastily-wrapped piece of tissue over the offending digit, and looks from the others varying from confused to outright irritated at his stupidity.

It was just that he needed to focus, and his brain kept drifting away from the texts to his surroundings, to the too-slow renovation of the apartment and offices into somewhere bearable, and to all the frustrating little problems that seemed to come in attendance. Back to that one involuntary movement away from Spike's hand that had come to act as a wall between them greater and stronger than the one that ran through China.

Back to that, and away, always away, from the utter terror that had come from waking with hands around his throat, away from the knowledge that had come to him as he sat alone in the room that still smelt faintly of sawdust, that all the new-found joy in the world had not taken away the damage done months before, that there was something irreparable that had been twisted within him, and he had no idea of how to begin to set it right.

He knew that he needed this detachment - if they were ever to begin to move past what had happened, they both needed his detachment - but God! It was almost unbearably hard...

"Wes?" Spike kept his voice low so as not to startle him, "'bout time for tea, yeah? Want some?"

Okay, as a grand gesture it wasn't very.... but it was a start. He had to get out of this...funk... get Wes out too. Well, if Wes really wanted to get out...and after that movement away from him, he wasn't so sure Wes did...

No. He cut off that line of thinking right there. It was as much his own fault as Wes's, and they were both very involved with their own problems. They'd get things straight and they've be back to life as normal.

Wesley looked up quickly. "Definitely," he said in relief. "To both." It wasn't as if he was getting anywhere useful, anyway, and most of that - though he didn't want to admit it - was down to the fact that he was thinking a great deal more about Spike than he was about the books.

And that's precisely what you can't afford to do, he chastised himself. Remember? But it seemed he didn't want to remember, because every time he was even in the same room as Spike - or at least Spike when he was awake - all his intentions of putting a little distance between them seemed to evaporate.

Spike gave a small nod then went to the kitchen area to put the kettle on, then rummaged around in the kitchen to see if he could find something in the line of food, that might tempt Wes.

The man hadn't been eating much lately or sleeping. It was easy for Spike to recognize because he hadn't been eating or sleeping properly either. They were both beginning to take on the look of stray dogs... tough, wiry and miserable.

Wesley couldn't really start to express how much he hated the way things were at the moment, even though he knew over half of it was his own damn fault and his own decision. That half, if it had been the only issue, would have been bearable, but Spike seemed to have his own thoughts about distance, since the stupid bloody dream that had made him take the extremely unilateral decision about sleeping on the couch rather than in the bed with Wes, and nothing Wesley had said or done since seemed to be doing anything to change his mind. Watching Spike from his place in the kitchen doorway, he was somewhat bleakly reminded of his own words, months before -

First you'll start feeling responsible for me...

Was that what they had been reduced to?

"Ham? Turkey? Cheese?" Spike pulled the packages out of the fridge. Between Mr. Pak and Xander there was always food in the fridge... even if, lately it went bad before it got eaten. He turned toward the cupboard to get out the tea while he waited for Wes' answer.

This was making him even crazier than he already was. He missed Wes, dammit. Missed holding him, listening to his heartbeat, touching him...

His body reacted to that last thought, tightening and straining.

"Oh, God, I don't know. Just tea, I think." Wesley grimaced faintly. "I'll eat later." He looked at Spike's sceptical expression, and stifled a sigh. "Really." Then he smiled. "You and Xander seem to be on some kind of crusade. This morning I 'accidentally' got cocoa instead of coffee. Not that it wasn't preferable to his coffee, but I swear I still feel mildly sick..."

When Spike failed to smile in response, he really did sigh. He wanted to ask what the hell was going on, what was causing all this, what was driving them further and further apart, but that tended to get no response whatsoever other than to make Spike decide he needed to be somewhere else, so -

Damn it, but distance hurt. And essential or not, he was going to go insane if he didn't break at least one of his rules and try to make at least physical amends for that one second of misjudgement that lay between them like some dead thing they tried to ignore, the unspoken addendum to every sentence. He crossed the kitchen, and put his arms around Spike. "I know," he said. "I know, I know, I'm turning into a horrible old grouch with a temper worse than a hibernating bear."

Spike all but melted into the too thin body next to his, "No... s'okay." He mumbled, his head all but buried against Wes's shoulder. "Just worried about you 's all."

And that was what it all boiled down to, wasn't it? He was worried about Wes. Worried that somehow, he'd hurt him again in one of his fits of lunacy. He'd had more control when he was in the first throes of it... when he'd first arrived in L.A.? But now? Now it was like some insidious force that he could not subsume... could not control.

"Well, stop. Please." Wes smoothed one hand over Spike's head, tightening his hold. "I'm fine. I'm tired, and bad-tempered, and making no headway where I should, but I've known worse and more obscure texts. I'll crack this one, too. Really. You don't need to be tying yourself in knots as well..."

"Yeah... yeah... Don't want me worryin' about you... " he gave a tight nod and pulled away, turning back toward the cupboard, and taking out the tea.

He knew Wes didn't get it. Didn't understand. He could no sooner stop worrying about Wes, than Wes could stop breathing. So there they were...at a standstill. Except that more and more often, Spike felt as if that standstill were halfway down a very slippery slope. And he didn't want Wes to feel responsible for catching him at the bottom. He had done too much for him already for Spike to wish that on him.

*

Sometimes Wesley wondered if he should try talking in Greek. It might make him more comprehensible, at least. "No..." he said slowly, "Not quite, but I certainly don't want you worrying about me when you don't need to be." He lost patience, then, with himself, with Spike, with whatever was going on between them that wasn't being said. "Spike - will you please tell me what's going on with you? I've told you again and again that the only reason I care about the dreams is that I hate what they do to you, I've practically begged you to leave the damn couch - what the hell is so bad that you can't even be near me? I'm not asking you to pretend whatever this is hasn't happened, I'm not even asking you to stop this way of dealing with it, if it really helps, but can't I at least have a shot at understanding?"

"Can't do this, Wes... Can't...." His voice was a low groan of pain. "Can't worry that I'll hurt you. That I'll wake up one morning and find..... " His voice cracked, "Just can't"

He banged the cupboard door shut and turned away. "It'll be better... it will. But right now... I just can't...."

Can't worry about murdering you in my sleep. Can't make myself a burden on you when you've got so much else on your mind. His unspoken words were probably more what Wes was asking for... but he couldn't deal with that right now. Wasn't sure if he could do this... if he could keep Wes safe and away from his renewed lunacy if Wes showed him even the slightest bit of tenderness.

Wesley's face tightened oddly, in a mixture of sympathy and annoyance at his own failure to get through.

But wasn't that what you wanted? a little voice mocked him. Wasn't that exactly what you wanted? Distance?

Yes. Yes. It was what had to be, for now...but not, surely, at this price. Not at this cost.

"All right," he said quietly. "All right. I trust you. But when you can...I'll listen. I promise. So when you're ready....any time, no matter what I'm doing, even if I'm sleeping, even if I'm working, if I'm a hundred miles away on the other end of a phone, even if you think I'm making the greatest breakthrough in demonology in history, promise me that you'll tell me." He put a hand out. "Deal?"

Spike gently took Wes' hand, wanting more than anything to tug him close and bury himself back in Wes' embrace. Instead he simply, quietly, replied, "Deal."

Yes, he'd go to Wes when he was ready. He just didn't feel like he ever would be ready. Not for this.

Wesley nodded, and tried not to wince as the movement shifted tendons in his neck in a way that struck bruised protest up in the still tender lining of his throat. "Right. Now you are going to get some actual sleep - in the bed - do not argue with me on this one, thank you - and I will make myself a sandwich. If I believe you're asleep, I'll even eat it. And then maybe the world will make a bit more sense to both of us, hm?" He hoped his smile didn't look as godawful as it felt. What he actually wanted to do was take Spike to bed himself, coax him out of whatever was tormenting him and into the only place they never failed to communicate, love him into some kind of real sleep. But he had said he trusted Spike, implied that he accepted Spike knew what he was doing, and he'd given his word to wait.

He could do this. He would do this. Because it wasn't about what he wanted, not any more. It was about doing what was right. And that meant he had to at least try and fit in with what Spike seemed to need - the distance he had been so set on, and was beginning to hate more than anything.

Never wish for anything, mocked the voice, and he bit back a groan.

*

Yeah... sleep Spike could do... in the bed even... as long as Wes was out here, alert and safe. That way even if he walked in his sleep, Wes would be able to wake him or defend himself. "Yeah... I'll try."

He would try... even though the thought of more dreams... nightmares really... made sleep unappealing.

"Good." Wes's second attempt at a smile was better than the first had been, but not by much, and he covered it up by leaning in and brushing his lips over Spike's, soft and fleeting and almost chaste. "It's worth a try." And now his smile was almost real. "Go on."

Spike almost relented. Almost grabbed Wes and poured out all the troubles of his heart... letting him share in the fears and burdens that had been haunting him. But instead, from somewhere, he drew the strength to give a wan smile before trudging off towards the bedroom.

He stripped down and slipped between the sheets, his mind still whirling with unease. What if he did do something and Wes couldn't stop him? He wondered with an unamused snort... what Wes would think if he handcuffed himself to the bed.

Wesley began to make himself a sandwich, putting together cheese and lettuce with a distinct lack of enthusiasm, but feeling as though if he kept up his end of the bargain, it would somehow ensure that Spike got at least an hour's decent sleep. He cut it in half, put the two bits on a plate, and went back through to his desk.

I'm good at this. This is what I do. What I am.

But he couldn't shake the niggling feeling that this was, possibly, no longer the case. As he pored over the old diary for what felt like the thousandth time, he wondered what had happened to his message....and why there had been no response....and as he did so, he felt that odd sense of push that he had felt once before, out in the garden, the strange feeling that something had just been averted - or, more accurately, that he had just averted something. Shaking his head, and wondering if he were beginning to hallucinate, on top of everything else, he took a bite of his sandwich, and turned his attention back to his notes.

*

Spike slept... and dreamed... but the dreams were unlike those he had suffered from lately. These were softer... gentler. He dreamed of joking with Xander... sparring with Blue... singing a duet with the Wolf... and Wes... always Wes... Smiling, and joking.. and loving. Loving him, of all the wonders there could be in this life. And telling him, with those silly loving insults they tossed at each other

"Idiot."

"Prat."

"Goober."

Well, that last one was odd... and obviously a hangover from the dream with Xander...

*

Wesley's one concession to normality, these days, was the garden - mostly because neither Xander nor Dawn disturbed him when he was working on it, and Illyria's silent and occasional presence was easily borne.

Whether he admitted it or not, the sunlight was his other defence.

But today, Illyria was on edge, restless, her silence louder than words would have been, and he finally stopped what he was doing to look at her.

"What is it?" he asked, regretting the faint snap in his voice, but unable to control it, and regretting it even more when Illyria slipped down to kneel beside him, back straight and hands folded in her lap.

"My Wesley," she began, and stopped. He stared at her.

"Illyria?"

"I - listened." Her head jerked up. "It was not inadvertent. I knew it and intended it. I listened to Spike, and to the - to Oz. I am not allowed - I am not permitted -" Her hands twisted in her lap.

Wesley's breath stopped. "You're not allowed to tell me?" he managed.

"I am not allowed to tell you some things. I cannot tell you others because I do not know them. But I know this. Spike has asked Oz to kill him. If - if there is a danger that -"

The world went utterly silent. Wesley had never believed that could happen, but it had, as though he were underwater and asleep, everything under layer after layer of black muffling cloth, not even his heartbeat echoing into it.

"No."

"It is because of the dreams." Sound came back, and breath with it. His heart stuttered, raced, continued. The world moved on.

"No."

"He has asked," Illyria continued relentlessly, "because of what happened -"

"Stop."

"Wesley." Illyria gripped his shoulders. "Wesley, yes. He asked. He does not trust you to kill him."

"He shouldn't. Because -"

"You will not. I know. I know this." Her eyes were full of compassion, of understanding. "I know you would not. But you have to know. He asked. Do you understand?"

He nodded, once, sharply, his hand touching his throat beneath the thin wool of the sweater. "Yes," he rasped. "I understand." He bent his head, staring at the crumbs of scattered soil on the gravel, at his smudged hands. "I understand."

Slowly, infinitely carefully, Illyria put her arms around him, as though he were an ice sculpture that would melt, and Wesley leant his head against her shoulder.

"I can't bear it," he whispered into her sun-warmed skin. "Illyria, I can't -"

"Not alone," she said simply. "But I carry this too, now."

And then they were both quiet, kneeling together in the sunlight, Illyria's too-blue eyes watchful as she gave Wes the time he needed to collect himself.

If she saw the shadowy figure behind the blinds upstairs, she gave no sign.

You are letting them destroy each other, she sent out silently towards the Imugi, but there was no response.

She felt the heat of Wes's breath on her shoulder, felt him shiver, once, and be still, and glared out defiance to the sun.

They are my family, she warned the threat that was always near, now. Touch not mine.

It did not occur to her that she might be vowing something she would be unable to hold to.

*

It wasn't something that Wes could really even define, this time around. In the terrible, dissasociated days after Xander's arrival, he had been trying to avoid words like 'grief' and 'betrayal', fighting himself hour after hour in order not to give Spike an explanation that didn't deserve a hearing in any case. It wasn't quite that simple now. It wasn't his thoughts or his actions, voluntary or involuntary, that lay at the root of all this, but the past he could not learn to accept - at least not wholly.

Wesley's mind had, of course, had rationalised everything surrounding Connor, had forgiven and understood, but his body, as shown by that one, terrible uncontrolled flinch backwards, had not, and perhaps never would. And he was unwilling to add to whatever was tormenting Spike with his own growing understanding of his failure to incorporate anything that had gone on before into his current existence.

Spike had begun by moving to the couch. He'd give Wes a weary 'goodnight' and then curl up on their new sofa with a blanket and pillow and attempt to sleep. It was much more comfortable than the 'demon couch' in their old apartment downstairs... but it might as well have been a bed of nails... wooden ones... for all the rest Spike found there. It was cold and lonely and on the one occasion that he had actually managed to sleep for any length of time, his slumber had been frequently disturbed by more of the unending dreams of guilt and blood. And when he woke he found himself, fangs dropped, ridges displayed, standing outside of Wes's bedroom door.

Wesley didn't push. It was as though he felt he'd forfeited all rights to even try to talk about things, as though the one step backwards had put up all the old walls of assumed inadequacy, as though, having done the rejecting without his emotions' volition, he was protecting himself from being rejected in turn. But then, Spike had no way of knowing either that Illyria had overheard him talking to Oz, or that she had told Wes what she had heard, and no way of knowing that Wes was the only one who she had confided that piece of information in.

If he had known, of course, Wes's continuing silence on all matters save work would have made a great deal more sense.

"I...." Spike stopped and looked at Wes where he sat at his desk. Books were stacked up around him in a barricade that was almost as sturdy and thick as the one Spike felt every time he tried to speak to him. "I'm off then... downstairs...."

Ostensibly he was going to spar with Illyria, but after the latest bought of sleepwalking he had decided that maybe the further away from Wes when he tried to sleep, the better.

His head drooped down and he looked at the toes of his Doc's . Looked anywhere, really, except at Wes, because if Wes gave even one sign that he didn't want Spike to go, he wasn't sure if he'd be able to go.

Wesley looked up at him, and swallowed down all the things he wanted to say. "All right," he said softly. "Will you - when do you think you'll be back? I know Illyria's - " he sighed. "It doesn't matter."

"No..." Spike whispered quietly. "'S'pose it doesn't."

He turned toward the door, but paused to speak without looking back. "Can I...um... Want some tea before I go? Haven't eaten yet have you?"

"If I want something, I'll make it -" Wes began automatically, and closed his eyes briefly. "I'm fine," he amended.

But whereas those had once been words to which his body added layers of meaning, private depths, they were now just the empty, dead mouthings that everyone else received these days.

"Right then..." Spike continued towards the door. "I'll be back later..." Tomorrow... next week... sometime. Bloody Hell.

It all hurt so much - deep through and aching, like having his guts ripped loose and trailing behind him.

"Spike - I have to - I wanted to -" When Spike turned around, he saw that Wesley's jaw was clenched. "I might not be here. I have to go and see Gunn," he added, half-apologetically.

"No... 's all right. Charlie needs ya. I get that." I need you too. Spike shoved his hands down into the pockets of his duster. "Gotta be rough on him, all this...."

"I think - probably. And being surrounded by people who want him to be more understandably grief-stricken and less - well, Gunn - isn't helping, I imagine." It's not helping me much, either, was the unspoken trailer. "I'm not even sure what I can say."

"Some times ya just gotta listen. That helps too." Spike shrugged, looking down at the ground again. He didn't want to think about Jin - about how they'd found her. "Let him yell and not be polite. Might need that, yeah?"

Wesley's mouth twitched with the first small sign of a smile that had been there in days. "Can't I just get him wound up and call in Angel?" he asked wryly. "No, I know what you mean. You're right. I just - " I'm afraid of what he might say. I'm afraid of what *I* might say. "You're right," he repeated.

"Yeah...sometimes." Spike shrugged. Wow, the crazy vamp gets one right. Sound the trumpets. "So if yer not here... you're at the Hyperion. Got it."

"And Spike?" Wesley's voice sounded firmer, suddenly, more grounded to the room and not to some endless vista of unhappiness inside his head. "I meant what I said. When you're ready to talk - I don't care whether Charles is in the middle of disclosing the innermost secrets of his soul - phone me."

"Got nothin' to talk about, really. Just gotta get my head straight, ya know?" If that was even possible. Spike was no longer sure it was. The only thing he was sure of was that he wasn't going to let his crazies be Wes's problem. As much as he had loved Dru, there were many times when her lack of sanity had made him want to toss her out into the sunlight.

He never wanted Wes to experience that same feeling.

And just like that, Wes was once more as remote as one of the mountains Mr Pak kept insisting they visualise. "Of course," he said quietly. "I understand." And for the first time in all the while Spike had known him, he turned back to his books in silent dismissal.

*

Xander had no idea what had provoked Illyria's sudden desire to go into his apartment and simply curl up with him on the demon couch, but he was damn grateful for it, amidst all the oddities that were starting to take precedence over every other worry. And it gave him a chance to talk about Spike, and Wes, and....well....Spike.....

"Lyrie... he snapped at me. I mean literally. Thought I was going to lose a finger." Xander shook his head. "It was kinda scary."

"Perhaps you should stop offering your fingers to be bitten?" Illyria offered, but her practicality sounded thin and worn, covering a worry that even she could not conceal. "I believe the colloquial term would be 'leave it alone'. For now," she added hastily.

Xander leaned against her, widening his good eye as much as he could, and peeking up from beneath that shaggy thatch of hair, "How can I? They're my friends.... and this... " he waved a vague hand, "It's all so.... wrong."

"It is, yes, but...Oz once told me that we should not try to change things. That waiting was good. He was right then. Perhaps...the advice holds true now." She smiled at him, her eyes warm. "And that look only works when you want me to steal cookies from the Market. My Wesley is not a cookie. Stop."

"No.. your Wesley is a full grown man... and too intelligent to let this continue...." Xander shook his head, "... and yet....."

"And yet he does." She frowned. "When I...pretended anger. When I would not speak to you. I was...hiding. Perhaps....perhaps Wesley needs to hide, for a while?" But she still looked utterly unhappy about the idea.

Xander looked at her with scepticism, "And you think Spike's doing the same thing?"

"No." And it was obvious that on that score, the negative was all he was going to get.

He almost growled with frustration, "Look, 'Lyrie... Wes helped us out, didn't he? Pointed me in the right direction. Made me believe in what I was seeing?" He sighed, "How could I not try to help them? It's so obvious they love each other... and that they both hurt."

"I know. I know. But it is not - we cannot - it is all supposed to - and yet it is -" Then her chin came up, sudden and defensive, in the old, arrogant gesture. "Two days," she said. "If nothing has changed in two days, then we will try."

"But--" He wanted to argue... but she looked so very, very certain. "Okay... okay, two days... but then I'm gonna do.... something."

It was only two days, after all... how much worse could things get in only two days?

*

Illyria was going to try - again! - to convince the Imugi that they needed to intervene....and if he refused....she straightened her shoulders. If he refused, she would tell Wesley what she suspected had been done. Her eyes flickered with something dark and painful, as she realised that she might well be signing all their death warrants. Love is the devil, Wesley had once said in her hearing. She was beginning to think that he was right.

Xander nuzzled closer, kissing Illyria on the jaw, and then chuckling, "Besides... you know how I cave when you get all forceful and stuff...."

"Yes, I do, and very well." She felt the back of his head in mock concern, referring back to when he had fallen through the new panel, avoiding her. "But the bump on your head has given you amnesia. You do not cave....gracefully."

He smiled softly at that, "I do once I know what's going on. Once I'm sure that...well... that I'm not someone's experiment.. or just the one who happens to be available...."

Her forehead creased in a frown. "I do not think I like this view you had of me," she said, somewhat crossly. "Or of yourself. I had my choice from millions, had I wished to experiment. And you were most....unavailable." But she softened her words with a kiss. "I am glad this is no longer true."

"Lets just say that I've not had the best of luck with women and leave it at that, okay? All water under the bridge anyway now..." he reached up, smoothing one cheekbone with his thumb.

"Hm." And for a moment, she sounded disturbingly and distractingly like Wes, before she smiled, obviously reaching her own private conclusion on that count. "They were foolish. I, however, am not." She leant into the touch like a small blue cat, contentedly running her fingers through his hair.

Let it be alright, she prayed to some infinite unknown. Let me have made the right choice...oh, let this be right....

*

Wesley had thought that he could separate what he truly felt from what he had to show, that he could allow himself to care while seeming not to; that he could allow himself to believe that what he had said once was understood and accepted. But it was not the case. The more he pretended patience, the more he felt resentment, the more he aimed for understanding, the closer he came to anger. The more he was forced to be separated from Spike, the less he could bear it. The man who had said only three days before that he could wait and trust was a million miles away from the exhausted facsimile who was desperate for some kind of sign that he even mattered at all.

And Spike, the one person to whom Wes mattered more than his own life, the one person who was doing his best to protect him and keep him whole, was the one person who, at that moment was least able to show him the truth.

Spike was worn and weary. The dreams had been worse and worse since he had moved from the serenity and safety he had only found in Wes's presence to his self-imposed exile. He had begun staying out as much as he could, but that seemed to lead to more confusion and visitations from Lilah... or maybe it was the fact that he wasn't eating... was barely sleeping and missed Wes with an ache that never seemed to diminish.

He was now spending most of the nighttime hours curled up in a corner of the training room... miserable and twitching, but determined to protect Wes at any cost. Sometimes Oz sat with him, silent and watchful by the door, and that brought him the comfort, at least, of knowing that he would be kept from doing any damage on those nights... that was when he slept, briefly, until the dreams returned.

*

"Hey, scruffy-yet-gorgeous." Faith gave Wesley a warm hug as he entered the foyer, ignoring his wince. "Jeez, Wes, you look horrible. You ever heard of sleep?"

"It's a rumour," Wesley said dryly, disengaging himself. "I wanted to see Gunn, though -" he held up his bag, knowing that Faith would understand. "Is he here?"

"Uh-huh, and beating Angel out on brood." Faith didn't seem to have taken offence at his unresponsiveness. "Go shake him out of the idiot tree, Wes, before I do, cos I've only got one tried and tested way, and that leads to yelling from people I'd rather not yell..."

Wesley snorted. "Ah. Yes. And where do I find the current champion of gloom?"

"Roof." Faith sighed. "Isn't it always?"

*

Gunn sat on the edge of the roof, his feet dangling down over the abyss below. One good shove off and he'd go tumble down the 7 stories to the alley below. Not that he was actually thinking of doing that...but fuck, how much more was he going to have to live through? How many more stabs to the heart would he have to take before the Power decided that it was enough?

He heard the stairway door open behind him but didn't turn around, "No, I'm not hungry. No, I'm not ready to come in yet. Yes, I do intend to brood up here until I can challenge Angel's championship...so leave me the fuck alone