Brightness Falls

It was raining, and Fred's jeans were wet to the knee. Her sneakers were soaked, her socks were clinging to her feet, and her long hair was plastered to her head, water from the saturated locks running down her back and under her jacket collar, dampening her shirt. She didn't care.

At some point since she left the hotel, the rain had become steady, hard, the kind of soaking rainfall that would sink into the ground, drench the grass and the plants, splash on the streets in heavy drops that bounced twice from manhole covers, hard enough to create a small spray with every drop. It was the sort of rain a garden would be grateful for, but Fred hadn't seen a real garden in years, and she suspected it would be many more before she did - the Hyperion courtyard didn't count, no matter what Cordy called it, and they didn't have time to plant anything. And it wasn't like this area would have a garden anywhere near it, anyway, all shops and dumpsters and no people now that the work day was over - a few bars and maybe some take away places showing light, other than the faint glimmers from behind metal shutters where people were shutting up, and some apartments above casting a bit of a glow from behind their curtains - and that was about it.

I have a stone garden, she thought miserably, and stifled a giggle that had nothing whatsoever to do with humour, watching from the sidewalk as the rain blurred the oncoming headlights late at night, and shoving her wet glasses into her jeans pocket, hoping to make her visibility better, and mostly just making her eyes hurt from the pollution in the water that ran down her face.

It was a horrible night. Cold, and a little windy, and the further she got from the Hyperion, the worse it seemed to get. If she hadn't felt so goddamned awful, she would have looked for a coffee shop or something to wait it out, but there was something masochistically soothing about being out in this - a 'poor little me, all wet' feeling that almost distracted her from the real reason she was wandering the streets when everyone thought she was safe and snug in her hotel room, sleeping, or writing on the walls, or - private, at least.

But the hotel wasn't private. It was full of sounds, and people, and unspoken concern, and a lack of understanding that was making her skin itch. They didn't get it. She'd tried to explain, but they didn't get it, and they were so busy trying to make her feel everything was OK that they'd missed the point completely.

She didn't need forgiveness. She didn't need them to understand, or listen to her, or talk, or make her hot chocolate, or order Chinese, or any of the ordinary stupid things they'd offered her. She didn't want an aromatherapy bath with Cordy's special oils, she didn't want a back rub, she didn't want Charles's protectiveness and glowering at Angel as though it was his fault.

She needed not to have done it. She needed not to have had to do it, but she'd reacted without thinking, because it was Angel, and a stake, and there'd been no-one to watch his back, and someone needed to carry a gun, now that Wes wasn't there to take that on his shoulders for them...

And she'd killed a man.

She'd said she was going to bed, and escaped them, got away from their worried looks and pretended to accept their reassurances that everything would look better after a good night's sleep, when all she could really think was hypocrites.

They'd sent people away for doing less than that. What made her so special? Did it just not count because she was sweet little Fred, because it was easier to believe she didn't know what she'd done than to face up to the fact that she'd become something for them that even five years' worth of Pylea hadn't turned her into?

She wanted to talk to someone who would understand, understand why she felt like this, understand why it felt so crappy even though she wouldn't undo it for anything, someone who didn't need to forgive her or try to make it all better in order to get how she felt.

But Wesley hadn't called her in over a week, and he wasn't picking up his phone, and they'd sent that nice young man who wanted them to help Buffy away, and there wasn't anyone normal or real in the whole world any more, seemed like.

She could see it in her head, over and over again. The blood, the way his body jerked, the way he fell to the ground, boneless.

Dead.

It had been a clean shot; whoever the guy was, he had been dead on impact. She'd done it just like Wes had shown her, targeting and breathing out as she pulled the trigger. Her hands hadn't shaken once, then, and she hadn't had a choice. That's what they'd all told her, all of them, over and over again, even Gunn, who had disapproved of her weapons choice from the get-go, but hey, she'd reasoned with him, way back when, hey, Charles, listen, she was kinda small, not like she could swing a big metal thing with much accuracy, and you had to slow 'em down somehow, right?

It had been a clean shot.

I've killed a man, she said to herself sternly, trying to make it concrete with words. I killed a murderer, he was going to be a murderer even if he wasn't already. He was trying to kill Angel.

It didn't make her feel any better.

The rain was falling harder now, but she kept walking. She wasn't sure where she was any more, or even where she was going, not that she had been in the first place, really, but she was beginning to think she might be lost. She wasn't even sure by now that she knew how to get back to the Hyperion, and even less sure that she cared, because hey, she had money in her pocket, and anything was better than a cave.

She just needed one night to get her head together. That was all. One night.

Cars drove past her, their headlights bright in the dark night. There weren't even many streetlights where she was now, and if someone were to come up on her...

Well. I've already proven I can kill, haven't I?

The thought made her laugh, bitterly.

A car drew up beside her, and it took her a moment to realise that it was a big, official, nice-looking one, the driver staring ahead, blank-faced, and the passenger window at the back dark glass, hey, cool, expensive, wow winding down.

She nearly fell over when Lilah Morgan opened the door, beckoning commandingly.

"Get in," she said, and Fred didn't bother to argue. At least it was going to be dry.

She didn't argue when Lilah took her back to her apartment, or made her take a shower and gave her clean dry clothes.

She didn't say a word when she was led to a spare room, and the sheets on the bed smelt clean and nice, and Lilah tucked a hot water bottle in at her feet.

She just slept.

*

XANDER'S JOURNAL

The Hellmouth is closed....

I have to say that again to let it sink in.

The Hellmouth is closed....

Closed and gone and Sunnydale at the bottom of a pit...

And no one told me it was going down....

Shouldn't be surprised. I've checked in with them a couple of times but, none of them has called me. None of them wanted to deal with the One-eyed Wonder... and how useless he is. Or maybe it was guilt and trying to keep me safe... but FUCK... Willow, at least, should have known that I would want to be there, no matter what....

I only found out because I called Angel to see if he'd found anything yet to help. I was determined that if he hadn't... I was going back to Sunnydale tomorrow... I could as easily wait there as here.

I called him and he said that I - "Didn't need to worry..." It had - "all been taken care of and everything was fine..."

That's when he told me.... About the amulet he took to Buffy... About the Champion that would need to wear it. Not by someone like me, of course, but by - "Someone ensouled but stronger than human." But for some reason that couldn't be Angel.

Oh, yeah... Buffy wanted him for back up... just in case. But at least she wanted him... for something. Not like - No... I'm not going to finish that thought.

So... Willow did a spell... turning all the Potentials into Slayers... And Kennedy wore the amulet...

I can see that. Girl always did want to be centre stage in everything.

So that was the end. The Final Battle. Good versus Evil. Not for the whole world, but at least for Sunnydale and the Hellmouth.

Appropriate, I guess, that I was here. The normal human gets to stay out of the fight... sit on the sidelines and watch the heroes and villains duke it out. Fuckin' Jimmy Olson watching Superman battle Lex Luthor....

Yeah... that would be me. All I need is red hair and a camera.

I don't even know if they all made it out alive. Well, Buffy did... Angel, of course, was most concerned with her... but before I could get anymore information out of him, he said something had come up and hung up on me.

I've tried to call Willow's cell phone... but nothing. I don't know if I should worry or not. I don't fuckin' know anything....

Like that's anything new.

I did manage to get it all out to Spike and Wes though. I thought it was something they needed to know and not have handed to them like a big hairy surprise.

I got reactions that I never would have suspected from either one of them. It was... well... strange.

Wes' face when kind of hard and he muttered something about having a long talk with Angel. Presumably, about not letting him know directly...maybe?

Spike... Well, I understood his reaction even less. He was pissed. And, yeah... that part I get. But his words were.... Well, maybe if I write them down I'll eventually understand.

"That was wrong... Should have been there. How could they have not let you? Should have told you. Didn't they know you'd want it? Want to be there?" And he went right into game face and punched the wall.... Then, apologized to Wes... and stormed off downstairs and out into the garden.

I don't know... Maybe I'm just confused and seeing things that aren't there because of my worry and disappointment... but... well... it seemed kind of like Spike was angry, not because no one told him what was happening in Sunnydale... but... because no one told me.

Like maybe he... cared that they'd left me out.

That's almost less easy to get my brain around than the whole no more Hellmouth thing.

How strange is my life getting if Wes and Spike understand me better than my friends seem to? That they know that I would have wanted to be there, sharing the danger, rather than being wrapped in tissue and kept safe.

I lost my eye... not my ability to see. I can see evil. And I can see my own shortcomings. I would have fought or died trying... and that meant something. Something important to me.

Now I'm adrift.

*

Wesley was caught between rage and relief, overwhelming gladness that at last the Hellmouth was at the bottom of a crevasse, fury at Angel's cavalier attitude, anger at Spike and Xander, who apparently would rather be dead, as long as they had been asked to help, and almost overwhelming, tendon-unstringing relief that they had not been, that Spike had not gone to help, that he was not going to be forced to endure staying back once again, to have everything that he was allowing to matter to him taken away for a second time.

He supposed that if he had been asked, he would have gone to Sunnydale, have swallowed his personal feelings and picked his weapons appropriately - but he didn't care enough about the place or its inhabitants to feel that he needed to be present.

But he understood only too well the ties of friendship and love and responsibility that bound the other two into Sunnydale's fate - and more importantly, to the fates of those they had left behind and who had not called on them.

It was not those who had fought with whom he felt the anger, though he thought they should have taken a different approach in their way they had handled everything - he knew too well the wrong decisions that the stunned hollowness of victory could lead people into as well as he comprehended the decision they had obviously taken to keep all those who were safely away where they were.

He would, he knew, have made the same decision.

You try not to get anybody killed, you wind up getting everybody killed.

He hated himself in that moment, hated himself for knowing that no matter what he felt, had they asked for Spike's help, he would have unquestioningly given him all assistance to get there in time - would even have fought himself. He had no right to decide when or how people died, no right to even influence choices, no right, as always, to put his own wants or needs ahead of others.

But God, he wanted to believe that this once, he would have had the courage! Why did love mean so little to him, why did it always seem to lead to decisions that put his own feelings last? Pragmatism was not all, it couldn't be all, and yet in the end, it was what he so easily gravitated towards, the theory ahead of the practise, rights of the many and unknown against the needs of the few who mattered to him.

He envied Buffy's clear-headedness, envied her that moment she must have had when she resisted the temptation to beg for the company of those she loved at what she must have believed was her end.

In the end, it was she who had made the right choices, she who would bear the alienation of their affections without flinching, secure in the knowledge that she had ensured their continued survival. Wesley, who had always thought of himself as more cold-blooded, would have gone as far as buying the bullets for the weapons that would probably never protect anyone - simply because he could not deny anyone he cared about the right to choose their battles.

No matter how Xander felt now, no matter how angry Spike was with their perceived betrayal, it had been the right thing to do, and no amount of resentment at the bungled presentation of it would change that fact.

But Angel - Angel had known better than anyone what he was saying, what he was denying Xander, every single permutation and possibility of 'might have been' that had fortunately not occurred, and yet he had, with his usual unmitigated gall, believed he had the right to claim an insider's knowledge, and shut Xander out.

Wesley clenched his teeth, hearing them grit inside his head, and wondered, not for the first time, why the Powers had chosen a pig-headed Irishman with few brains and even less sensitivity to the world than anyone around him to represent them. He had gone for years, thinking that there was a reason, that in the end, there was a purpose to Angel's battle for redemption - but the price to those around him was, he had finally admitted to himself, too high, too impossible. It wasn't, in the end, something that could be perpetually ignored, the fact that Angel would put his quest for redemption and his own soul above everything else - it wasn't always about doing the right thing for him, nor about altruism, but about fulfilling his own needs, and sweeping everyone up behind him in some mythical belief as he did so.

He had told Gunn once that he needed Angel to believe that it was possible to come back from absolute darkness and take control of himself again - but the truth was, it wasn't about what Angel had to believe, it was about what he had believed, and he had known by that time that the darkness in Angel was no real threat to him. To those around him, yes, God, yes. But to Angel himself? No. It was an integral part of Angel, whether he liked to admit it or not, and something that was so inevitably present, so much a part of existence, could never take over completely. The suppression of it was as much part of Angel as the unleashing of it was the creation of Angelus - the original two-headed Janus to the gates of championship. And Wesley had never been afraid of what would happen to Angel - it had been those he claimed to love he had feared for, and sometimes, shamefully, secretly, for himself.

Having a soul isn't what makes someone worth trusting, Xander, it's who they are and what they do that makes that possible.

And God forgive him, but it had been a long time since he had felt himself able to trust Angel.

With a sigh, he put the book he had been looking at for the last five minutes without reading back down on the desk, and went out of the apartment in search of Spike.

*

Spike huddled on the porch, looking out at the rain swept expanse of the unfinished garden. He needed to run... to scream... to do something to burn off his anger. Anger for the treatment of himself... and somehow, even more, for the treatment of Xander.

Fuckin' need to kill something, 's what I need.

Souled or not, his frustrations still seemed to need the release of a good fight. A fight he doubted he'd get tonight, considering the rain..... And the footsteps that he recognized as Wesley's approaching from behind.

"Not right, Wes." He muttered it as soon as he knew the man was within hearing range. "Shouldn't have left him out. Hell, shouldn't have left me out. We should have been there... helping. Protecting. Damn...."

Wes's reply was not what he would have expected. Ever. "In a hundred years, we'll all be dead. But here and now, we are alive, so stop thinking about potential blaze-of-glory endings and have a little consideration for those among us with shorter lifespans, would you?"

Fine. Maybe he was going to get the fight he craved after all... with Wes.

Spike found it hard to believe that Wes didn't understand. That he could pass it off so cavalierly. "It's not about a blaze-of-glory. Never is... it's about bein' there. Helpin'. Fighting the good fight. Ask Xander. He understands. It's doing what you can... even if you know you won't win. Fuck, Wes... I'm not Angel. I don't care about Sanshu or Mu-shu... I want to help people I care about... Dawn and the Slayer... and fuck... Xander and Giles too."

"Right. Fighting the good fight - do you have any idea how sick I am of that phrase? Most people do it day in, day out, just by trying to be the best person they possibly can, they don't need to be bloody heroes! I was trained - all my damn life I was trained - to watch people do this. You think I would have sat here and let you both go off to waste your lives in some futile attempt to be a part of something?" He turned his head away for a moment, then whipped back round and spat out - "You think I need to ask Xander the importance of being there?"

Spike gave his head a slow shake, "No, Wes... but he knows, Wes... He fuckin' knows.... That's why he hurts now... Did everything they asked him for years... No special knowledge... no special powers.... but he did it. And they tossed him aside. 'M sayin' this all wrong... know I am... Making you mad at me. Hurting you and I'm not sure why.... or how.... Sorry...."

The apology did not seem to help a bit. Wes's voice was hard as he answered back, "You have absolutely no idea what you're apologizing for, so don't. Believe me, I understand only too well what they did to him. What absolutely infuriates me is that you'd both rather end your days in a fucking pit than be alive to consider the alternative theory that just maybe people were trying to act for the best - and I'm not including Angel in that, before you say anything. I don't think he'd know what a good intention was if it bit him on the nose."

Wes thought that he wanted to die? That Xander wanted to die? "Wes.... it's not about that. It's not about living or dying. It's about choices and other people makin' them for you. About being thought worthless... no matter what you fuckin' do.... because you just aren't important...."

And didn't that just tell his whole life story? Not important. Useless. Hopeless. Helpless. Beneath me.

"And when those choices result in living or dying? Let me ask you something. If it were the end of the world - if Armageddon were to be unleashed in LA, and every demon known came through the gates - would your first instinct to be to call those you loved to help you - or to keep them as far away as possible?" Wes's voice was cool, calm. The voice of reason railing against Spike's emotion.

"Different for me, love...." Spike looked down and toed a pebble off the step, watching as it splashed out into the rain. Don't have a bloody regiment of people who care about me..... Reason they didn't call me is... they just don't trust me."

Yeah... Wes didn't believe that, he could tell from the snort. Oh, they'd trusted him enough to let him fight with them... to throw himself at anything nasty that came their way... but not with this. Not with something this important. Spike was sure that their thoughts were more along the lines of not having an enemy at your back as well as one in front of you. It wasn't something he could fault them for, really, not after all he'd done.

But that didn't mean the same thing for Xander. They trusted him. They should have given him some kind of choice. Instead they just left him out, made him feel worthless... useless... less than helpless.

Odd that after so many years, he was finally finding common ground with the man.

"Shit, Wes... maybe I'm stupid. I just can't help but think that they should have handled it differently. Given him the chance."

"Of course they should, that isn't in question." Wes's voice was rough now, with the damp. "But - I'm not the one you need to be talking to about this. Tell him that. Not me. Because quite frankly, if I'd known all it took was a magical explosion to put the Hellmouth under, I'd have been heading the list of volunteers. And damn it, I wouldn't have cared how bloody awful anyone felt, as long as they were well away from it." Wes paused. "You want to know something? I still don't."

"So you're allowed to want to make those "glorious sacrifices".... but no one else?" Spike's voice was hollow and terse as he looked up at Wes.

"I was actually thinking of doing it from an equally safe distance. I'm not the sacrificial type." Wes turned a cool eye towards Spike, not backing down from his gaze. "The amulet called for a champion. I would have done my job - and given it to Faith." Wes's mouth twitched, that odd look of not-amusement that seemed to show up more often than not when he thought he was smiling. "Pragmatism, you see."

Yes, pragmatism. Spike didn't buy that for one moment. How pragmatic was it for Wes to have taken him in on that other rainy night - a crazed vampire that had killed so many in the past? He knew that Wes might have managed to do what needed doing, but he also knew that he'd have suffered for it later - guilt and sorrow burdening him in equal measures.

"I don't believe that, Wes. Never will." Spike looked out over the garden, "You try to seem hard... and maybe people believe that... but not me."

"I can't change what you believe." Wes gave him a small smile, this one a bit more genuine. "Part of me doesn't want to...though I know I should."

"I know you, Wes... the way no one else can. Know just how much you fuckin' feel everything." Spike stepped closer and lowered his voice, teasing now. "But I won't tell...."

*

Wesley didn't feel like being deflected from the point he was trying to make, but it seemed that something sore inside him had been touched upon. On the other hand, he was still unsure of what it was, and he really didn't want to fight.

Well. No. He wanted to fight against something, quite badly. Just not with Spike, and he couldn't with Xander. He looked out at the rain, and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, trying to rub into smoothness the jumble of concern and struggling theories that felt as though they were physically churning inside him somewhere.

He knew that he had sounded as though he was calm about this, but he wasn't. It was simply that while Spike and Xander had been made, perhaps inadvertently, to feel as though they were unwanted, as though they had been isolated for not being good enough, these were things that had been made clear to him as true years ago.

It didn't make it hurt less. Giles had been at Buffy's side, where fate and the Council had placed him long before, but Faith, too, had been somewhere in their last stand against evil, and Wesley should have been there with her. It was his failure of her and his duty that had decreed otherwise, though, and no pragmatism in the world could make him feel less guilty, because if he had been there, he would, as he said, have sacrificed her without a thought.

It was almost touching, the way Spike insisted on seeing the best in him, assuming that he had depths of caring for others that he could have said with perfect truth were never present. He wasn't trained to care - only to stand back when needed and leave emotion to others. While people around him struggled to find detachment, he strove to let any feeling at all reach him. Spike might believe that he would have felt guilt, and perhaps he would have, on some level he was unaware of, but had he remained a watcher, he knew that it was more likely that he would have written up what had happened, downed a bottle of scotch, and retired into academia.

He sometimes wondered if he was so good at seeing the burdens that had been placed on others because he had none of his own. No Champion, no fighter of the good fight, just an owner of knowledge that was now mostly useless and frequently unneeded. And any fool could learn to fire a gun, so his improved skills in that area weren't exactly anything to write home about.

Spike might not care about the Shanshu, but Wesley did. It made him think that with the change that had necessarily come about in the prophecy, the Powers might have thought there was some place for him in the grand scheme of things after all - even if, as he feared, it was as a recorder.

It was no accident that history had been traditionally written by monks, the naturally separated from daily living. Wesley smiled to himself. He would make a poor monk, after all...

Spike stepped closer, and Wesley could feel the frustration and anger humming beneath his skin, close enough that he knew it would be a bad idea to deflect whatever this was into physical gratification, however easy it would be for them both.

"I'd cast a silencing spell on you if you tried," he said, trying to get himself back on an even keel with humour, and mostly succeeding. It seemed that what had happened to Sunnydale had stirred quite a few things up in him that he was neither ready to deal with himself, nor willing to share with anyone as yet - mostly because he was aware that this was an occasion when whatever he felt had to be put aside and dealt with later. Right now, he reminded himself sternly, this wasn't allowed to be about him, even in the privacy of his own mind.

The humour seemed to be having some kind of effect, anyway, as Spike chuckled at his feeble attempt at a joke.

"I'd just spell it out in semaphore..." he said, and Wesley snorted despite himself at the mental image that created.

"You'd wave flags at people?" he asked, and felt his smile quirk into something more genuine. "Hm, might be worth it just for that....and stop evading. You need to talk to Xander."

Spike nodded. "Yeah, I will...can't make him listen though."

Wesley wondered if it was worth pointing out that it wasn't having Xander listen that mattered, it was having the words said by anyone at all, and particularly someone who could empathise, but decided against it. That road led to more hamster-wheel like conversations, and he didn't feel remotely energetic enough to deal with that right now. "You can make anyone listen, if you put your mind to it," he pointed out, settling on a different truth. "And I suspect he may want to. If not...you know where I keep the good Scotch."

Spike looked gleeful. "Yes, I do...Might give him a bit first... might make his ears work better."

"That may be an idea," Wesley said, thinking that he was definitely not getting involved in that conversation, if Xander and drinking always had the combined effect of the night he had arrived.

Spike tugged him closer. "Have something right here I'd prefer to have, though...."

Wesley smiled despite himself. "As do I, but - this really isn't the time. Also..." he added, gesturing upwards, "I've never been one for an audience."

Spike didn't even bother to look. "Xander?"

"And the children from the apartment down the hall," Wesley agreed dryly, looking up at two small blurred figures with their noses pressed to the glass. It was possible that they were just watching the rain, but still...

Spike just sighed, but didn't move away. "Bloody Hell...place is crawling with little Paks...."

Wesley nodded ruefully. "Insomniac little Paks at that," he agreed.

"Don't know why they should sleep. Mr. Pak never seems to." Spike shrugged it off. "Upstairs then?"

Wesley shook his head, and sighed a bit. "I think I'll stay down here. I wouldn't be much help. Besides," he added with a small grin, "there's a box hedge I'm trying to convince that seven foot tall would be a truly marvellous idea sometime within the next hour or so. I think it may take longer, of course, but there's no harm in trying."

Spike made a small noise that sounded like a cross between a huff and a growl. "Turned down for a bloody hedge..." he complained, and Wesley tried not to laugh.

"Which will be your favourite plant in the world, once it reaches its destined height," he said calmly, and watched in some amusement as Spike, frowning, tried to work that one out.

"And why is that.... exactly?" he said after a bit.

Wesley tried not to laugh. "Seven foot. Tall. And running across that corner in which I am cultivating various forms of velvet moss."

The frown showed no signs of dissipating. "Velvet moss...and a hedge....and...." it was like watching a light come on, as he suddenly looked at Wesley with a smile that, thank God, looked completely genuine. "Yeah?"

Wesley gave up and laughed outright. "As I said, I've never liked an audience."

Either Spike did like an audience, or he simply didn't care, because he pulled Wesley in for a kiss, the weird humming feeling of anger easing off considerably. "Love you, Wes...."

Wesley kissed him back wholeheartedly, with a mental two fingers up at anyone watching. "And I you," he said with sincerity, before shaking himself almost physically out of the desire to just make everything go away that had overtaken him. "Go on. And leave me a finger of Scotch, hm?"

Spike nodded. "At least..." he agreed, before giving Wesley a last quick kiss and heading for the steps. Wesley stepped out into the rain, and tilted his head back, closing his eyes for a moment as water ran over his face. Then he headed for the shed, and began getting his tools together.

*

Some times it's good to step out of your comfort zone. It's good to do something you've never done before - gain new knowledge, fight for a just cause, campaign for something you believe in. It can uplift you and enlighten you and bring you wealth and delights.

Spike, was relatively sure, however, that trying to convince Xander Harris that looking at something, or someone, from a new direction, was going to be none of those things. As a matter of fact, Spike was positive, from the bottom of his Doc Martens to the top of his curly mop of hair, that it was going to be a right pain in his arse.

If anyone, other than Wesley, had suggested it he probably would have just told them to get bent. But, yeah...just give him a pair of shoes with turned up toes and a triple pointed hat with bells on it...a fool for love he was and would always be - and he was talking to Harris.

Mr. Pak had stopped him on the way upstairs and handed him a 12 pack and a bottle of apricot brandy... then disappeared. Spike had learned not to question these little "gifts" from their landlord - the answers he'd gotten in the past had only left him more confused.

He entered the apartment to find Xander staring out the window, watching the rain.

Popping the tops off of two bottles, Spike walked over, handed one to Xander, and then perched on the window ledge, watching him.

"Thanks," Xander took a long pull on the bottle, then returned his gaze to the window.

"Need to get over it, ya know..." Spike ventured.

"Yeah," came the terse reply.

Wonderful. Babble-a-minute Xander Harris was reduced to one word comments. This was going to be a joy....

"Not denying that they should have told you, Xander." Spike tried again after a few minutes of silence, "But maybe they had good reason."

There was a snort of dry laughter, "Yeah... they didn't want to be bothered having to protect their useless baggage."

Xander took another long drink of the beer, and Spike waited for him to finish before he continued. "Or could be that they figured that you'd already sacrificed enough..."

"We've all sacrificed, Spike."

"I know you've all sacrificed, Xander. Got ears, don't I? And vampiric hearing." Spike passed Xander another beer. "Slayer and the witch forget that. They talked and I listened. Know a lot more than you think... Your friends know a lot of the things you did for them."

Xander frowned as he took another drink of his beer, "If they know me so well, wouldn't you have thought they'd know not to do this? That they'd know that I needed to be there with them?"

Spike picked at the label on his beer bottle, considering just how to answer that. Yeah, they should have known. Should also have known what had driven Xander to ask help of someone he disliked as much as he disliked Angel.

"Should have, yeah.... " He replied, glancing over at Xander to judge his reaction. "But maybe they were also thinking that at least one of you Scoobies was safe..."

"Should have been Dawn that was safe.... But I fucked that up..."

"Right..." Spike scowled, this being nice was getting him nowhere. "What do you want me to say, Xander? You're a fuck-up. A screw-up. You were given a simple task and you couldn't even get that right. Xander Harris, useless to the end -"

Spike knew the blow was coming almost before Xander did... but he made no move to avoid it. Not the first one, nor the second, nor the third - the one that knocked him to the floor. It was a shame really, that he couldn't and wouldn't fight back - Xander's fighting skills weren't even close to what they once were, the change in perception making him even more clumsy than Spike remembered.

Then it was over... Xander standing above him with clenched fists, breathing hard through his anger and frustration.

"Useless one-eyed git, that's you Harris..." Spike wiped at his bloody nose with the back of one hand. "A useless git that's going to live a hell of a lot longer because his friends cared enough to let him miss one bloody apocalypse."

That sunk in. Sunk in to Xander's pain filled brain, where all the kindness hadn't. Sunk in and drown him, almost, and he slid to his knees, his hands shaking with reaction.

"God, Spike.... I'm....." Xander drew in a deep breath. "I'm sorry... I just... sorry....."

"S' alright." Spike bit back anything else he might have said, letting the apology lay there.

"No... shouldn't have done that." Xander's hands were tightened back into fists, but now his anger was drawn inward. "Always hated bullies... and now I am one. "

"Chrissakes, Harris, cut yourself some slack... Stop wallowing in this and move on." Spike shook his head at the other man. "Didn't hurt me, really, so buck up... shut up... have another beer...."

Spike stood up and offered Xander his hand... smiling when the younger man took it.

*

Some days, Lilah missed Lindsey. Well, not completely, not Lindsey as Lindsey, per se, because to say the man had conflicted loyalties was an insult to the dictionary definition of both words, and his persistent coming out on top no matter how badly he screwed up was infuriating, and his habit of running to daddy, (Angel, Holland, whoever fitted his twisted little scenario at that point when things were about to go pear-shaped) equally so, and actually, she didn't really miss him being around at all, when she thought about Lindsey-the-person.

Except for times like this, when the knowledge of what she was doing would have been sweetened by thinking the Senior Partners had trusted her above him. Then she just missed him being around, missed having someone to gloat over, missed being able to push any little niggles of conscience she might be having down under the overwhelming glee caused by 'Me, not you. They chose me.'

And damn, if that feeling hadn't got her through some stinkingly awful times. In terms of a good gloat, Gavin was just never going to cut it, mostly because he was so damn cocksure and focused on his petty little attempts to - what? Annoy Angel into losing his soul? - bring down Angel Investigations by means of hotel inspectors and other pathetic little legally-based ploys, that the bigger picture never even entered his mind.

At least Lindsey could be brought to appreciate real malevolence.

Lilah stood in the doorway of her spare room, watching Fred sleep, and wondered if she was doing the right thing. Not in terms of right and wrong, obviously, because in that case, well. Wrong, obviously. More in terms of - will this body be strong enough to hold a god? Will her loss really matter so much to them that they'll focus their efforts back on her, and not on what they need to be thinking about? Do we actually want an ancient god with the ability to move through all dimensions running around, and are we really stupid enough to think we can control her?

More importantly, more basically, would Fred actually be curious enough to touch the sarcophagus they had finally got released from customs?

So much depended upon what ifs that Lilah actually felt nauseous, and no amount of reassurance from those higher up was helping her. She rubbed at her neck, obsessively, pressing hard enough with her hand to just feel the almost-faded bruising, and wondered if that was why Wesley had made the marks he had, so that she would have a new memento to bear of what she had facilitated. She suspected she was going to be feeling for that pain, trying to reignite it with her own pressure, for the rest of her life. Wesley, she knew, only touched his scar to wish it gone, or when the knowledge of his fallibility seeped though into his consciousness.

They were both marked now, he by his failure, she by hers.

It was Wesley who had been intended by the Senior Partners to open the sarcophagus. Seemingly lost to the world, too proud to accept the conditions Angel and Gunn would have laid down before they would have even considered letting him back into their little boys' club, his feelings of betrayal and isolation seeping out of him along with the faint taints of drugs and whisky, he had looked like the perfect candidate. The guilt his death would have laid upon Angel was too good an opportunity to miss as well - the idea of forcing the vampire to kill the man who had been so loyal to him in everything another step on his own personal road to perdition.

But it seemed Wesley had escaped from whatever downward spiral he had been set on - not because of any outside power, or because Lilah had failed - my God, she hadn't failed, might have succeeded even without the drug, that night - but because she could sense something new in him now, something hard and ineradicable as bedrock, something that must have been there before and just not visible or tangible, because that kind of inner strength didn't come from nowhere.

But it was supposed to be Lilah who helped him find it, laying the foundations for evil in him before he became aware of his inner convictions, cultivating the seeds of self-doubt and mistrust in him so thoroughly that he would never have questioned her request for help.

It seemed that no talk of Judas or playing upon his innermost fears could top the simple fact that Wesley could tell the difference in one thing, no matter how low he sank. He could tell the difference between genuine need, and respect, and a chance to do something, and the pale, selfish copies that were all Lilah would ever have to offer him.

Lilah cursed all souled vampires with a hatred she had never felt for Angel alone, never until she was defeated and hurt by the power that one single, solitary evening with Spike had given her intended target.

Irony of ironies, she thought, as Fred snuggled deeper into the pillows. The one thing we thought was guaranteed to make Angel lose his soul has given Wesley his back. What a shame none of them would appreciate the joke.

It was a pity, really, that they couldn't use Spike for this, but the Initiative's chip had made him invulnerable to possession at the same time as rendering him powerless to humans.

Sometimes, it seemed that Lilah's life was ruled by irony.

She only hoped that the loss of her new choice of vessel would prove to be as annihilating to those she hated as that of the ones she couldn't have.

And when Fred was no longer herself, but a weakened god, Lilah had plans for her first target with her guided missile's help.

Wesley had thought he had known misery before. How much more intense, how much better it would be to watch, now that he had something to lose.

The Senior Partners wanted Angel alive and on their side. Lilah was still human enough to want something far more basic. She wanted her rival dead, and she wanted to watch Wesley's agony. And those were the only reasons she had agreed to facilitate this plan.

As Fred muttered and stretched, Lilah schooled her features into pleasant, mild concern, and ran through the lines in her head that would set the girl on her unwitting path to destruction.

*

Wesley liked working in the rain. The earth smelt rich, and he could almost see the plants he was transferring from their little pots spread out their leaves and sigh happily. The almost-black that the soil turned to reminded him of home, of digging in bone-and-blood mixture for his mother's new roses, of turning up daffodil bulbs in the Michaelmas holidays, ready for spring. He had learnt to splice tulip bulbs, under the watchful eye of his parents' gardener, learnt to create his own flowers and test when seedlings were ready to transfer.

It had been a source of amazement to him, always, that the funny little things he so carefully put into larger pots in the spring holidays were full-grown and flowering by the time he came home.

One year, he and his mother had spent a whole afternoon putting up bamboo canes and wire netting, ready for sweet peas. He had been the one to put the seeds in their little self-fertilising containers that grew big and puffy and swallowed the seeds up when you added water, and the one to gather the new blossoms each morning when he came home in the summer.

That had been a good year. His father had been in Slovakia for nearly eleven months, looking for the new Potential - God, she would have been one of the ones working with Buffy now, present for the fall of the Hellmouth - and his mother had been free to grow unnecessary things without criticism or justification, to get a deep-fat fryer and make them deep-fried Brie and bought redcurrant sauce (rather than the strained and made and Wesley-picked variety that his father usually insisted on) for an evening meal. Holidays had been a kind of stolen season, the one time he could remember wanting to come home. They had had a blissful Christmas, where she had insisted on them saving all the peel from the clementine oranges, so that they could throw it on the fire in the evenings, and scent the room. She had taught him to tell fortunes by exploding chestnuts in front of the fire, and ended up in a competition with him to choose the ones most likely to explode furthest and get shell bits up on the lintels. She had taught him the perfect combination of spices and fruit for mulled wine, and let him help her drink their failed attempts, pouring it straight out of the pan into their mugs and telling him versions of Herodotus that made him snort the sweet liquor out of his nose with uncontrollable laughter.

But by the next Easter, his father was home, and there was no more colour in the garden, and his mother was back in sensible, lasting clothes, no more bright flashes of gold and red and improbably coloured flower-printed skirts. She never showed by a flicker that things had been any different, and Wesley never had the courage to ask if he really had imagined it.

But he remembered now, digging in little patches of moss and building his rockery, looking over his emerging rose plants, and smelling the wet herbs. He remembered that this was how peace smelled.

When his phone rang, he was so absorbed in sensing the minute changes in what he was doing, that the sound took a moment to penetrate his consciousness for what it was. Wiping his muddy hands on his jeans, he fished his cellphone out of his back pocket, and, thinking it was a potential client, answered, "Pryce."

"Wes! Wes, fuck, I've been trying to find you, shit, where'd you go, man?"

Wesley sat down abruptly on one of the rocks. "Faith?"

"Shit, yeah! Oh, man, I am so freakin' sorry, y'know? Only there wasn't a phone connection for ages, and I didn't realise you weren't with Angel any more, and oh, man, Wes, we so trashed the Hellmouth, it was awesome!"

"Faith, are you -"

"We're fine." Her voice was abruptly serious. "We're fine, we're all OK, honest. Well, 'cept for Kennedy, silly little bitch, but hey. Greater good, right?" There was something brittle in her tone at that, and Wesley wanted nothing more than to go to her, to be what he had never managed before, and tell her that yes, it was horrible, and yes, she was right, and maybe take her out for a drink.

"Faith, what happened?"

"Willow - Wills, she got this spell, dunno what, but - all the Potentials? Wes, they're, like, Slayers. Real ones. And - then the amulet...it glowed. And Kennedy, everything - burning and glowing, and it was - kinda beautiful, y'know? So we ran." She giggled, unexpectedly. "Shit, Wes, all these Slayers, and we just ran like fuck and got the hell out of there!"

"Good," Wesley said with a ferocity that even surprised him. "Good. Faith, listen. You need to talk to Xander. You really need to talk to him. Angel -"

"Angel fucked up, yeah? Shit, why am I not surprised. Sure, Wes. Dial me through, 'k? You know...there wasn't time. Buffy wanted - but there wasn't time."

"I did wonder." Wesley took a deep breath. "But he needs -"

"Yeah. We're a bit crap, aren't we? I just - 's easy. Thinking Angel will -"

"I know. I know. It's all right, Faith. Just - please, talk to him. And Spike, if you can?"

"Spike? Spike's there? Oh, fucking God, thank you! Buff's been going out of her mind, man, and Dawnie, well, you know - bounce 'I hate him' - bounce 'I miss him' - bounce 'Buffy it's all your fault' - fucking wears me out."

Wesley snorted. "Yes," he agreed. "I think I know. Oh - Faith. They may be - a little the worse for wear."

There was a definite giggle this time. "Wes, I've found out something. You know vodka and Pepsi?"

Wesley shuddered. "Yes?"

"The sugar high....way before the drunk. Just so's you know. Wills is like...pffffffft-boing."

"Willow? Willow's with you? Faith, you're incredible. You have just the tonic needed. I'm transferring you now..."

He dialled the upstairs number, waited until an irritated sounding Spike snapped "What?" down the phone, grinned to himself, and pressed the transfer button. Then, with a much less pleasant expression on his face, he called the Hyperion.

"Cordelia? It's Wesley. I need to speak to Angel. Now.."

*

There were definitely different flavours and different colours to a good drunk. Right now Spike was feeling rather like a nice, golden brown, pastry - kind of flakey but with a warm apricot filling.

Xander was beyond that - more on the mellow edge leaning towards comatose. He had managed to overcome his feelings of guilt after about 10 of the 12 beers and several glasses of Wes' good whiskey. Now he was just sitting on the couch, feet on the coffee table, head lounged back against the cushions. Spike had fixed himself some blood to promote faster healing and had encouraged the younger man to talk. Their conversation had been far ranging, and Spike figured that maybe, just maybe, he and Xander were heading towards some kind of, well, not friendship at this point, but definitely a truce...a cessation of hostilities for Wes' sake, if not their own.

That thought was contributing to Spike's warm feeling, almost as much as the brandy he'd been imbibing steadily over the last ½ hour. Bringing more peace to Wes' life was definitely a good thing in Spike's view. Peaceful Wes was relaxed Wes. Relaxed Wes meant he was much more willing to be dragged off for a shag whenever Spike felt the urge - always a good thing.

Peaceful Wes also meant that when problems did arise, he handled them with much better humor. And, considering the fact that Spike knew about Wes's plan to call Angel.... Well, there was not a lot of peace to be had in that direction, certainly.

Spike looked over to where Xander was lounging on the couch, watching him through half-closed eyes.

"Just gotta find out what happened to all of them, ya know?" Xander's speech wasn't slurred at all, in spite of all the alcohol in his system.. "Willow, Anya, Dawnie... all of them."

Xander leaned forward, and picked up the mug sitting on the coffee table, raising it for a drink.

"Sto--" Yes, it was definitely time for Spike to get Xander all tucked up in the demon couch - he'd just downed a good swallow of AB-pos.

Xander's eyes suddenly got wide, "Ummmm... that wasn't coffee, was it?"

"Not exactly, no."

Somehow, Xander managed not to spew the blood all over, but the look on his face said it was not an experience he wanted to repeat.... Ever.

"I'm not sure if that was more disturbing or just nasty...." Xander's scowl covered his face.

"Look. It's not like I left it there for you -" Spike began, just as the phone rang.

Spike scowled and picked up the phone, "What?"

"Yo, Fang-face." A slightly slurred giggle came at him, "How the fuck are you?"

"Slayer?"

Xander bounded to his feet, almost dancing around Spike, holding out his hand for the phone with an anxious look.

"Yeah, it's me... Man, you missed out on one massively righteous fight." That was one place that Spike and Faith had always agreed - their enthusiasm for a good fight. "Wish you coulda been here, but fuck... just all went down too fast."

"Save it, Slayer," Spike growled into the phone. "Xander's going to split something open if I don't give him the phone soon."

He turned away from Xander, lowering his voice, "Heard about Willow's girl... How's everyone else?"

There were a few moments of silence as Spike listened to the reply, "Yeah, well, we'll discuss that later. Right now? I'm where I want to be... and I'm stayin'."

Spike passed the phone on to Xander, then turned and headed down the stairs, the bottle of apricot brandy tucked under his arm.

*

It had stopped raining. Wesley sat by the fountain, which was just about complete, and noticed with some amusement that the bit which was going to be a fish pond was obviously watertight, since it had rained enough over the last couple of hours to half-fill it, and the level didn't seem to be going down at all.

Which meant, of course, that the drainage system and pipes weren't working yet, and Wesley was going to have to look into it at some point. Leaning back against the damp stone seemed an infinitely preferable option, even if it was slightly uncomfortable, and even if he was beginning to realise just how wet and muddy he had got.

When Spike wandered out, carrying a bottle of something odd-looking that Wesley was damn sure he had never owned, and thus had to have come from Mr Pak, he looked infinitely more relaxed. Apparently both the talk with Xander and the phone-call from Faith had been reasonably successful.

"You want something to drink?" Spike offered, waving the bottle at him. Even the sound of the liquid in the bottle implied a hefty level of alcohol. Wesley squinted at the label. Apricot brandy.

"Mm. Thank you." He reached out a hand, lazily, mildly surprised when Spike not only handed the bottle over, but sat down beside him in the damp. It was a kind of silent apology for something - and Wesley was pretty certain it was for the conversation they had been having before.

"Talk to him?"

Wesley shook his head. "He's out. Cordelia wouldn't say where. I'll try again in the morning." He stared at the bottle, wondering whether he actually dared drink any of this. Finally, he raised the bottle to his mouth.

"You done for the night?" Spike asked him, just as he took a mouthful.

Wesley swallowed the sweet liquid, surprised when it turned out to have a punch that burned straight down his throat into his stomach, nodded and sighed. He rubbed at his eyes. Spike bumped his shoulder, companionably.

"You should be in bed. Asleep. Should have come up."

Wesley snorted. Their conversation from earlier really was far from over.

He gave Spike a hard look. "If I were contemplating going out to face down a killer...or that I thought I should be somewhere where that was going to be a possibility - and you didn't know where I was thinking about going or who I was going to be using for back up...would you be able to sleep?"

Spike opened his mouth and then snapped it shut. "No," he finally said, "I wouldn't be sleeping."

Wesley cocked his head to one side. "You almost got it, then."

"Got it?"

"Why I was annoyed - and not especially with you."

Spike frowned. Wesley sighed heavily and shook his head.

"You...Spike, you are not, in fact, either invincible or immortal."

"I know that."

"Do you?" Wesley arched an eyebrow. "You really don't act as though you do."

Spike grimaced. "Look, I know you don't like that -"

"Did you mean it when you said you love me?" Wesley neatly cut him off.

Spike blinked. "Yes!" He reached out to grab Wesley's hand. "Hell, yes, I meant it. I love you, Wes. You have to believe that."

Wesley nodded slowly, eyes never leaving his. "Did you believe me when I said I felt the same?"

He heard Spike's breath catch, watched the flickers in his eyes that meant he was unsure of where Wesley was going with this line of questioning. But his answer was certain, if a little perplexed. "I did. I do. I believe you."

"Then why would you think your death would hurt me any less than mine would hurt you?" The question was as gentle as he could make it, a real attempt to reach some kind of understanding. "Why would you think I wouldn't want you as safe and sound as you want me to be?"

Spike stared at him. Apparently, it had never even occurred to him.

Wesley moved closer. "You never got left behind, did you? Never sat at home with nothing more to do than wait, worry and pray?"

He knew the answer. Spike was used to being the one on the front lines, the protector, the defender, active and focused on getting things done. He hated feeling helpless - but if he could understand it in Xander, he should have known by now that Wesley would share that feeling.

"I just want you to be safe." Spike whispered.

"Taking on something alone, keeping me at a distance from the action and yes, I do know that's what you're considering, or were, before Faith called...it still won't keep me safe." Wesley reached out and cupped Spike's face with one hand, his thumb caressing Spike's cheek.

"I nearly died a few times before I met you, you know." Wesley didn't look away. "There wasn't only Justine. There was a police officer who shot me. A zombie police officer, but - it was unexpected. And prevented hospital access for a rather too-long period." Wesley leaned in a little closer. "I learned to defend myself against humans long before I could kill a demon - or even defend myself against one. They were more of a threat that anything with scales or fangs or horns could ever be. I became competent enough to be reasonably unafraid of what they could do. And still - I was shot. I wasn't the greatest success alone, either, after I left Sunnydale. I might have hunted demons for pay, but I was utterly incompetent when I caught up with them. The Kungai would have killed me without difficulty if I hadn't met Angel that night."

He looked at Spike, giving him time to assimilate the information, then smirked, deliberately annoying. "Life's too short to spend it regretting things."

"That's a stupid cliché." Spike glared at Wesley.

"Which doesn't make it any less true." Wesley shrugged, an unrepentant look on his face. "Holst was trying to do the right thing, but he forced Justine to kill him. She looked harmless enough to me, and she slit my throat."

Spike winced.

"It's irrelevant," Wesley pointed out. "That's the past. We work together now. I trust you to be there for me, to have my back when it comes to all the insanity we seem to get into." He bit his lip. "I wish you trusted me to do the same for you."

"I do." Spike insisted. "I do...it was just...damn it, Wesley, I can't lose you as well...."

"And you think it would be easier for me to lose you?" Wesley shook his head.

Spike looked rather as though a light bulb should be shining over his head as he visibly made the connection Wesley had clearly been trying to relay.

Wesley's voice was a rain-gravelled mixture of affection and exasperation. "You are such a complete arse some times, you do know that?"

Spike grinned at him. "Does this mean I'm forgiven?"

"That depends," Wesley said calmly. This was the hard bit.

Spike froze, smile fading. "On what?"

"Are you going to do this - or consider this - again? Because I'd rather sleep alone than have you out there without reliable back up."

Spike hesitated. "Wes...I can't promise not to put your safety ahead of things. Can't promise not to try to handle things on me own when I think it's best. But - I'll try not to."

"All right." Wesley nodded.

Spike blinked. "What the hell does that mean? All right, what?"

"I wanted honesty, not for you to tell me what you think I want to hear. And you gave me that." Wesley smiled. "You always do." He shrugged one shoulder and made a vague meaningless gesture with one hand. "I know you didn't think it through. You didn't realise what I was trying to say. Now you do." He pointed a finger at Spike. "You'll try...and from you, that means a lot more than it does coming from most people, Spike." Wesley leaned forward and rested his forehead against Spike's. "And just so that we're absolutely clear, I will be bringing this point up again at some stage - probably the one when you decide it's no longer relevant and you're going to do something that keeps me out of things."

Spike nodded. "Okay. I can live with that."

"We'll make it work."

"We'll make it work." Spike repeated, giving the statement the weight of a promise.

Wesley felt tension draining out of him like water released from behind a dam. He sighed and leaned more heavily into Spike. He could spend the night right here, not moving, just like this.

"But you aren't going to."

Wesley blinked, not realizing he'd even spoken aloud until he heard Spike's comment. Spike stood up and offered him a hand. "C'mon. Let's go see about you working on a few hours of sleep. Things will look different in the morning."

Wesley was tempted to dismiss that bit of optimism. It was as clichéd as his own earlier statement about life being too short, but oddly, he really didn't want to dismiss it. He wanted to believe things would be different in the morning, and was going to do his best to find the truth in that old cliché.

*

He followed Spike through the apartment, past a snoring Xander, who had fallen asleep holding the phone, and into the bedroom, stripping off his muddy clothes in a pile, and haphazardly jamming them into the laundry basket.

The bedroom was warm, and under the covers was warmer. Wesley wondered if perhaps he should invest in an electric blanket. Or a towel rack that warmed towels. Or something. On another level of his mind altogether, he wondered, vaguely, when Spike was going to get fed up with all his provisos, and just leave.

Spike placed a kiss above his heart. "Stop thinking. Already told the Slayer, didn't I? 'M staying here. So stop your brain. 'S making my head hurt."

Easier said than done, Wesley thought with a smile, but felt something unwind inside his head at the reassurance. He nuzzled Spike's hair, enjoying the way the silken strands felt against his skin. "I'll try."

"Good...'nough." Spike mumbled.

Wesley closed his eyes and centred himself in the moment. What was done, was done. He had said what needed to be said. And he would deal with tomorrow - and Angel - when he had to. For now, it was enough just to be content.

*

Safe... Safe.... Safe..... The litany ran through his head as the effects of a long and frustrating day collided with far too much alcohol, threatening to drag him down into sleep before he could even hang up the portable phone.

Faith had called. And wasn't that just...odd? Not Willow... not Giles...not even Anya - Faith.

Even odder that he somehow felt...comforted by that fact.

Willow would have tried to soften everything for him. Giles would have buried everything under a mountain of English sentiments that he never did quite get. And Anya? Well, he wasn't sure if he could handle quite that much frankness at the moment.

But Faith told him everything... plain... straight and true. No softening, but nothing blatantly hurtful either. Which, really, was kind of a new thing for both of them.

"Angel told you about Kennedy... Wils is pretty busted up over it. Kinda feels like she's been cursed...Got her a bit liquored up and poured her into bed." Faith's voice growled a bit then, "Stupid fuckin' kid, should have given me the damned necklace - Had to play at being hero."

"Then you'd be dead," Xander's simple comment.

"Yeah... but what a freakin' rush." A wild laugh and then silence...like Faith was considering what to tell him next. "Lost a lot of the new Slayers. It was bad, Xander... really bad."

"I should have been there, Faith." Xander's voice was low, rough, and he picked up his glass, splashing more whisky into it. "I could have helped."

"There just wasn't time, Xan. We got the scythe and amulet... and we were gone." Suddenly stopped. "Buffy fuckin' took care of Caleb, Xan... Split that shithead from brain to balls... Thought you'd want to know..."

"Yeah... thanks..." One part of Xander rejoiced. Another part was angry that he hadn't been able to do it himself. "What about everyone else? Giles? Dawn?....... Anya?"

"Wood got it pretty bad." Faith told him, although he hadn't asked. "Sword in the gut. He's gonna be laid up for awhile."

"That's too bad." Xander was sympathetic, although really, that was not what he had asked.

"Giles is good. Trying to get us all someplace to settle. We might even be coming there, to L.A., for awhile." Faith continued. "Dawn and Buffy are about normal for them... arguing and getting in each other's way."

"And Anya?" He tossed back the rest of the whisky in his glass. "Come on, Faith. What happened to Anya?"

It had been, surprisingly enough, difficult to get information out of Faith. Anya was fine. She'd been injured in the battle... but nothing major. But, she had decided to go England with Giles and the Slayers when they were ready. It seemed that she and Andrew had decided to open up a new business of some type...but, since Andrew was now determined to be a Watcher, London was the place for the shop.

Yeah... that was his girl - she loved him... but money? Well that was always his one serious rival. And, he guessed, was really needed to be the operative part of that first sentence. Anya was his girl - past tense. He'd always love her... but they both knew it was over. Over in a "call me if you need me but don't make it too often" kind of way.

So, Xander had said goodnight to Faith. Or at least he thought he had. He had been getting pretty drifty towards the end of the conversation. He did remember extracting a promise from Faith to have Willow call him, as soon as his friend felt able... but not much beyond that.

His slumber on the demon couch that night was interrupted only by a groggy, barely alert, stumble to the bathroom in the chill morning hours... and then a snuggle into warmth as he settled down into the comfort of sheets and a soft bed.

*

Spike snuggled in closer to the warmth-that-was-Wes... breathing in his scent, eyes closed. His morning erection pressed comfortably, but not urgently, against the soft skin of a bare ass and his hand trailing down over flat stomach muscles. This was his favorite moment of the day... not really morning, since, yes, he still kept pretty much to vampire time... but not yet afternoon. A faint rumble of traffic from the street, and the soft gentle sounds of breathing... a soft snore occasionally breaking through...

Not a loud snore... but enough to break through Spike's morning contemplations. The snore was off...odd...wrong. Why was that? Spike fought back the uneasiness. No... nothing was wrong... he didn't need to wake up. He was in a cozy place, snuggled with Wes - one of those perfect moments that he had managed a few of lately.

"Grmish..." Yes, that was Wes, and the sound of the nonsense word made Spike smile. "Too hot... snoring in my ear...."

Spike tensed at that. Bloody snoring. He didn't snore... and, come to think of it, neither did Wes.

Then who?

Blue eyes flashed open, and quickly turned gold, "Bloody Hell, Harris... just cause I'm willing to share a drink with you does not fuckin' mean I'm sharing anything else!"

"Wha?? Aack! Ooof!!" Xander tumbled off the side of the bed onto his butt. "Owww..."

Scuttling backwards until he was brought up short by the simple expedient of running into a wall, Xander looked around... wild-eyed and confused. And yes frightened, in his groggy, hungover state, as ridges and fangs were directed towards him.

"Wes is mine... and you don't touch him." There was blood and pain and suffering promised in the crack of that voice.

"Spike!" The sharp tone of his lover's voice whipped his head around. "Come here.... Please...."

Spike fought for a moment... then finally gained control, moving back and away from Xander. Wes soothed a hand over his forehead and then a shake settled his face into it's calmer human angles.

"Xander - at the risk of sounding like one of the Three Bears, why were you in our bed?" Wes's voice was extraordinarily calm in the wake of Spike's upset.

"I... I'm not sure...." Xander's face was red and flushed. "I know I went to sleep on the couch and then... I was pretty drunk...maybe I.... sleepwalked?"

There was a disbelieving snort from Spike, quelled in an instant by a stern look from Wes.

"Do you normally sleepwalk, Xander?"

"Uh.... No...." the answer was an embarrassed squeak. "I'm sorry, Wes. I... I don't remember anything but falling asleep.... And maybe stumbling into the bathroom...."

"Ah.... And on the way back you got...what? Turned around, perhaps?" Wes's suggestion warranted another snort from Spike.

Xander leapt on that suggestion, "Yeah... maybe... I remember going... but not coming back. Maybe.... Really, Wes... I'm sorry. I'd never...er... try anything."

"No... of course not..." Wes sighed, relaxing back against Spike. "We have to get a bigger apartment."

Spike wrapped himself possessively around Wes, watching.

"Shit... I'm really sorry, you guys... Wes...Spike... Sorry." Xander's eye flicked from one man to the other.

"No harm done..." There was a growl from Spike, but Wes's elbow in his ribs cut it short. "I said No. Harm. Done."

"Yeah... 's fine. Know you don't swing that way, Xander... 's fine." But whether Spike was trying to convince himself or Xander, was unsure.
And of course, the phone, diabolical instrument that it was, chose that precise moment to ring.

*

Wesley stared at the phone, at Xander, at Spike, who he could still feel growling, even if he couldn't actually hear him, then gave up on the vague hope that anyone else was going to do something and picked up the receiver.

"Pryce," he said, more at whoever was on the other end than to them, and hoped for everyone's sake that the call wasn't for him.

"Uh, Wes? Is this a bad - no, never mind, no, really, I mean - is it?"

Angel. Wesley resisted the temptation to throw the phone at the wall, and made what was, in hindsight, the stupid (if instinctive and forgivable) action of getting up to find some clothes.

Xander yelped, covered his eyes, and shouted, "Wes! Naked!" which, yes, would have been the point of finding some clothes...and oh. Presumably a very stupid idea, given that Spike was growling audibly again, Xander seemed to be trying to find a way to meld his face to his hands, and Angel, who of course had heard everything, was asking confusedly,

"Wes? Why are you naked with Xander and Spike?" He sounded as though this was something horrible the world had planned just for him, specifically designed as additional torture.

Wesley dragged on some jeans from what he had mentally termed the 'reasonably clean' pile on the chair, glared impartially at the two other occupants of the room, and said in his most reasonable voice,

"Because I had no clothes on. Angel, we really need to talk about -"

"Is Fred there?"

Wesley took the cordless phone away from his ear, and stared at it. Then he very, very gingerly put it back to his ear. "Yes," he said, letting exactly how strained his patience was show through, "Yes, she's chained up in the wardrobe. I was about to let her out in the gimp suit." He tried to ignore the way Xander was staring at the wardrobe, Spike's incomprehensible mouthing, and shook his head at them both, pointing with his free hand to the phone and shrugging.

"What?" Angel asked, his voice rising into an almost-squeak at the end of the word. He sounded more as though Wesley had informed him of an approaching apocalypse than become irritated. Wesley sighed, and reminded himself that Angel, even after two-hundred and forty-odd years, still had problems with sarcasm.

"No, Angel. Fred isn't here. Why would you think she is?"

Xander looked back at the wardrobe, looked at Wesley, made the connection, and started snorting into the hand he hastily clapped over his mouth. Spike's eyes lit up with unholy glee. In a rare gesture of self preservation, Wesley left the room, and shut the door firmly behind him, ignoring the shout of "Ask him if he wants to join in!" that followed him.

"Sorry," he said briefly. "It's been a - rather complicated morning. All five minutes of it," he added on a sigh.

"Oh. Yeah. I - Wes, I'm serious. Have you seen Fred?"

Wesley gritted his teeth. "No," he said curtly. "Should I have?"

"I was kinda hoping," Angel admitted. "Look, some shit...Fred shot someone. I mean, she killed someone. And she left. I - we've - been looking for her, but I can't - we can't -"

"You what?" Wesley was really, really hoping he'd misheard.

"Look, she said she was -"

"You stupid, brainless, unthinking cretin," Wesley hissed, too angry even to shout. "Is there absolutely no limit to the things you and that pathetic excuse for a power conduit can fuck up? What is this, Angel? Anyone capable of helping you who can't glow or follow you unthinkingly, you get rid of? My Christ! I should have left you at the bottom of the ocean and done the world a favour!"

"Wes..."

"Don't you dare interrupt me, you half-baked pretext for a Champion!" Wesley snarled, and oh, there was the rage, burning through him like molten lava, searing through his head in something close to agony. "You couldn't be bothered to do your job, so don't even think about trying to defend yourself on this one! Where's the line, Angel? Throwing me out and trying to kill me? Letting Gunn try to kill Spike? The way you treated Xander - and believe me, Faith's angrier than I am over that, so count your teeth - and while we're on that topic, everything was 'under control'? You didn't even know the capacities of that amulet, you didn't bother to check who was going to use it, and if all you were concerned about was Buffy's safety, then you could have damn well told Xander that she was fine before you hung up the phone! Friendship's become an absolutely alien concept to you, hasn't it?" He was vaguely aware that Spike and Xander were staring at him from the doorway of the bedroom, but he was too angry to care, or moderate his words and tone. "If anything's happened to her," he said, feeling his hands begin to shake with fury, "and I do mean anything, including a broken nail, I will take it out of your hide. Now fuck off back to your little lawyer obsession, and don't bother calling me unless she turns up. Better still, get Cordy to phone. Right now, the thought of hearing one more word out of your mouth sickens me." He snapped the phone shut, and tossed it onto the couch.

"Jesus," he said, rubbing his hands over his face. "Oh, God. What the hell am I going to do?"

*

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