Dragonslayers, Inc. Arc 2: Summer's Last Will and Testament

Joy and Woe are woven fine,

A clothing for the soul divine

Under every grief and pine

Runs a joy with silken twine.

Wesley thought that it would have been a lot more disturbing waking up in the morning to find that even though the clock read 11:05, the room was pitch black, and that someone had wrapped themselves around him like a rather octopus-type blanket and was holding on for dear life, hands knotted in his shirt and doing their apparent best to throttle him, if it hadn't become a regular occurrence over the last few weeks.

Given that his previous experience of living with a vampire had been limited to Angel's ideas of interaction - which veered between the wildly inappropriate to the downright bizarre - he was finding that even what was rapidly settling into a routine could have moments where he felt his fingers twitching for a pen, reverting to his training and wanting to make notes.

He had long ago got used to the fact that blood lived in the fridge alongside the milk. He was not yet quite accustomed to the fact that it had its own personal mug and had toast dipped into it in the mornings, and, on one particularly noisy and revolting occasion, could have prawn crackers added.

A catalogue of things that were not so much banned, as a list of Special Pleas to Never Do When I'm Around Again, Thank You, had been slowly growing, stuck to the fridge door with a teapot magnet that had come out of a box of Twinings. The prawn crackers had been the first thing.

Using the dregs in the mug as an impromptu ashtray had been second.

By the tenth item, Wesley had fitted himself with mental blinkers, and just added a request to clear up after whatever-it-was that he didn't want to know about.

Never good at sleeping at set times, he had become so of necessity. Spike wasn't completely nocturnal - he had a liking for late afternoons, for some reason, possibly because that was when re-runs of appalling old series were on TV - but he certainly prevented any chance of a normal working day becoming an option. He had a residual loathing of dawn - despite all Wesley's careful additions that kept what natural light there was out of his apartment, and the mounting electricity bill, it seemed that he had a sixth sense when it came to sunrise, which Wesley could usually time by his increasing twitchiness.

Wesley himself was developing a sixth sense when it came to the twitching, usually because Spike tended to have the self-preservation of a lemming when it came to looking after himself, and if Wesley got too lost in his books and failed to notice the time, Spike had usually got lost in his own head and the rest of the day was a write off, unless Wesley wanted to count learning obscure poetry and nineteenth century Russian novelists as progress, which he generally didn't. It was also disturbing when coupled with the more recognisable quotes, because Wesley was never sure who they were supposed to apply to - or indeed what they were being applied to -

Friends Romans countrymen I come to honour Caesar not to bury him not yet because his killers still live vengeance is mine cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war and fill the gap with English dead and bright life-blood spreads liquid ruby--

That was the kind of thing he found he would give a great deal to stop before it got started, particularly when it was being aimed at what looked like a perfectly innocent artefact, and he had no idea what could have triggered any of it off.

It only took him a couple of days to realise that part of the reason things got that far was that no matter what the consequences, Spike was not going to go to sleep unless he was within touching distance, and only a few minutes after that realisation to decide to make a conscious effort to try and develop an awareness of time.

Given their clientele to date, of course, this was not so much a drawback as a help, but Wesley still found himself feeling guilty when he woke up to find that the clock read some time after midday.

This morning, therefore, was somewhat of an anomaly, firstly since it was actually morning as opposed to sometime after when most people had finished lunch, and secondly since, despite the vampire-shaped limpet that had immobilised him, he was actually feeling surprisingly good about things.

This was partly due to the fact that they had just received their first substantial pay check for something that wasn't translation, partly due to the fact that he had actually slept, as opposed to lying still and hoping for a nightmare-free night, afraid to move in case something triggered off whatever the soul was doing to Spike's psyche, and partly due to the cautious feelers he had been sending out that had ascertained, to his surprise, that he was, in fact, hangover free.

Considering that he had been far too plastered when he went to bed to do any kind of anti-hangover spell, or indeed drink the obligatory vast amounts of water, this was something of an achievement.

It had been a celebration, of sorts, or perhaps an attempt at normalcy - a drink to toast an accomplishment, rather than to ease one or another kind of pain. They had been paid, the case had been solved, and, miraculously, nothing had gone wrong. It had definitely called for a drink, and Mr Pak had wanted to off-load some beer that apparently no-one was going to buy.

No-one was going to have the chance, now, as far as Wesley's slightly fuzzy recollections informed him.

It was strange to think that while once, normal had been solitude, it was now stolen cable and someone to bounce ideas off, someone to worry about who still made his life more bearable, the knowledge that there would always be something to eat in the cupboard, even if it was Mr Pak's special offer home-brand noodles, and it was wiser not to ask too much about where they'd come from originally, or what Mr Pak had put in them. It was companionship and genuine assistance, and Wesley was utterly terrified that he would wake up one morning and find that not only had he become accustomed to it, but that it had been withdrawn.

He tried to keep the line between emotional self-reliance and making sure he wasn't shutting Spike out of his work, but increasingly, these days, it was becoming difficult.

The only thing that kept him mindful of how necessary it would always be to maintain was Spike's continued refusal to tell him anything about what had happened in Sunnydale prior to his departure, and how, exactly, he had got the soul.

Wesley could have found out. But he was reluctant to break what trust there was between them by doing so.

Spike awoke to find himself wrapped, half protectively, half imploring of protection, around Wes…again. Fortunately, so far, Wes didn't seem to resent either implication. Fortunately, because Spike seemed unable to control it. No matter how far on the other side of the bed he put himself this was how he woke up - a tousled limpet snuggling into the man's warmth.

Spike found it a bit disarming, and only Wes' casual acceptance of the whole thing kept a babbling, "I'm sorry, mate" from being his first words of the morning.

"'Morning." Spike slowly loosened his grip from where it had wrapped itself in Wes' t-shirt.

"Nearly noon, actually," Wes corrected softly. "Early for you though. Get some more sleep."

"Yeah… thanks. Could use some more, I think." Spike, somewhat reluctantly, unwrapped himself from the other man's lean frame, mentally chiding himself, "Getting' as bad as a kid havin' his Teddy taken, you are."

Wes got up and stretched, leaving Spike to snuggle into the warm spot he'd left behind.

Spike closed his eyes, relaxing, but, as these things often worked, found himself unable to go immediately back to sleep. Instead he rolled over onto his back and listened to Wes' "morning" routine.

First, typical mortal, into the bathroom, then soft padding and morning creaks of stiffened muscles as he walked out into the kitchen and put on either the kettle or the coffee maker. Then back to the bathroom for a hot shower, assuming the water heater cooperated… Or the sound of curses if it did not, followed by metallic clanging and finally the sound of water. Soft rustling then, as Wes came back into the bedroom to dress.

Spike watched him, eyes carefully slit to hide it, admiring the economical movements of the man and the, far too many, scars his clothing usually hid.

"Not getting enough sun." A sudden thought, a slight frown. "'Course not. Too busy babysitting the crazy vamp, isn't he?"

A round of self-pity, quickly thrust away, as Spike, instead, tried to figure out a way to get Wes out and into the sun a bit more. It would be good for him, the warmth and the fresh air….or what passed for it in L.A. He'd have to talk to Mr. Pak. The man was sure to have some advice.

Wes padded into the kitchen, dressed but still barefoot, and yes, coffee this morning, dark and strong… the aroma making it's way into the bedroom.

"Now the morning delivery - paper… and crosswords," Spike chuckled, as he heard the apartment door open and then close. Although the crosswords in the Times barely challenged Wes, he insisted that they relaxed him and he worked them, diligently.

Then a more thorough study of the paper, picking out what might be supernatural occurrences from the more mundane. It was surprising what was passed off one for the other, even in L.A.

Lastly, phone calls… follow ups of old information, requests for new… messages and daily appointments. Wes would wake Spike if any required his immediate assistance, or hold them for later if they did not.

Spike smiled and snuggled down into the blankets once again, relaxed enough now to attempt further sleep.

It was amazing, he thought as he settled down, how easily Wes had allowed him to be a part of this… a part of his life… a part of his… well, business, might still be stretching it at this point, but still, he was part of it.

A bit scary too, really. At times he felt posed on the edge… waiting for the other shoe… the bad shoe… to drop. The thing in his past that Wes would not overlook. The flash of craziness that Wes would no longer be able to bear.

No… those thoughts were not conducive to further sleep, so he shoved them down - down and back into the recesses of his mind, as he pulled the covers higher.

Wesley picked up the phone, dialled, and let the smile in his voice carry through into his greeting. "Good morning, my dear. All serene?"

"Wesley, hi!" Fred, as always, sounded as though she had been awake for hours - a distinct possibility, as ever, but Wesley suspected that even if he called at two in the morning, he would get the same response. "How're you two doin'? Hey, I think I managed to get Angel to kinda agree to send your books on, would that be good?"

"We're fine. And yes, it would be absolutely wonderful. Anything I should know about?"

"Oh, no, it's all good here…well, y'know. Good as it can get. Charles still ain't happy, y'know? But it's for the best. Can't be a little girl forever…"

"You still miss him, though." Wesley settled himself onto the sofa. Conversations with Fred could sometimes be the highlight of his day, a jumble of normalcy and surrealness that gave him his own ground of remembrance to hold onto on the worst days of nightmare and struggle against real and threatening insanity.

"Oh, shoot…" Fred laughed. "Wesley, I ain't that cracked. Course I miss him. He's a honey in the bedroom, y'know? And, well, there are days…"

They both laughed at that. "Of course." Wesley let his amusement bleed down the wire, teasing the girl whom he had once though to be his ideal, and now could talk to as a friend. "Who wouldn't have those…?"

"Oh, you hush!" Fred was giggling. "You want him, Wes, y'all come an' take him!"

Wesley spluttered on his coffee. "No, thank you! Fred, seriously…is everything all right there?"

"Oh sure…we're OK, y'know? Cordy's all wrapped around Angel's finger, an' we're doing what's right…it's good, Wes. Honest."

"All right, my dear. But you will call, if anything should -"

"Got you on speed dial. An' I will. Hey, tell Spike I'll be seein' him for them tacos soon, yeah?"

"I will. He'll be happy to hear that. I'll call you tomorrow."

"Bye…"

Wesley hung up, and smiled at the piece of black plastic. "Goodbye, dear one. Look after yourself."

He could never say those words aloud to her, knowing that she would interpret them as an implication that she could not, that all her slowly-gained knowledge was insufficient. He could say them to a dead phone, however, let the wishes traverse a silent line and hope they reached her.

He set some blood to heat in the microwave, absently filling in the last of the crossword, and when he heard the beep, he picked up the notepad, and went back through to the bedroom with the mug, shaking the pile of blankets that was masquerading as his partner.

"Spike? We've got a case. And I think Fred's coming around to the idea of tacos, wherever it was you wanted to meet her."

As Spike's blond, tousled head emerged, Wesley fought the urge to soothe away his awakening with the almost second-natured kiss that seemed natural, and simply smiled.

"And you wake like a kraken," he said quietly. "Here. Breakfast."

Spike straightened up in the bed, taking the mug, and if his hand lingered for a moment on Wes', well, that would just have to be chalked up to persistent grogginess.

"A kraken? Pffft. I'm much better looking." A sleepy chuckle, a sip of his breakfast, and then, "Ta, mate, 's just right."

Wes waited patiently for Spike's eyes to focus the rest of the way, "You're very welcome."

Spike shifted his feet under the blankets, leaving room for Wes to sit, "So, we have a case?"

"Yes," Wesley nodded as he sat. "A Mrs. Schrodinger. It has something to do with her son. She believes the lad has been possessed. Although, I couldn't get her to tell me much detail."

"Can we deal with that?" Spike queried. "You're the mojo-man. I just beat things up."

Wes shot a perplexed look at his partner, "Really, Spike, your contributions to our translations alone --"

"Just kidding, Wes." He held up a hand, staving off Wes' possible lectures. "Just meant that I don't know magic. Vampires pretty much are magic. Always been enough for me anyway."

"Well, right then…. "Wes continued, "We're to meet Mrs. Schrodinger at her husband's office in the Wilshire District at 8 pm."

He stopped there, shaking his head, "We need to get an office. Then we wouldn't have to make all our calls in the evening."

Spike lowered his head, staring down into his mug, "Told you before… don't have to wait on sunset unless it's something dangerous."

"Yes, many times. Allow me my own definitions, hm?" Wes said.

"Alright," Spike couldn't help the small, pleased smile, that stole across his lips, "Best get up then, yeah? Need to finish that translation from Mastema into French."

"No rush on that," Wes told him. "It looks like you've made excellent progress."

"Well, yeah… thanks," it was amazing how a small compliment from Wes made the hard work seem worth it.

He'd have to watch that. Didn't want to make the man feel even more responsible for him. Bad enough that it was only the sound of Wes' voice that seemed to anchor him to the here and now for any length of time, enabling him to sleep peacefully and nightmare free… he didn't want the man to feel he was responsible for making Spike feel good about accomplishing daily tasks. Such overwhelming dependence could wear on one after awhile. As much as he had loved Dru, there were times that she drove him almost as batty as she was with her constant need for attention and affection. He wanted to help Wes… not drag him down. So… hard work, no complaints. Let him go out without showing the hovering worry that when Wes returned he'd be curled in a corner… babbling.

"So, what's the rest of the day like? You get any information outta Slim?" Spike listened avidly to Wes as he detailed the rest of their work day, taking comfort from the sound and the company.

As was so often the case, Wesley found that his attention during the day was drifting from paperwork to the evening's case. His previous experience with possession had not been either productive or pleasant, and had left him with things to think about that still, at times, bothered him, like a niggling ache in a tooth that he kept wanting to prod at.

That a child could have been so evil that the demon possessing it had preferred death was still incomprehensible to him - but that had been the case, a last twist in a truly horrible series of events that had shown him up as useless once again, even in what was supposed to be his area of expertise.

That time, Angel had defended him, seeing the demon's success in taunting him not as a failure on Wesley's part, but as something that was simply part of the case, a danger that had been equal to any physical harm that might result from their latest attempt to help.

It was ironic, Wesley mused, that as he had improved both in mental strength and physical ability, and his mistakes became fewer, Angel had become less able to forgive any errors he might make, less inclined to consider that the fears the demon had touched on -

You do something? What makes you think you can do anything?

- might still be valid, still the driving force behind Wesley's continued attempts to improve what skills he had.

If this, too, was an Ethros demon, then Wesley knew they were woefully ill-equipped to deal with it. The box to contain it could almost certainly be found, but even if he were successful in putting up all the mental barriers he knew, a simple skimming of his mind would not only feed the demon with enough nightmarish material to render the exorcism more difficult, but quite possibly serve only to strengthen it.

And he was damn sure that Spike should be allowed nowhere near the thing. The only problem was, if it was an Ethros demon, he was going to have to explain his rationale at dong the exorcism alone to the vampire, and there was no way of phrasing it either tactfully or kindly.

He was also fairly convinced that Spike's reaction would be the same as his had been when Angel tried to talk him out of doing the first exorcism - he wouldn't see that Wesley's intentions were intended to protect them both, and assume that it was a criticism of his abilities.

He firmly put aside the small voice in his head that was pointing out to him that his motives were not quite as pure as he was telling himself - that one additional fear was that his own mental strength would be insufficient - and that whatever the demon read from him, he didn't want Spike to hear.

All those hours locked up under the stairs and you still weren't good enough.

Oh, God, there were some things he would prefer no-one knew…and the demon would be able to tell that from the moment he appeared.

Wesley stared blindly at the translation he was failing quite miserably to do, and wondered when he had become so pathetic that he could not even bear the idea of someone knowing what he feared the most.

The fact that he strongly suspected it would end their burgeoning partnership in an instant was another factor in his reluctance to take this case on -

Pinning all your affections on a souled vampire again, Wesley? No wonder you're doomed to failure…you're not good enough for the Champions of this world…and you never will be.

With a small sigh, Wesley pushed his translation aside, and picked up his latest acquisition - a codex dealing, in part, with the Shanshu prophecy. His formal renunciation of the things seemed to have been somewhat - ephemeral. But this time, he vowed, he would keep the balance of what remained of his rationality, and cover every angle. This time, he would get something right.

His head ached with quiet ferocity as he forced himself to focus on the task at hand, and put away any thoughts of possible Ethros demons for the time being.

In spite of Wesley's kind words earlier, Spike knew he still had a lot of work to get done on his Mastema to French translation if he was going to finish it within their promised timeframe. Timely translations, more than cases, were what was keeping the bills paid at the moment and he was determined that this, at least, was one area that Wes was not going to have to worry about.

So, out of bed, no television this afternoon, books and papers at the small dining table, and head bent over a pad of scratched notes on tenses and grammar. Break at four for tea, and, to make sure that Wes actually ate something along with it, a quick trot down the stairs to Mr. Pak's Grocery Store to see what might look tempting.

Of course, it was never really that quick a trip when Mr. Pak was involved and it had already gone to half four by the time he got back upstairs and had the kettle on.

"Oi, Wes," he called out. "A bit late, but tea will be ready in quick time."

His announcement was graced with a, "Tea? Could do with a cup. Yes…" and a distracted smile before Wes' face was once again buried deep in his Codex.

Spike shook his head in fond amusement, then went to finish getting the tea things ready.

It was no wonder, really, that Wes was so thin. Spike had found that, unless food was simply placed in front of him, the man could work around the clock with no breaks other than to make a distracted cup of tea or coffee… which would often go cold before it was drunk.

Spike glanced back over towards the desk, suddenly realizing that, although the Codex was open in front of him, Wes did not appear to be looking at it. Instead, he was staring at a point somewhere in the middle distance, a furrow of concentration lining his forehead.

"Probably thinking about the new case," Spike decided.

It probably wasn't really a possession. Spike knew that "The Exorcist" aside, children were rarely possessed. Why would you want to possess something so weak? Something that it would take years to bring to it's full strength and potential, especially when there were so many full grown willing adults that actually *wanted* the possession? Yes, there was the allure of corrupting the innocent, but honestly, there were *still* plenty of innocent adult-types around… those who the world, with all of it's evils and corruptions, just did not seem to touch. And no, not all of them lived in monasteries.

"Wes! Tea!" Spike called in to him, setting the tray on the dining table and tidying his own things away and to the side.

No, it probably wasn't a possession, but, whatever it actually was, he had faith that between Wes' brain and his muscle, they'd get it sorted in record time.

Spike frowned and looked back over to where Wes sat at his desk, "Oi! Wes! Tea's on…."

Still no reaction.

Spike scowled…then chuckled. He silently slid up behind Wes, leaned in and purred against his ear, "Tea's on, love."

Papers went flying, "Ethros Demons!" and Spike suddenly found the end of a ballpoint pen pressed against his chest, just at heart level.

"Uh… plastic, not very useful, pet." Spike pointed out.

"No… but it would hurt…" a huff from Wes, "And if you ever do that again, I shall certainly attempt to do you an injury."

Spikes lip twitched. A slow smile hovered around Wes' as well… then a blert of laughter as the two of them walked to the table to have their tea.

*

It was probably some kind of rule, Wesley thought, that every time he tried to take a quick break and get something to eat, there was some kind of interruption.

When he opened the door and saw Lilah, however, he thought that anything supernatural would have been infinitely preferable.

"Lilah." He opened the door no further, refusing to allow her entry. "And to what do I owe this...entirely unwelcome intrusion?"

"Why, Wes..." Lilah arched her eyebrows, managing to look (if completely insincerely, to Wesley's practised eye) hurt. "I came by to give you something. Aren't you curious?"

"Hemlock?" Wesley asked dryly, hoping that he could keep Spike away from the door by simple force of thinking at him. "Arsenic? No...all too obvious. Let me think. Ah! Of course - you want help with something guaranteed to give you my eternal damnation, all bound up in a pretty package. Not interested."

Lilah actually looked, for a moment, as though some human emotion was struggling to break through, before she snorted and tossed her head back. "Well, since you asked so nicely - here."

Wesley took the package from her gingerly, and removed the wrapping. He stared down at the leather-bound book for a moment, before saying cautiously - "And assuming that this is, in fact, what it says on the cover, perhaps you'd like to explain why you're giving me a rather valuable copy of Dante's Inferno?"

Lilah smiled at him sweetly. "I thought you might enjoy a little light reading. Actually, it was going to be a bribe...but you've made it clear you're not interested."

"Spot on." Wesley started to close the door as she walked away, but before he could complete the gesture, she turned.

"Oh - before I go? I was just trying to remember...the very bottom of hell, in the ninth circle, the devil is frozen in ice, right? He got three heads, three mouths and those mouths are reserved for the worst sinners. Now, I can't remember - who is in the centre mouth?"

Wesley froze, letting the door swing open, forgetting about keeping her away completely.

"Judas Iscariot," he said through numb lips.

"Right!" Lilah nodded cheerfully, as though he truly had just given her a piece of information she needed. "The worst spot in hell is reserved for those who betray. I always...forget that." She smiled, then leant in and whispered in Wesley's ear, "So don't pretend you're too good to work for us. Ciao, sweetie. Give me a call when you see sense..."

Wesley slammed the door, and leant against it, trying not to shake, and staring down at the book. "Fuck," he said bitterly. "Well, at least this time she went for the unvarnished truth, rather than some attempt at seduction..."

He opened the book to the place already marked, and stared down at the woodcut. "Always nice to know your fate..."

He blinked in surprise when the book was taken out of his hands with some force, and thrown to the other side of the room. "Spike? What on earth..."

Spike's angry expression was almost a tangible thing as he turned back towards Wesley, "Not a traitor Wes.... Been my saviour, haven't you?"

""Perhaps I simply haven't been tested yet." Wes answered, dryly. "After all, I can't deny what I have become."

"What you've become? What you've become? And just what is that, Wes?" Spike snarled, prowling around Wes like a tiger in a very small cage, "A man that stands by his convictions to keep someone he cares about from doing something he knows will destroy him. A man that still helps that man to safety even though he'll get no thanks and no consideration from it. A man who still checks up on that friend... daily... just in case he might be needed?"

Spike paused in his prowling, his voice softer, "A man that would take a beast in off the street... and try to return his sanity... and help him become a man? A real man... not a beast…"

"All right...just to assume for now that I'm listening…" Wes held his hands up in a gesture of placation. "I told you at the time I was being selfish in asking for your help. I think - you may be crediting me with better motives than I ever had to begin with. And besides...however you may perceive things... you should know by now that I have never once held that opinion of you."

"And that's the kind of man you are Wesley Wyndam-Pryce." He said the name, almost as a caress. "Seeing a beast as a man.... and treating him accordingly."

There was a silence in the room… as both men considered that from different outlooks.

Then Wes, clearing his throat, "And letting bloody Lilah get under my skin - again."

"It happens, pet. She's a champion button-pusher.…" Lilah had been by the apartment several times since Spike's arrival. Something that had infuriated him, since Wes demanded he retreat to the bedroom when she did. Soul or no soul, Spike wasn't Angel… and was even less likely to play along with the games of Wolfram & Hart.

"And they pay her well for it." Wes looked speculatively at the book. "I'm sure this would fetch a reasonable amount…"

"And would get it out of the house…"

"Yes, quite...I'm sure Mr. Pak knows of someone who'd offer a good price.

"Probably a cousin... or an Auntie…?"

"I am not going to think about Mr. Pak's family, now or ever."

Spike smiled briefly, but then his face darkened and he started his restless prowl again - back and forth, his turns emphasizing each point of his statements. "Then think about this... Lilah is a bitch... with more motives than Boots has pills. You can't trust her. She'll manipulate you until you can't think straight.... Twist you around, tumble you over and then start it all again…just for the fun of it. Then, maybe, just maybe, she'll give you to the rest of that lot to take their shot."

He finished his speech and his prowl, right up against Wes, invading his space as if the power of his presence alone would convince Wes of his arguments.

"I'm aware of that…" Wes stepped backwards slightly. "But it doesn't change the fact that she's been known to use the truth as one of her means of manipulation."

"But it's her truth, Wes... Hers." Spike didn't give an inch or allow Wes to retreat further. He had, of course, heard every word that Lilah had said, every bit of venom. Worse? He couldn't get it out of his head because the apartment now held the stench of her perfume - Eau de Conniving Bitch was infecting his sinuses. "And you could never... should never.. trust that."

"I have to choose something to believe in at some point...and when her truth tallies with what I know…" Wes sighed tiredly, "I make it too easy for her, don't I?"

"Much too.…" Spike sagged a bit, his temper burning out. He put his hands gently on Wes' shoulders.

"Perhaps I could look into a spell for uninviting evil lawyers?" Wes snorted ruefully, but didn't move away.

"Couldn't hurt.... " Spike's thumbs rubbing absently over Wes' collarbones as he continued, "Lawyers - Worse bloodsuckers than a Vamp, yeah?"

"I've often wondered about looking into correlations between the two, it has to be said..."

Spike moved a bit closer, as if mesmerized. Wesley smelled so good - an unusual combination of old books, tea and gunpowder, that was driving the stench of Lilah's perfume out of his head very quickly. "At least when a Vamp's getting ready to suck you dry... you have some warning…"

"Er, right…" Wesley shifted a bit uneasily, but didn't move away.

Spike leaned in closer to Wes' neck... His words a soft purr. "Ridges appear... fangs drop...... " His lips brush over Wes' neck... barely a touch.

Wes remained absolutely still, his words matter of fact, "You realize, if you keep this up, you're going to get an absolutely appalling headache, don't you?"

"Hmmmm?" A distracted reply, then a slight chuckle, Spike's forehead coming to rest on Wes' shoulder. Bloody Hell, what the fuck was he doing? "You're assuming I'm wanting to hurt you, pet. Never do that..…"

"And yet, strangely, I remain unconvinced that the optimistic thoughts will transcend reality...and besides, I don't think I'd really like to be dinner."


*

Spike's hands started shaking. What if I'd hurt him? Bit him? He'd never trust me again. Fuck… don't even know if I trust myself, sometimes. Toss me out… make me leave. Wouldn't want me… couldn't… Stupid! Bad!

*

"And as sweet as I'm sure you'd taste.…" Spike drew a tight rein in on himself, placed a real kiss on Wes' neck this time... and then stepped back, shoving his shaking hands into his pockets. "...I can understand that sentiment.…"

"Sorry, Wes…" he gave a sheepish shrug.

Wes opened his mouth, then shut it again. "You're -" He rubbed his hands over his face. "Right...yes. Apology - er - accepted."

"So... Right…" Spike cleared his throat, shifting a bit awkwardly, because it wasn't just blood he was lusting for, that much was far too apparent, to himself, if not to - please God - Wesley. "What's on then?"

Wes resisted the impulse to answer 'Me, you idiot', but only barely. "Er...the possessed son?" He checked the time, "We should be leaving soon…"

"Yeah... right... then I'll just…" Spike nodded toward his bare feet, "... then we can, yeah?"

"Yes, good idea…" Wesley watched to make sure Spike has left the room and closed the door behind him, before sitting down and thumping his head on the desk. He silently cursed vampiric hearing, because right now he would give a good deal to swear in a great many languages for a very long time.

Flippancy...good job, Wesley.…He glared at the book and then spoke aloud, with vehemence, "And bugger you too, Lilah."

*

Meanwhile, in the other room, Spike sat on the end of the bed, tugging on his Docs and muttering to himself. "That's right... just scare the piss outta him... that will make him all eager to have you.... Shit.... I am insane."

He finally got his boots on... and tied... then fell back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, "If patience is a virtue.... I've already won my wings…"

*

They got back earlier than expected, having been paid in cash rather than by cheque - the father had been embarrassingly determined to 'understand' about 'tradesmen' and their desire to avoid the taxman, which, while it was certainly true, had left Wesley wondering whether or not to be insulted, and Spike trying very hard not to laugh at his stuttering reactions to the stuffed envelope that had been handed to him.

"It's still less than the plumber charges," the mother had whispered sympathetically, and added her own sum to the pay, pressing it into Wesley's hand under cover of requesting any additional things they may need to watch out for.

Wesley had considered looking into spells that really did make the ground open up and swallow him, and the sound of a hastily stifled snort from further along the sidewalk had only added to his potential humiliation.

He was absolutely determined, however, to try and take it in good part…even if he did have a vague idea as to how he could make being laughed at rather more palatable in the next few minutes.

He still didn't trust the elevator, so arrived at his apartment after Spike, who was waiting patiently for him to get up the stairs - something that reminded Wesley that he needed to ask Mr Pak for another set of keys. Fortunately for Wesley's potential return of deposit, he wasn't leaning against the door - Skilosh ichor had a nasty tendency to stain, as Wesley knew only too well from his attempts to renovate his last apartment.

In fact, it had been a contributing factor in his decision to move.

"Well, that was nice and dull," Wesley remarked once they got in, still scratching at the back of his neck, where a surprising amount of greenish-yellow demon blood was still drying. "Visit family, inspect possessed child, discover child is, in fact, impregnated with Skilosh demon spawn rather than possessed, sprinkle small amount of powder on rather disturbing eye in the back of child's head, get paid, go home."

Spike blinked at him in protest - or possibly just blinked, it was a bit hard to tell through all the slime - but the tone of his voice certainly seemed to bear out Wesley's assumption that he disagreed with the description of their evening as 'nice and dull'. "What about fighting the Skilosh?" he pointed out. "That was good, that was."

"Yes, but we didn't get paid for it, since technically it was after we'd solved the case." Wesley scratched at his neck again. "God, I need a shower. And possibly a memo that I should stop blowing the damn things' heads off as an instinctive response to their appearance. It may work, but the mess is really quite horrendous."

He looked over at Spike, who was actually dripping with the stuff, and allowed himself the grin that had been threatening all the way back as he thought of how he could respond to Spike's finding his reaction to being paid by cash-filled envelope so bloody amusing.

"You get Mr Pak and the hose," he said urbanely, and was into the bathroom with the door locked before the protest could even begin.

He acknowledged that it was probably a good thing he had decided to call the next day off, and that the prospect of the sofa and unlimited awful TV was on offer, otherwise the revenge business would take precedence over anything and everything else. And he really had no wish to find out just how inventive Spike's response was going to be to the hose and vast amounts of cold water.

He also suspected that Mr Pak was going to enjoy himself.

*

Wesley had meant to be around to gloat at Spike's doubtlessly furious return, but it seemed that a combination of disturbed sleep patterns and the emotional roller-coaster he had been enduring throughout the day were more wearing than he had thought, and, with the intention of simply closing his eyes for a few moments while he waited, had ended up going to sleep on top of the bed, only halfway through dressing.

He woke up completely disorientated, his glance automatically flying to the clock, and reading 12:45, while his befuddled brain tried to work out whether he had, in fact, slept the clock round, whether it was evening, or what day it was. For one horrible moment, he could not remember whether he had even been out to visit Mrs Schrodinger, but the vague itch that was still affecting his skin in places reminded him that in fact he had done so.

He had obviously only been asleep for a little more than an hour - even if very deeply - because the pillow under his head was still slightly damp - apparently he hadn't even got as far as drying his hair before collapsing - and there was a faint glow of streetlamps, rather than daylight, making its way under the bedroom door.

Spike had obviously forgiven him for Mr Pak and the hose - either that or Mr Pak had been all-too generous and let Spike use his shower - because the vampire had very kindly pulled the quilt over him before apparently deciding to take advantage of the warmth Wesley offered and get some sleep himself.

It seemed that whatever sleep Spike was getting was fairly restful, since the half-expected death grip on Wesley's T-shirt was not present. Instead, he was rather loosely wrapped in what, under any other circumstances, he would have called a hug, and currently refused to allow his mind to even contemplate with such a definition. He told himself sternly that it was not something that he was permitted to like, and when Spike, obviously reacting to something in his breathing or heart rate that signified a change in his status, wrapped himself tighter and pressed his face into Wesley's neck, nuzzling into the pulse point, he simply thought very hard about ceiling tiles, and wondered, vaguely, if this was what he would have to face if he actually did go to hell.

He knew very little about what Spike's life had been like between his escape from the Initiative and his arrival here in LA, other than that he had, for one reason and another, decided to help Buffy in Sunnydale, which did not tell him a lot. He had deduced, however, mostly from the moments when Spike's tenuous grasp on reality let go completely, that it not been either easy or particularly helpful to the guilt and ensuing chaotic sorrow that he was being forced to live with now.

The only sources of even vague stability in his life had been provided by Drusilla and Angelus - and with or without the soul, memories of both those were tied up with abandonment and betrayal. And Wesley refused even to speculate about Buffy. In his mind, the girl whom he had so disastrously failed to provide guidance to was as much - if not more - of a threat to the things he strove towards than Faith had been. Faith, at least, had her reasons - twisted and dreadful though many of them had been, and it was Wesley and the world in general that had failed her. But Buffy - with all the love and guidance in the world, Buffy had an ability to make those around her want to give themselves over to her completely - and she had never been able to differentiate between herself and the fight that had taken over her life. Angel had been one casualty of the blurred lines, finally escaping from what had become his doom to make his own way in LA....and Wesley suspected, even if he would never say so aloud, that Spike had been another, falling into the unwitting trap that Buffy's bravery and shining, unquenchable fire laid for those in need of more than a simple fight.

If Buffy's love had caused Angel to lose his soul, Wesley was very close to certain that it was her lack of it which had led Spike to get his.

Unable to ignore his suspicions, therefore, he was absolutely determined not to permit any feelings of desire or want to interfere with the role he had set himself towards filling. He was there to provide a detached, undemanding haven...even, he reflected wryly, as Spike made small noises of comfort, rocking sleepily against him, if that was going to be the closest thing that he himself ever came to being cursed.

The train of thought he had been pursuing had been enough to take his mind off any possible response to Spike's movements, but when he shifted slightly, one hand sliding under Wes' shirt and sighing softly, Wesley was reduced to closing his eyes, gritting his teeth, and trying, unsuccessfully, to shift Spike off him a bit. The potential raging embarrassment if the vampire woke up now was becoming too awful even to contemplate.

As he tried to move Spike away, his efforts engendered a sleepy chuckle that meant he was doing almost precisely the wrong thing, and bringing his companion closer to the edge of wakefulness. Even as he stilled all attempts to move, Spike's hand drifted lower, and he mumbled,

"Know you love it...fight me....'s good..."

This was just too surreal for words. Wesley gave up all attempts to maintain the status quo, and said in his normal voice, "Yes, and whoever you currently think I am, that's nicely disturbing, and please stop.." He sighed, and moved Spike's hand away, just in time to feel the sudden alertness that meant the vampire was fully awake.

"Wha?" Spike blinked, and moved away entirely. "Something wrong?"

Of all the things he was never going to admit...Wesley bit the inside of his lip to prevent the rueful smile that was threatening to overcome him, and replied, lowering his voice, "No, nothing...it's fine. Go back to sleep..."

Spike had come to consciousness with two very distinct and conflicting ideas in his head. The first, centred around Wes. His heart rate was elevated and the look on his face a bit… perplexed?

"Wha?" Spike blinked, and moved away, scanning the room for whatever had caused it. "Something wrong?"

Wes answered, his voice low and quite calm, completely at odds with what Spike was reading from him, "No, nothing...it's fine. Go back to sleep..."

It was the second feeling, however, that had Spike leaving the bed and padding toward the bathroom with a "Right… good… I'll be right back then." tossed over his shoulder.

He closed and locked the door behind him and then leaned against it, his forehead against the cool wood of the door frame as he let his body relax. Well, most of his body. One particular portion was not cooperating in the slightest.

Got big ideas, don't you? Well, give 'em up. Man doesn't think about us that way at all. Lucky that he thinks about us as a friend. Bloody lucky.

Unfortunately, the self-talk was not helping in the slightest.

Giving a sigh, he turned on the shower and stripped out of his clothes, slipping under the warm water and letting it flow down over his cool skin. He let his hands wander over his body as his thoughts wandered back to the man in the other room.

Wes - the man who had taken him in when even his Sire did not want him. Who had held him steady and anchored him to the here and now, with warmth and kindness and not a small bit of humour. Wes had never made him feel like a burden, although he knew he must have been at times, nor made him feel like what he did wasn't good enough or less than he needed. Wes knew all about his past, about all the atrocities that he had committed, and still, somehow, although Spike knew Wes hadn't forgotten or overlooked them, managed to treat him like what he was - a souled person, searching for some kind of… absolution… forgiveness… redemption.

Tonight had been just one more example. Spike was perfectly happy being the muscle of the pair, but Wes didn't leave it at that. He had asked Spike's opinion… in front of the Schrodinger's, no less… and had even introduced Spike as his partner. It was not something that Spike would soon forget.

Nor would he forget how Wes had looked.

Spike moaned softly, his hands moving more purposefully now.

Wes had looked amazing… first businesslike as he explain to the Schrodinger's that their son was not, in fact, possessed, but merely being used as an incubator. Then, the steadiness of his hands as he treated the boy, his reassuring words to both child and parents and his amusing embarrassment when the Schrodingers pressed the money into his hands - making his departure politely but awkwardly, a slight blush tinting his cheeks under their bit of stubble.

And then their meeting with the Skilosh - 5 of the nasty buggers. Spike had, of course, jumped right into the middle of things, ready to fight with fists and fangs…. And Wes?

Spike bit his lip to hold in a loud groan at the memory.

Wes had calmly pulled out his Titan and started blowing their heads off, his face covered in such a look of purpose and… damn… dangerous intent, that Spike had almost stopped in the middle of the fight, just to watch him.

He was bloody beautiful. His eyes flashing as he fired - not a shot wasted. And that crooked smile as he looked at me afterwards.

Spike's body tensed…. spasmed… as he finally found release… Slumping forward, his head against the tiles as he steadied himself.

God, Wes…

Spike stepped shakily out of the shower, dried off and got dressed again… fumbling through the cabinets for Wes' medications and then returning to the bedroom to find Wes, his head covered with a pillow, but peeking out at him.

It was a rather, unusual pose, but Spike shrugged it off. "Missed a bit of Skilosh slime. It was driving me crazy."

That should certainly give an explanation for his second shower of the evening, "'S time for your meds anyway…"

And he sat the bottles down on the bedside table for Wes, retreating with speed to his own side of the bed.

The sounds of running water had not quite drowned out the other noises, and Wesley put the pillow over his face in defeat, groaning quietly. The same option was hardly open to him - for one, the bathroom was already in use, and he had no illusions as to whether there was any way at all, living with vampire senses, that he would be able to disguise either his arousal or indeed any means he might have usually sought to relieve it. Sometimes, of course, Spike's hyperawareness as to any change in his body or behaviour was a bonus - he usually knew when Wes had reached some limit or other as to eating, sleeping, or being stuck in the apartment. Mr Pak had mentioned something about wanting (finally) to clear the back out and have some kind of garden - something which Wesley had agreed with whole-heartedly when he learnt that he would be allowed to have a section all to his more arcane herbs - as long as he helped with the initial clearance and following maintenance. Still, it would help with the rent, and the way things were going, Wesley was starting to think that somewhere with an added bedroom that they could use as a study might be useful.

The muted shout from the bathroom sent all such pleasantly soothing thoughts running into their safely pastel corners of 'pointless', 'childish', 'wishful thinking' and 'pathetic', where they curled up at a safe distance and seemed perfectly prepared to watch him deal with the loud room marked 'Now what do I do?' all on his own. The next shout was slightly louder - someone's name? Wesley wondered, and was immediately glad he hadn't heard whose. Wesley sighed.

"Dear Lord, grant me patience....but hurry up!" He rolled onto his front, ignoring the slight pain that cause to his still-hard cock, and jammed the pillow over his ears. A final shout, even more muffled by hypoallergenic foam, was followed by silence save for the running water, and seemed to be at least part answer to his prayer. At least not having to listen to someone else do what he had been suffering from lack of opportunities to avail himself of had eased his - physical condition - slightly.

"God save us from all vampire dreams," he muttered, before peering out at Spike, who had emerged with a horribly familiar collection of bottles.

"'Bout time for these, yeah?"

Wesley sighed. Yet another reminder (as though he needed one) that while his life was probably destined to be nasty, brutish and short anyway, it had probably been shortened, and was almost certainly more fragile. Really, the disadvantages for Spike of sharing a house with a human whose decay he must almost be able to trace, day by day, were a most unpleasant thought. Yet again, Wesley wondered if, when Spike had returned to his usual self, he would be able to perceive any benefits to this arrangement at all. And then, of course, he would leave.

I'm borrowing trouble he told himself sternly It will happen, so why grieve for it before it happens? Kiss the joy as it flies, Pryce... He groaned and sat up, mumbling his thanks from a rather sandpapery throat, and looking across apologetically at Spike when he saw the vampire had picked up on it. The diving had done nothing to aid the healing process, and while most of the outward symptoms were healing, his throat could still become painful at times when he was least expecting it. "Thanks," he said, and smiled quite genuinely, taking the glass of water and the tablets that Spike gave to him one by one, as though not trusting it to be done properly unless he was convinced that each one had been swallowed.

Well, if mental cataloguing was what helped Wesley keep his mind firmly anchored to the present, who was he to say anything if Spike had begun to use numbers? He counted sentences and even words of his translations, and when Wesley asked him if he were considering numerology, got a blank expression in return that meant Spike was probably entirely unaware of what he was doing. But if it gave him a sense of some kind of balance - and right now, he seemed to need to want to try that balance out in human interaction - then Wesley was going to swallow each vari-coloured tablet in docile silence.

"Seems to be helping, yeah?" Spike asked this every time, looking hopefully at Wes as though the little tablets were going to suddenly impart vampire healing skills to him.

Wes smiled. "Apparently." For the life of him, he could not have repressed his next response, picking up the obligatory glass of milk and beginning to sip it with a glare that (he hoped) would have done Angelus himself proud - and which Spike, confirming all tales that his pseudo-sire had been unable to cow him at all, met straight back, but with more force. Wesley gave up on the argument that he was going to lose - again! - and continued " ..though I'm beginning to wonder if I rattle when I walk."

Spike stopped his half-serious glare, and snorted. "No, mate, you don't....trust me. It's more of a..." He waved his hands back and forth in what even a horrified Wesley recognised as a swishing motion. "The blood, ya know?"

Some of the milk got breathed in as Wesley asked, rather splutteringly - "I swish?"

Spike looked at him as though he had lost what remained of his sanity, before saying, "Nooo - not the way you move..." He rolled his eyes as though the answer should be obvious, "Just the blood. Can always hear the blood."

"Does that bother you?" Wesley was still reeling slightly from the idea that all sounds were enhanced for a vampire - and that no matter how hard he tried, there was no way he was going to make this any easier on his flatmate.

"Only when I want a mid-night snack." Spike sounded remarkably off handed about it, given what had happened before the went out to the Schrodingers. "Tune it out mostly, I do.... Just like the smells and the other sounds."
.
"Yes, of course" Wesley smiled slightly "I suppose I'd never considered before that blood was *audible*. But of course, if someone's pulse is, then it only makes sense that actual blood within the pulse would...hmmm..." He propped his head on his hand, thinking, before realising Spike was glaring at him from the other side of the bed. "What?" he asked cautiously.

But Spike, after treating him to a surprisingly sharp scrutiny for a moment, stopped glaring and narrowed his eyes at Wesley instead, obviously expecting the truth...and assuming, Wesley realised, that he was not going to like it. "Not gonna write me up are ya?" he asked abruptly. "Don't fancy being a "case study". "The Care and Feeding of a Souled Vampire" or some such...."

Wesley barely kept himself from flinching. He was, of course, keeping a journal - old habits died hard, after all - but they were strictly for his own reference, and contained very little that was personal. "No, I'm not going to write you up." He looked apologetically across at Spike, finishing the milk as an odd kind of penance, and putting the glass neatly back on the tray. "I'm just - interested. Old habits die hard, I suppose..." He sighed and lay back down, the pills starting to take their nightly effect of one never-ending round of nausea after another that he tried to keep controlled with deep breathing and the mantra - or perhaps bribe - of physical improvement,

He did not see whether his words had actually got through to the vampire, but they must have done, because the next moment Spike was back to apologising, patting Wes's leg in an awkward attempt to convey reassurance and acceptance. "No, mate... know you wouldn't. Just get edgy. Still don't feel like my skin fits right, yeah?"

Wesley sighed, as much as his supine position would let him. He could feel the muscles in his shoulders and back ache viciously every time he tried to get comfortable, and resigned himself to a long night ahead. "Yes, I know...I suppose I keep thinking that there should be a way to make this easier for you." He felt his mouth pull into it's oddly annoying half-smile, and wondered why Spike was staring at him, before looking resolutely back at the pattern on the quilt. "Unfortunately, the only way I know how to do that is research...and that's not particularly fair on the subject."

Spike, as always, was quick to interpret what Wes had meant. So far there had been nothing in any of the Codexes they had managed to acquire as to this even being a potential situation. And the way of eliminating possible complications was usually..."Well, Watchers stake Vamps... they don't help them." He nodded with acceptance of the norm "But, Wes? You have helped. Help every day."

Wesley felt awkward, but strangely pleased. "Yes, well..." he managed to mutter, his hand rubbing obsessively at the scar on his throat, "good."

Spike just nodded. "And I should let you get back to sleep..." He nodded and walked around to his side of the bed.... taking his usual spot and giving Wes lots of room.

Wesley was always left wondering why he bothered to do that, since it had not lasted yet, but, as always, he said nothing and turned out the light, leaving them back in darkness. Spike seemed to go out with the snap of the switch, probably, Wesley thought unfairly, due to the post-orgasm lassitude winning out over vampire physiology.

The growing battle against sickness, however, and the still unconquerable insomnia, left him still awake, if not quite attached to the outside world. He wondered why Spike tended to breathe when he was asleep, and wondered if his own increasingly odd reactions to the vampire's proximity were linked to his lack of sleep.

It was almost peaceful - until, of course, the inevitable nightmares began.

"No.... can't..... Angelus, no....."

The snowfall was heavy but uneven, casting objects first into obscurity and then into perfect clarity as they moved through it. Tiny ice crystal, dancing their ephemeral way through the twisted shadows of the forest.

Spike could smell the girl, taste her fear, hear the beating of her heart, the gasping of her breath as she stumbled before them, first darting first down one path, then another… pausing… and then off again, as he and Angelus took turns catching her up, taunting her in game face, then allowing her to move ahead again. They had often played this game, harrying their prey, sometimes for hours. The adrenaline, the fear, adding such a spice to the blood that the taste lingered for hours afterward, warming their too cold bodies.

They had reached a clearing and Angelus had waved Spike on… had him circling ahead to chase the girl back towards him… towards her death. Spike laughed as he jumped out at her from the shadows and she stumbled back… back into Angelus' waiting arms.

The tiny woman looked up at him from under her dishevelled mop of blonde hair, her eyes searching an escape… her eyes…

Buffy? No! No! This never happened. Never happened!

Spike watched, helplessly, as Angelus snapped the girls neck, a wild grin on his face.

"No.... can't..... Angelus, no....." He struggled to move… to do something…anything.

And then…. Warm hands on his back, soft breath and a soothing voice, "Ssh...you're dreaming..."

Spike choked and struggled....and then a sigh and the sudden relaxing of tensed muscles, "W.... Wes?"

"Mm. You all right?"

Instinctively moving closer into the comfort and warmth, he found his face pressed against a t-shirted chest, "Yeah.... yeah.... Sorry.…"

"And that'll be another drink you owe me. Really, please, don't apologize.…" the warm hands traced soothing circles over his back.

Spike sighed, his voice somewhat muffled against Wesley's chest, "Got to get tired of this. Fuck knows, I am."

The rumble of Wes' voice was as soothing as his hands, "Well, not being a completely callous bastard, I do wish it weren't happening, rather - and I can't imagine how fed up you are with the whole thing...but you know perfectly well I'm not tired of - Agh, just stop worrying about it. I don't think you wondering whether I'm about to decide I've had enough is conducive to making the dreams any better - and I can assure you, I'm not."

Spike huffed against Wes' chest... unable to think of a comeback to that assurance.

Long moments passed... And then, Spike's voice, still muffled, "Thanks, mate, for all of this."

" And I repeat - not a problem." Only a touch of exasperation tinted Wes' voice.

Settling back for sleep, Spike's hands unconsciously mirrored Wes' soothing motions, when suddenly… there was something off - a shift in Wesley's movements, a slight tinge of something different. "Sorry.... should move. Let you get back to sleep…"

He started to move away, but was stopped by Wes' voice, " Hm? No, you're fine…"

Bright blue eyes sought out bluish-grey in the dim light. Spike didn't really want to move... far from it. But if he was making Wes uncomfortable in any way - he owed him too much to disturb him.

"You sure, mate?" Spike's voice was quiet, restrained.

"Yes, of course...really."

Finally accepting that assurance, he leaned back against Wes, "Close yer eyes then. Need yer sleep.…"

There was a snort of amusement, falsely obedient. "Yes, Spike." And Wes closed his eyes, grinning slightly.

"No sass from you, youngster.... Sleep... Now…" Spike shifted to get more comfortable.

Another chuckle, "Yes. This is me...sleeping…"

Spike peeked open one eye and growled.... wondering just what Wes would do if he attempted the tried and true method of stopping another's mouth.

The younger man's eyes were closed, a look of abject innocence plastered over it.

Spike huffed and resettled, "Not buying that.... just so you know.…"

"Mm. Go to sleep." and there, a lip twitch of amusement.

" You first." And two snickers at the sheer joy of company that made you forget your woes and feel young enough to joke in the middle of the night.

*

Wesley awoke the following morning to find that the world was still shrouded in mist. He had raised the sashed window in the bathroom to let some of the steam out from his too-long shower - after all, a day off should begin with some form of luxury, even if he was undoubtedly going to end up absolutely filthy after helping Mr Pak start his garden (or maybe start Mr Pak's garden for him, he was still unclear on that score) - and watched the mist cling to the stones in the alleyway outside like sweat. The air tasted of pollution and iron, heavy, promising sun later; the whole world quiet enough that when some shrouded bird passed by - one of the pigeons, perhaps? - he could hear the creak of its wings.

He had awoken to find the bed empty - Spike was already up, for some strange reason, and in the kitchen by the sound of things, making what was (hopefully) coffee and some kind of breakfast edible to humans. Wesley suddenly realised how hungry he was, since he had not even attempted to make dinner last night, or even considered food since the Lilah-aborted attempt at tea some time in the afternoon. He considered shaving, touched the scar with a flinch, and decided against it, before getting dressed and coming out into the electrically lit study-living room that could have been any time of day or night. Spike was rather awkwardly holding a mug of coffee, standing in the kitchen doorway, and Wesley smelled bacon and toast.

"There's...cereal." Spike pointed at the table with his free hand, sounding oddly shy. Last night, after the snicker-fest had died down, he had begun to talk with unusual openness about his dream, but it had unfortunately coincided with Wesley quite genuinely staring to doze off, and not much of it had stuck other than an odd combination of snow, Angelus and Buffy. Well, possibly not so odd, but - disturbing, nonetheless, and Wesley wished he had been capable of paying more attention.

He aimed for rather more coherency than he was normally capable of before ingesting at least two cups of caffeine - anything, in fact, that would take the completely unexpected look of insecurity off Spike's face. "I'm sorry I fell asleep?" he proffered, before bits and pieces of exactly how bad the night had been started falling into place. Oh. Well, a dose of insecurity was probably well overdue, then. In Spike's situation, he would probably have been out of the flat and heading towards the nearest wide-open space...except, of course, that wasn't an option. "Coffee?" he asked, as pathetically as possible, hoping that his delaying tactics didn't seem as transparent as they sounded even to his own half asleep ears.

Apparently something in the few words he had managed was vaguely reassuring, because Spike went back to looking simply awkward as opposed to having the look of a man wondering where the nearest train station was. He pushed the coffee mug at Wesley, and mumbled,

"'S all right." Wesley didn't dare ask what was, and apparently that sufficed, because Spike's next question, bizarrely enough, was, "Did you have a good night?"

It was horribly like watching Angel trying to remember civilities towards Cordelia. Wesley bit the reciprocal, and automatic, question back, just in time. He'd been there for most of Spike's night, and the adjective he would have used was certainly not 'good'. Just as he was about to suggest that perhaps the day off was not a good plan after all, Spike said hurriedly,

"I asked Mr Pak if there was something you could do outside."

Wesley, for a moment, wondered if he had entered an alternate dimension. Once he had ascertained that, to the best of his knowledge, if it was one, it was exactly the same as the one he had left, he essayed, "Yes?" and drank a very large gulp of too-hot coffee, proving that in any state of being, hot things scalded tongues.

"You don't mind?" Spike looked positively relieved, and Wesley wondered, not for the first time, what he was actually talking about, and whether vampires could come with a decoder.

"No?" he ventured.

"About being outside?"

"...no? What?" Wesley drank off the rest of the coffee, and wondered if it was too early for a real drink.

"Thegardenwasmyidea."

Ah. Well, that made more sense than Mr Pak suddenly deciding that approximately forty years worth of neglect needed dealing with immediately and for no apparent reason. Wesley refilled his mug, sipped, and said, "Well, it was a good idea. Growing herbs is less expensive than buying them, after all. Why the worry?"

Spike shrugged, but a good deal of the whatever-the-hell-it-was-this-time tension went out of him, and he sat down on the sofa. " Just...dunno. Seemed like you needed more sun. But I din't want you to think I was managing you, or something."

Wesley sighed. Ah. Obligation. Naturally. "Spike...you don't always have to take care of me," he said.

Spike snorted. "You say that like I do. I never take care of you. You never...seem to want me to."

"You're not responsible for me," Wesley said, and it should have been a relief to say it, but as soon as the words were out, there was that feeling from the day before again, when he had stopped himself responding to the kiss on his neck, but closer to the surface this time: aching, nasty, voracious, hollow, the kind of hunger that came from real starvation, past where the need to eat was a pang and into just a long, gnawing nothingness that made you want to retch. "First you'll try to take care of me," he heard himself saying unsteadily, "then you'll feel responsible, then you won't feel like you're allowed to stop, and then you'll feel trapped and resentful and I'll have got - got used to having you here, and I won't know how to take care of myself anymore when you get fed up and -"

Spike wasn't looking worried any more - in fact, he was looking downright furious, which while it was a relief on some levels, was slightly frightening on others. "Where the fuck do you come up with this stuff, Wes?"

"We can talk about my childhood some other day," Wesley said, aiming for levity. "How's never sound to you?"

Spike stopped looking quite so annoyed, rubbed over the back of Wesley's wrist and said, "Okay, I'm not responsible for you. Okay?"

"Right," Wesley said, on a yawn. "More coffee?"

Spike glared at him. "Breakfast," he said firmly, and Wesley stared at him.

"Ah," he said vaguely, after realising some kind of response was apparently required. "Right."

*

Mr Pak's way of getting Wesley to 'help' was, apparently, to perch on the nearest pile of rubble and ask him questions while he worked. Wesley, coming to terms with just how out of condition he was, found himself struggling to form audible words, let alone responses that consisted of more than a grunt, and wondered if this was some strange form of torture indulged in by elderly landlords who knew a great deal more than they were supposed to. Which pretty much narrowed it down to Mr Pak, but still. Torture.

Wesley focused on the fact that it was warm, and actually sunny as opposed to just hot and cloudy, and that really, once he started to get under the rubble and begin clearing patches of earth, it all smelt rather good, and tried to answer by rote.

Shovel, lift, turn, carry half-ton of miscellaneous rubbish, mumble response, go back. Shovel, lift -

"You are very hard on him," Mr Pak said, and Wesley tried hard not to drop the shovel on his foot, because wouldn't that just complete what was supposed to be a good day, and was turning out to be exactly the opposite.

"On...?" he prompted, levering yet another load of years' rubbish onto his spade.

"On man you were before," Mr Pak said calmly, and this time Wesley did drop the shovel, all the breath going out of him as though he had been gut-punched.

"I, really, I don't -"

"Sorrow passes," Mr Pak said, getting off his pile of rubble, and patting Wesley on the shoulder. "You will see. You will find the joy of watchfulness again. And you are good tenant. I do not think you are leaving your house unguarded, yes-no?"

"Right..." Wesley couldn't think of a single appropriate response. Mr Pak chuckled.

"Buddha is not always right, my friend. Even if you keep your mind thatched, passion break through sometimes. Good for soul. Good for Wesley, yes?"

Wesley felt himself going red in ways that had nothing to do with the sun.

"Mr Pak..." he began, but the little man just smiled, and patted him on the shoulder again.

"We have tea now," he stated. "Good for workers."

It turned out to be rice wine, and somehow that, and Mr Pak's subsequent silence while Wesley came to terms with what, apparently, everyone seemed to be contented with but him, made the morning pass more quickly while he cleared the garden down to its should-be component of soil.

Mr Pak nodded approvingly. "Not all focus is codes," he said, and Wesley realised that he was sunburnt, dripping with sweat, felt as though he had run a marathon, and was more clearheaded than he had been in days. He was also, possibly, a little drunk.

"Do more at night from now on," Mr Pak instructed him, turning to go back in. "Company is healthy too. Now I have student, so you leave."

Wesley rolled his eyes at his landlord's disappearing back, and rubbed at his forehead with a filthy arm. "Thanks," he muttered, but it was not altogether sarcastic.

Then he smiled. Mr Pak had left a book on the heap of rubble Wesley had cleared. "Dhammapada," he said. "Well, I'll take Sanskrit over soap operas any day..."

Spike was waiting at the door when Wes returned, a glass of cool water in one hand… and a bottle of aloe vera in the other.

"Said you needed sun… Didn't mean you had to get it all at one time." He shook his head, but grinned at Wes just the same.

"Yes, well… I didn't exactly mean to do that either, but the worst of the clearing is done." Wes gave a weary sigh and quickly downed the glass of water.

"Cool shower and a bit of a rest then?" Spike refilled his glass and held it out for him.

"Well, I could definitely use the shower," Wes tugged his shirt away from his sweaty body as he accepted the glass.

"Nothing wrong with the smell of good healthy sweat, Wes." Spike stepped closer and took a deeper breath. "Ya smell like sunshine… and warm earth… and…………rice wine?"

"Mr. Pak's influence, I'm afraid," Wes chuckled. "His idea of afternoon tea."

"It would be." Spike joined in the joke,

"Well, off to the shower then," Wes moved towards the bedroom, tugging off his sweat sodden shirt as he went.

"Need me to come scrub your back, pet?" Spike's voice was low and warm, teasing.

"You…." Wes paused for a moment, looking back. Thoughts that Spike couldn't decipher, flittered across his face at breakneck speed. Then softly, "If you wish…."

Spike froze, completely gob smacked for a moment. "Well, yeah….'course I do…."

"Come on then," Wes voice was a bit rough, measured.

Spike stared at him for another moment, "Wes… are you sure --"

"Spike." Wes cut off any further words, "Please don't say anything. If you do I'll probably panic completely and run, screaming like a girl."

"Can't have that now, can we?" Spike whispered, stepping closer to Wes. "Wes… can I just….?"

Spike leaned in, his lips just barely brushing over Wesley's, his eyes widening suddenly, as Wes stepped into the kiss, making it deeper, stronger, more demanding…

They broke away a few moments later…. Both of them panting.

"Shower then?" Spike asked, his eyes still hot, gold sparkles dancing in and out of the blue.

"Yes, most definitely, now, I should think." And he stumbled toward the bathroom, Spike just behind him. Clothes were quickly being dispensed with, hampered only by long searching kisses in between. Then two lean muscled bodies, wrapped around each other under the cooling spray of the shower - touching, caressing and giving into suppressed longings.

Later, when the hot water had run out, they moved to the sofa, the first desperate hunger relaxed into a kind of peace. Wesley ran his fingers along Spike's spine, tracing over each separate vertebra gently, feeling a tension he had never before recognised as being present draining out of both of them. Spike curled around him, boneless and heavy, the borrowed heat evaporating from his skin beneath the air conditioning.

Wesley touched the nape of his neck, almost awed at this incredible, unspoken permission he had now, to touch, and touch, and not be afraid of stepping over some necessary barrier, breaking their self-imposed taboo that had kept the essential grounding of contact separate from the deeper need to say the things he would probably never find the words for in the universal language of a caress.

"C'n hear you thinking," Spike murmured against his throat, and Wesley smiled.

"Mm."

"What?"

Skin-hunger, Wesley thought, but only said., "Not sure…not words, anyway."

Spike laughed, low and quiet, and for an astounding instant, Wesley had a glimpse of what could be, of a partnership devoid of past bitterness and present aches, and could only smile, helplessly, thinking that if only he could cast some spell that would hold the moment intact, a place of forever that he could return to at any point, the world would have transcended into something altogether different - translated, transmuted, alchemy.

He knew that the essence of joy lay in the fact it passed, but he could not for the life of him want that, even as he knew it must, that he would never be able to remember this contentment of this now if he made it eternal.

"Are you -" he began, and found he had no idea of what he wanted to ask. Any words he could think of seemed to epitomise stupidity, his tongue turned thick and unwieldy, getting in the way of his teeth, clogging any path his thoughts might take with unnecessary speech.

But Spike only coiled more thoroughly around him, his lips slowly outlining the jagged edge of Wesley's scar, until he reached the tapering last centimetre below his ear, and nodded, his hair soft against Wesley's unshaven jaw. "Ssh," he said. "'M busy reading you, aren't I?"

And Wesley felt desire rush through him again, heady and dizzying, making him catch his breath in a small gasp, thinking of how those were the words he had been looking for earlier, as the hot water fell around them, and he tried to force his hands to memorise the curves and angles of skin and muscle and bone, the lack of a matching pulse even as his own thrummed in his veins.

Reading you

"Learnt anything?" he asked, feeling the involuntary flutter of his belly muscles, remembered heat warming his skin beyond the sunburn.

Spike looked up at him, and his smile was slow, knowing, reflecting the same odd contentment that was keeping Wesley immobile and sated, despite his reawakening body. "Not yet," he said, and Wesley did what he had stopped himself from doing so many mornings, when the blue eyes opened and looked up at him, and bent his head for a kiss - because he could.

It felt more like freedom than anything else in his life had done, and he knew that if such a thing were possible, he would have lost his soul.

He knew for a certainty that he was in grave danger of losing his heart.

The kiss was the sweetest that Spike could remember - soft and slow with no hesitation or holding back from either of them. It was acceptance given, reassurance taken and a gentle promise of things that were yet to come.

He dropped his head back to rest against Wes' chest, his hand drifting slowly over warm skin.

It was amazing, how one small act, a longed for intimacy could change how you saw yourself, as well as how you saw someone else.

Spike turned his head and placed a kiss against his resting spot. "…your slightest look easily will unclose me…though I have closed myself as fingers…"

"What's that?" Wes looked down at him, his features softer than Spike had ever seen them.

"Nothing, love… just muttering," Spike answered.

It was true though. Wes had moved as though he understood every hunger Spike had ever had. His loneliness, his regrets, and his longing for this all to be something more… something lasting. Wes had taken everyone of them and reflected them back with unspoken promises in the form of touch. And Spike had willingly accepted every one… and returned them just as willingly.

It was wonderful… and terrifying.

But he could not find it in him to regret one moment, one loss of his long held inviolability…it was all too… perfect.

Spike froze at that thought.

No, nothing was perfect… but… Spike paused and looked up at Wesley's relaxed face, watched how his steel-blue eyes were as soft as a caress again his skin and suddenly, things were perfect. For one singular moment in time. Fleeting and transitory… but there - wrapping around Spike warming and holding him… and then gone…

But somehow, even it's passing was not a thing to mourn… since, it seemed, Wes would allow him… them… to create a multitude of such moments - each as perfect as the last.

Spike smoothed his hand lower… teasing Wes' body back to alertness.

"Want you, love…" Spike whispered, soft and hoarse against Wes' skin. "Please?"

"Yes." the softly hissed answer. "But… the bed?"

Spike chuckled softly, "Yes… have just enough control to make it there…"

And he rose… drawing Wes after him.

*

He had, somewhere, during the course of his running around town, lost his drinking companions. He wasn't sure if it was after bar number three, which was a "Fern Bar" with real Macaws perched in the corners… or if they had still been with him when he got to bar number four… a Latino bar, with mariachi music and lots of Cuervo. Either way, he had managed to misplace them somewhere along the way and somehow, that seemed to him, somewhat neglectful.

Now Xander stood swaying on a street corner, under a lamppost, staring through the door of a late night market, and wondering if he could get directions to either, another bar, his hotel or, at the very least a package of Twinkies.

He hadn't been there long when a elderly, but smiling, Korean gentleman waved to him from behind the checkout counter. Xander stepped cautiously into the light, blinking his one eye and peering around.

"You are lost." The man made it a statement, not a question.

"Not lost…" Xander corrected, a bit blearily, "…just… temporarily misplaced."

Of course, either of those options laid the claim that someone… somewhere… might possibly be looking for him - and he knew that wasn't true. No one would be looking for him. No one needed him. His uselessness had reached brand new heights.

"Ah, then I know right where to send you," Mr. Pak smiled at the young man, then leaned in closer to give him directions. "Just go up those stairs, first door on left."

Xander blinked, owlishly as he looked between Mr. Pak and the stairs. That was an unusual place for there to be a bar… but maybe it was some kind of private club.

He stumbled up the stairs, lurching from railing to railing as he rounded the landing and then made his way up the second flight.

First on the left… first on the left… He was repeating it to himself so that all the alcohol he had drunk would not wash it out of his brain. And how weird is this… not even a sign or anything. Must be very exclusive…

Xander raised his fist and knocked on the door.

Wesley was half asleep, contented to be contained in a cocoon of silence and the satiated languor of his body, letting himself drowse on the very cusp of awareness. When the knock came on the door, his body jerked into alertness before his mind, and he caught up with it in time to curse. It was impossible to tell whether this was someone's very late night, or incredibly early morning, but either way, it was bloody inconvenient. He disentangled himself from a protesting Spike, and hunted for clothes.

"Hey…no…"

"You'd rather I answered the door naked?" Wesley quirked an eyebrow. Spike apparently thought about it seriously, before shaking his head.

"Nah…might be that lawyer bitch."

"If that's Lilah," Wesley said with great and spurious generosity, "you can be the one to stake her." He grinned a bit, despite the niggling voice in his head that was reminding him he would have to explain about Lilah at some point. He pushed it away, and pulled on a T-shirt that had seen its best days some ten years ago, and read 'Moderatio est figmentum' on it. The very drunk demon surrounded by - well, everything - that was also portrayed on it was almost too faded to be visible now, but it remained a favourite.

Spike pretended to shudder. "Not gettin' near that bint.." His eyes widened with assumed comprehension and extraordinarily fake innocence, and Wesley snorted as he found his jeans. "Oh... you mean with a wooden stake.…"

Wesley laughed outright. "Or a ten foot sewer pole, either works…" He smiled as Spike nuzzled into his neck, grumbling about defenestrating and lawyers that bounced, and was becoming quite prepared to be distracted from his original intention, when the knocking resumed. Spike growled loudly in its direction, and Wesley resisted the temptation to join him, before remembering that, theoretically, he was supposed to be establishing a business, and so needed to at least aim for responsible behaviour.

He left Spike reluctantly getting dressed, and went to open the door, beginning to say - "Look, it's a bit late to be…." when he realised who he was talking to, and his voice trailed off into recognition and mild shock. "Xander? What on earth are you doing here?" He tried not to stare at the eyepatch, wondering what on earth had happened, and aimed desperately for normality.

His rather obvious query seemed to be a bit more than Xander could handle. He was still looking at Wesley in complete bewilderment, and it was a while before he seemed to register that some kind of response was expected. "Uh.…" He blinked slowly, his one eye unfocused. "The guy downstairs sent me…" He blinked again, obviously trying to think of something coherent to say. Instead, he just asked, "Wesley?"

The guy - oh. Mr Pak. Well, that made - no sense at all, actually, even to someone as drunk as Xander, but Wesley had more sense than to say so.

"Why?" he asked, hoping against hope that there was a sensible answer. His hope was, of course, futile.

"I'm not sure..... Gotta be a reason…" Xander frowned, his brow wrinkling with concentration. "Said I was lost."

Wesley rubbed his hand over the back of his neck, and sighed, wondering when Mr Pak had decided that he ran a refuge for the dispossessed, and thinking that he was probably better off not knowing the answer to that. "Oh Christ. This was not -" He clamped his mouth shut with a snap. Drunk or sober, Xander didn't need to know why this was not what he had wanted to be doing with the rest of his day off. "Right, yes. Of course. Would you like to - er - come in?"

Spike came out of the bedroom, dressed only in a pair of skin-tight jeans and scowling. Wesley could almost see his brain come to a full stop as he saw Xander, and the tension was immediately back in the apartment as he said, "Oh, bloody Hell…"

Either oblivious or uncaring as to the effect he was having, Xander weaved past Wesley, and into the middle of the room, where he stood and looked blearily around him. Wesley, however, was more concerned with the effect his appearance seemed to have had on Spike, and closed the door quickly to start moving towards the vampire.

"Spike?" He tried to keep the worry out of his voice, but was very afraid that he was failing miserably. "Is - I thought you two knew…" There was no response, and he decided that he was probably better off not pushing the issue. "I'll go and make coffee," he said, at last, and headed for the kitchen.

That, at least, got a response from Xander, who pushed past him, and stumbled towards the fridge.

"Don't want coffee... Coffee bad…Beer good…"

Wesley wondered at what point Mr Pak had decided to curse him, and stepped in front of Xander, blocking his unsteady progress towards potential alcohol. "Which is a shame, since we don't have any. You get coffee."

Xander was back to blinking at him, and Wesley wondered just how many of him Xander could see. "No beer?"

Spike had apparently shaken himself out of whatever nasty little mental place Xander's arrival had sent him to, and appeared in the doorway, looking carefully at Xander's eye patch. "What the hell happened to you, Harris?"

Wesley began to wonder if he had stepped into a bizarre version of an outdated comedy sketch, where a total lack of communication was the key ingredient to the script. "No," he said to Xander automatically. "No beer."

Xander ignored him, his hand shooting to his eye patch as he frowned. "Spike?" It was as though it was the first time he had registered the vampire's presence. "Why are you here?"

Spike rolled his eyes, looking exasperated, and stepped past him to find the coffee grounds, while Wesley got the mugs out of the cupboard. His proximity was both a relief and a distraction, grounding him back to their shared reality, rather than the surreal happenings that had begun five minutes ago.

"Live here, don't I?" he responded, and Wesley felt something unknot in his chest, even as he murmured, softly enough that only Spike would hear,

"Right now, I sincerely wouldn't blame you if you suddenly decided you didn't.…"

His words gained him a scowl... and Spike, up close and personal a split second later. "Wes…I want to be here…"

Xander, belatedly, caught up to part of the conversation. "You live here? Here, L.A. here.... or just here…er... Here?"

Spike ignored him, continuing to focus on Wesley, who reached out to touch his wrist without thinking, reassuring them both of the truth of what Spike had said to Xander. "Yes, I know…" More than anything in the world, he wanted to put his arms around him, tell him with more than quietly cryptic words just how well he did know, but that was currently impossible. He sighed. "Xander, perhaps you could go into the living room?"

Xander blinked, looked at Wes, and then blinked again, as if it were taking a while for all his synapses to recognize when he was being spoken to directly. It probably was.

"Yeah... because.... I think I've stumbled into the Bizarro World…" It wasn't clear whether Xander was referring to the whole Mr. Pak thing... or Spike living there with Wes, but he swayed unsteadily out to the living room and then stopped, staring vaguely at the couch.

Spike leaned in closer to Wes, speaking in a low voice, "Boy doesn't usually drink this much, Wes.... 'cause of his parents."

"In that case, I would say that coffee and a fair amount of water are essential, wouldn't you? Listen, I'll go and have a word with Mr Pak. See if you can find out what's going on, will you? Please? I doubt he'll be inclined to trust me, in this state…"

"And you think he'd ever trust me?" Frustration filled Spike's voice. Whatever was going on… whatever had brought Xander here, at this hour, and in this state… he wanted it done so he could get back to the more pleasant aspects of his "off" day. "Fine… right…. You go talk to Pak.. I'll see if I can get the boy sorted."

Wes rubbed his hands over his face, trying to get his defences back up. "Mr. Pak...right.…" And he left the flat, heading down the back stairs, leaving the door ajar behind him.

*

Spike sighed and looked out towards the living room, where Xander was still standing, swaying, and looking at the couch.

"Bloody hell, Xander," Spike growled as he stalked toward him. "In spite of it's coloration the damn thing is not a demon... Sit!"

Xander sat… well, more like collapsed, really… onto the couch and scowled at Spike, "Is this where you've been?"

"This is where I wound up." Spike gave him that much of an answer at least. "What about you? What happened?"

Xander's hand fidgeted, going almost instinctively to the eye patch, "There was this guy... human... Caleb. A... follower of the First Evil... And…"

Xander rocked, wrapping his arms around himself, not wanting to think about it or talk about it, even now.

It didn't matter, Spike could fill in the blanks for himself. "Where was the Slayer?"

It had to have been bad, horrible even, for her to allow one of her little Scoobies to get hurt.

"Don't blame Buffy... She was doing what she was supposed to do. But she needed help. All the help she could get. You would have been a big help but..... " Xander suddenly frowned and then sneered, as if he had just remembered something "...but, oh yeah... you weren't there were you? The going got tough and the Big Bad headed out of town."

"You don't know anything about me, Xander... you never wanted too. So don't act like you have any idea now." Spike's voice was rough, bitter.

"Well, I know what we're up against... and I know..…" Xander's voice cracked a bit, drunken and maudlin. "I know that Caleb is only part of it. That's why I came here… Angel and….."

"Maybe I should have been there…" Spike started.

"Yeah... maybe you should have. But no.…" Xander slapped his forehead as if just remembering something, "…you couldn't because you tried to --"

"That's another subject you don't know anything about, Xander.…" Spike's voice was a warning signal… or would have been to a sober man.

"What.... ? Because Buffy said yes before... you could ignore when she said no?" Xander's voice was gaining volume. ?Doesn't work that way, Spike... You tried to rape her."

Spike twitched at the words, "It was wrong... so wrong... 'S why I went away. She'd said no and meant yes before.... But…" He stopped short, visibly shrinking in on himself, "She'd kicked my arse so many times before, Xander.... it was like she didn't even try.…"

"No excuses, Spike.…," Xander's voice almost rang with his righteousness. "You obsessed over her long enough... followed her... did things to gain favour... Hell, you even tried to use Dawn to get to her."

"That's a lie, Harris... I never would have used the Bit like that. She... Fuck. Why am I trying to explain myself to you. It was wrong... I left. Wish it had never happened... like I wish I hadn't done a lot of bloody things... Doesn't take them away... doesn't make them better... never could... never can... Not good enough... not clean enough.... Just…" Spike's voice trailed off.

Xander was never one to miss pressing home a point. "You got that right. Never good enough for her... so, what is it now? Your newest obsession? An ex-Watcher who's so pitiful that even Angel tossed him out?"

There was a small half-heard sound of protest from the doorway, and then Wes, standing there, his face pale.

Mr Pak was locking up. Wesley tried for a moment to attract his attention, before a would-be customer arrived, and Mr Pak got involved in the inevitable late-night conversation about why he was not going to serve anyone else, due to everything electronic that would enable him to take money having been shut off. It was obviously going to take some time, since this was the last place in the area open at this time that stocked things that anyone would want at 2 am (even if some of those things were probably not on the official comestibles list). Wesley hoped for the customer's sake that he wasn't an over-optimistic demon, and went to wait out in the back.

With time to himself, he was able to think a bit more rationally. He knew what he was going to try and do, to a point - 1) get Xander through this, 2) send him home - but then every idea that could link the two plans dissolved into a messy puddle of frantic indecision, and the only thing he was even marginally sure of was that he was definitely not the best person to be dealing with some kid's problems at the moment - he was only just on the verge of sorting out what the hell he was doing with his own life, let alone adding someone else to the increasingly complicated mix.

That was the wall he kept hitting - that it had become not only his own life he was thinking of when he tried to consider his next steps, but Spike's: he was being selfish, he knew it, he was even capable of admitting it, here and now in the back of a supermarket, but he wanted Spike to himself,. However much he might want to help Xander - as much as it would be possible to do - he could not help but resent this interruption into something that seemed, frighteningly, to be heading somewhere good…the first good thing that had even threatened to happen to him for some time. He wanted peace, and quiet, and a break from the intrusions of the outside world…time for them both to come to terms with this new happiness that seemed to have come out of nowhere, one unexpectedly good thing that had emerged out of the purgatory they had been enduring for the last few weeks.

Someplace good , he thought to himself, it has to be, we've earnt that, at least, something that's just ours…

But they had been allowed less than a day, Xander's arrival unsettling the new equilibrium they had found, and replacing Spike's slowly returning confidence with all the signs of the single-minded attempts to cling on to 'ordinary' behaviour that he had shown when he first came back from the Hyperion.

It's not fair, Wesley thought angrily, and wondered what the hell Mr Pak had thought he was playing at.

He could hear voices drifting down, and hoped that Xander was at least allowing familiarity to get past his inebriation. Of course, Spike's lack of tact was probably acting as a wrecking ball on whatever nice comforting walls the alcohol had provided, but even so - Wesley knew only too well that even an enemy could seem like a lifebelt when everything seemed lost.

Xander's voice, trailing off into silences for reasons that had nothing to do with his drunkenness, came down clearly. "There was this guy... human... Caleb. A... follower of the First Evil... And.…"

Whatever else he said was lost, perhaps because he had stopped speaking, or moved, and it was only a split second from registering what had been said before Wesley felt himself slip into a raging anger, an anger at Giles, at the world, at the sheer stupidity of the bloody group of people who never, never seemed to realise that whoever they were up against would each and every time attack Buffy through her friends.

Spike's reply, the tone questioning…and Wesley suddenly shifted, feeling the heightened tension begin to drift down as though it were a palpable thing, almost visible in the night air.

Wesley wondered what the hell Mr Pak was doing, and started shifting uneasily, more concerned by now with what was happening back upstairs than any answers the elderly man might have for him.

Xander's voice, accusation clear. "You weren't there, were you?"

And that was damned-well enough, Wesley decided, heading back up the stairs. Xander could swallow his resentments until morning.

The voices had died off again, and Wesley was nearly there before Xander's voice came through once more. "You tried to rape her."

He froze, holding onto the railing with numb fingers, wondering exactly when things had spun so far out of control. He had known there was something - he would have had to have been intensely stupid not to - but oh, God, that as guilt?

And Xander didn't know about Spike's soul - couldn't, surely, or he would never be throwing such things at the vampire to remind him of what he had been capable of. If he did know, Wesley decided, forcing himself to keep moving , he was going to sober the little brat up by means of repeated application of cold water - to the head.

He could hear Spike mumbling, the tone horribly familiar, one step away from the point where he retreated into a world of half-remembered words that caused him less pain than whatever he was trying to deal with inside, and Wesley found that his fingers were twitching for a weapon…something, anything, to use that would make the bloody boy shut up before he did something utterly irretrievable.

He got there just in time to hear Xander, his voice full of righteous indignation abut something, retort, "So, what is it now? Your newest obsession? An ex-Watcher who's so pitiful that even Angel tossed him out?"

Wesley felt his world crumble around him. If Spike had felt it necessary to tell Xander that…if that was the only way he could be described…he heard himself make a small sound of protest, and flinched from it, even as their attention was drawn towards him.

"Both of you, " he managed to say through lips that felt as though they had been injected with Novocain, "please…stop…"

Xander's face was a mask of loathing - for him, for Spike, for whatever had been done to him, Wesley didn't know - and was rapidly beginning not to care. He felt as though something were annihilating whatever strength he had ever possessed from within, and he looked across at Spike, willing him to say something.

Tell me that's not what you said. Tell me…

But it was Xander who spoke, the words hitting him like blows, because where else could he have heard this but Spike, and Christ, Christ, this truly was the ninth hell, and he was doomed…

"Well, if it isn't the traitor himself.... Wesley Wyndam-Pryce... kidnapper.... Oh... but you didn't even quite get that right did you?"

Wesley took one step back, then another, his mind filled with nothing but the desperate desire to get away, to run from the sheer hatred on Xander's face, the utter desolation on Spike's. As he turned, he heard Spike yell, wordless and pain-filled, but somehow it didn't register, the desire to be somewhere - anywhere - else taking over.

Not even sure where he was going, uncaring of the fact that he was leaving without helmet or weapons, he kicked his bike into action, and was gone, feeling as though he were back in the hospital, Angel's hands pressing the pillow over his face once more.

You're a dead man, Pryce!

And oh, God…he might as well be.

*

Xander woke to find his face plastered against one of the ugliest couches it had ever been his privilege to see - and considering some of the places he'd been, that was saying something.

His head ached and his mouth tasted like the Macaws, that somehow he vaguely remembered, had been perching there overnight.

He sat up cautiously, trying to determine if the contents of his stomach were going to remain where they were or would come out to add more questionable patterns to the ones already decorating the ancient couch.

Where the hell am I? Xander peered blearily around the dimly lit room.

"Okay… couch… table… desk… Ah, photograph…" he stood and carefully made his way towards it, peering at the picture. A very elderly and tweedy looking couple peered back at him with uncompromising stiffness. Each of them had one hand clamped unforgivingly on the shoulder of a very young and serious looking Wesley.

Yeah… he vaguely remembered seeing Wesley last night. This must be his place. That thought, while not remarkably enlightening, was at least preferable to having woken up on the ugly couch of a complete stranger.

"Computer… shit load of books, papers and other Watcherly-type paraphernalia… newspaper…. Spike's duster… strange-looking statue of some four-armed…. Whoa!" His brain suddenly ground to a halt. Spike's duster? He tried to access more of his memories from the previous evening. Yes, he vaguely remembered Spike… although he looked different than he had in Sunnydale.

Xander's eyes flashed around the rest of the room… finally settling on the carpet. There were… Oh, God… bloody footprints leading from the front door to the bedroom. What if Spike had gotten his chip out? What if he had killed Wes and was now lying, blood-sated, in the bedroom, just waiting to come out and make Xander his next snack?

His eyes darted around the apartment. Wes was a Watcher… well, an ex-Watcher… he must have a stake someplace. Yes, there… a cupboard with weapons and stakes and…. Well, Xander really had no idea what some of that stuff was, but he did know stakes. He grabbed one, turning towards the bedroom door, moving cautiously towards it.

Okay, Xan-man… on the count of three. One… two…three… Xander flung open the bedroom door and dashed into the room, looking wildly about.

"Wes?" But the room was empty.

Well, empty except for the miserable figure on the bed. A tuft of honey-blond curls, long pale arms clutched tight around a pillow that his face was buried in, bare, sculpted back leading down to those tight, tight jeans… bare feet, torn and covered with blood that was still oozing sluggishly out onto the duvet.

"Jesus, Spike!" Xander scowled.

A whimper… a flurry of movement… and Spike was off the bed, flailing backwards and away until he ran up against the wall and curled up into a ball, the pillow clutched against his chest like a talisman.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Xander moved closer, surprised when Spike twitched away as if frightened. "Where's Wesley?"

"So fallen! So lost! The light withdrawn…" Spike whispered, his face almost buried in the pillow.

"Okay…." Xander frowned at him. "And could you try answering that in… I don't know… a way that actually makes sense?"

"Gone…gone…gonegonegone…." a whimper and more twitching as Spike tried to curl up even tighter.

Okay… Wes was gone. Even in Xander's hung-over condition he could figure that one out. But where.. And why?

A sudden, guilty sounding, little voice in the back of his head suddenly rang out to him. Well, if it isn't the traitor himself.... Wesley Wyndam-Pryce... kidnapper.... Oh... but you didn't even quite get that right did you?

He'd gotten most of that from Gunn… although, judging from her interruptions, Fred did not agree with him on all of it.

But either way… if he hadn't been drunk, he like to believe that he wouldn't have spewed that out right in Wes' face. He hadn't really been trying to hurt Wes anyway… he was pissed off at Spike.

Oh, yeah… Spike… Spike… who was currently rocking in a corner, a pillow clutched to him as if the feel and smell of it were the only thing keeping him from flying into a million pieces.

"Spike?" Xander approached him cautiously, the way you would a strange dog. One hand open and extended, reaching toward him gently, crouched down next to him.

A whimper… a further retreat into the corner.

"Spike… you're getting blood on the carpet. We need to get you cleaned up. You might have glass in your feet…" Actually, Xander was pretty certain that Spike did have glass in his feet… he could see it.

And just that quick… Spike was up in his face, causing Xander to fall backwards on his butt… his aching head giving a horrifying multi-level throb.

"Can't have that… can't have that…" Spike looked at him, eyes flittering nervously. "Don't want anyone to see the blood, but there's so much of it… so much. Can't hide it or wash it away… too much… too much….."

Okay… something was definitely up with Spike. Something that he wasn't sure how to deal with. Xander was going to have many, many questions for Wes when he got back….. Assuming he came back.

"Come on, Spike…" He helped the vampire to his feet, grimacing at the renewed puddling of blood, and lead him into the bathroom.

*

Wesley stood beneath the corporate showers at Wolfram and Hart's underground gym, scouring viciously at his reddened skin with the ubiquitous industrial soap, that somehow didn't seem to improve even when the provider was the axis of evil.

He could still smell Lilah's perfume, somehow, embedded in the skin around his nails, in the slight calluses on his trigger fingers, coming out of his pores with each reapplication of soap and heat.

It made him want to gag, his already wrenchingly empty stomach clenching in revulsion at what he had done, the tiles still swelling and settling around him with the after-effects of whatever-it-was she had fed him in the whiskey she had slid over to him, about an hour after he arrived in the bar.

She had seemed - so different, somehow. Tired, and almost vulnerable, her makeup a badge of attempted bravery that he could relate to, her flirtatiousness seeming to hide some deeply unsettled misery. And God knew he could relate.

He had drunk with her, listened as she told him something about a man named Gavin and his attempts to go after Angel Investigations…how she was slowly being perceived as a failure.

He had listened, and had wondered at how the whiskey sent warmth back into his veins, taking away the horrified chill that seemed to have gripped his bones as he rode over to this bar in the middle of nowhere.

He had never stopped to question why she had been there, never looked up at her for long enough to realise that he was being played. All he could think of was that he had done the one thing he had promised himself never to do - that he had left, yet again, that he had let a drunken boy sickened by whatever had been done to him in Sunnydale harness all his old demons and drive him out from where he needed to be.

The warmth of the drink the drug he corrected himself viciously, rubbing the last of the water off hard with one of the gym towels, had softened Lilah's cold eyes, made her laugh seem kind and natural, given her a gentleness that did not exist beneath her brittle façade of uncaring.

Not even the depression and desire to escape had been real…not for her. Only for him. Only for the fool who had thought there would ever be anything worth trying for in his life, and thrown away everything he had gained in a moment of weakness and a swallow of peat-flavoured illusion.

Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it…

He had said that to her, as they left the bar, the world already beginning to swing and change around him, her holding onto his arm with what he knew now was an urgent desire to keep him there, not a need for either closeness or support.

"I can keep you company there," she had said bleakly, looking straight at him, and it had seemed oddly natural to nod, to let her climb onto the back of his bike and wrap long, stockinged legs and supple arms around his body, and ask her where she wanted to go.

He should have known. He should have known from the moment she wanted to come back to the offices, but the drug had been blazing in some golden shimmer of lust through his system by then, and all he could think of was Lilah against her mahogany desk, her hair blending with the wood, those beautiful, endless legs spread for his pleasure…

This time he did retch, hanging onto the sink as he shook with loathing, his skin trying to crawl off his body with hatred of his own flesh.

No laughter with Lilah, no gentleness, no - Wesley splashed cold water over his face, and looked up at his reflection.

No difference. What he had done didn't show at all, except in a few shadows of nausea and sleeplessness that still clung to him. Perhaps he had always been like this - what was one more betrayal, after all?

Everything. What he had done was - unspeakable. What he had become last night was worse. Wesley looked at his clothes, flung into the corner of the shower room, and knew that he had no option but to put them back on, to acknowledge in the scents of perfume and smoke exactly what he had done last night.

All the perfumes of Arabia…

Wesley looked once more at his haggard reflection in the mirror, then raised his hand and smashed the glass into a myriad of splintered worlds, each one a jagged mockery of the paths he could have taken.

The file on Lilah's desk, as she lay sleeping on the leather couch, strangely unchanged even naked and asleep, untouched by what they had done.

The transcripts of his bugged living room.

The notes that told him where Xander had got his bloody information from, and God, why hadn't he guessed?

Lilah's careful addendum had been the last straw, listing the source of what Spike had said as they lay on the couch.

Wesley closed his eyes in agony, his head bent, hearing the soft mutter once more…

"Your slightest look easily will unclose me…though I have closed myself as fingers…"

One moment of happiness, taken and annotated, as though it were nothing, and Wesley had wanted to kill Lilah as he had never felt the desire to harm another living soul before in his life.

The only thing left for him to do was minimise the harm he had caused back at the flat. Lilah, for all he knew, might still be lying on the floor in front of her door, his finger marks blackening against her white skin…or she might be tying a scarf around the marks to hide them, ready to smile off her failed last ploy.

He knew that she would not stop him leaving, just as she had not tried to stop him walking away. Just as she had not tried to stop him grabbing her from the couch, slamming her up against the wall with his hands around her throat, their movements an obscene and naked parody of what they had done earlier.

There had been fear in her eyes, right before he let her go.

He could not find it in himself to care.

"I love you," he whispered, quiet and hopeless, his voice echoing in the tiled room. "I'm sorry…"

Then he soaped over his stubble, and raked the disposable razor viciously across it, putting up his last line of defence.

Failed watcher he might be - but the least he could do was look and act the part. They would all be safer, that way...

*

The bedroom was littered with detritus - blood, towels, paper and bodies….

At least the bodies were alive, more or less. Xander - snoring and in an uncomfortable looking position, on the floor and slumped against the wall, bottle of water clutched in one hand, the other flung out at an awkward angle. Spike - his feet bandaged and taped as if he were a mummy and not a vampire, curled up in corner, on his side, Wes' pillow still pulled tight against him as if it would give him protection, one hand wrapped around Xander's out flung wrist.

It was the only place they were touching, but it spoke volumes in terms of desperation.

"Xander…. Spike…." Wes spoke their names… softly and hollowly, not wanting to startle them.

Xander came awake with a startled snort, blinking owlishly. "Oh, uh… hey, Wes."

His tone was contrite, apologetic.

"About last night. I was drunk and --" Before he could get any further he was interrupted by an anguished yelp and the blur of a spring-loaded vampire flinging himself at Wesley.

Fortunately, Wes managed to brace himself just in time, as Spike slammed up against his chest, wrapping his arms tight around his waist and burying his face in Wesley's neck.

"Came back… came back… came back…" the words were not an unexpected mantra. Also, not unexpected, a quick flurry of hands as the vampire ran them over him, checking, he assumed, for any injury.

"Back and safe…" the words were a satisfied sigh against his neck as Spike resumed his previous position.

"Yes… rather…" But Wes' tone was bleak and dark.

"Uh, Wes…. What, exactly, happened to Spike?" Xander's tone was cautious, "Because, I'm thinking that this is something more than he missed you…"

"Yes, much more…" Wes told him, wrapping his arms around Spike, "…and I'll explain it all to you. If you could just…. Give us a few moments of privacy?"

"Yeah… sure…" Xander answered with a nod, edging his way towards the door. "I'll just…uh… wait out here."

Wes waited until the door was closed behind him before turning back to Spike. "I'm here and I'm fine… everything's fine."

Spike nuzzled into his neck, taking deep draughts, relishing the essence that was Wes - bookbinding, tea and gunpowder...

He suddenly froze. No there was something else… something not right.

His body tensed and he looked up at Wes, his eyes large and hurt looking. That perfume… he recognized it.

"Oh, god… oh, god…." he pushed away for a moment… "You can't. You… aren't staying are you? Should have known… should have known. Not good enough... never will be."

"No, Spike... I..." But Wes couldn't find the words.

But then Spike was back, tight against him… hands rubbing over him, touching, stroking, "Don't go... please don't go... Do whatever you want… Anything… Take whatever you have to give… Make you feel good, Wes. Know I can... Just... just don't go..."

Wesley had truly thought that he had managed to seal himself off from allowing himself to feel anything more about what he had done. Once he had worked out how Xander had been able to pinpoint all the still-healing rawnesses of his recent past with such appalling accuracy, that it had been nothing Spike had, or would have, said, he had been under no illusions as to the effect his leaving would have had.

Or rather, he had drawn on his evidently limited experience to make a few guesses as to the effect.

His new mode of behaviour had seemed simplistic and obvious to him as he stood in the shower room. To detach himself, to explain, to point out that with his evident failings he could not be the man he had so briefly allowed to emerge before Xander's arrival. There were, after all, more important things that he should be doing - things that would, in the end, be of more benefit.

The prophecy, the codexes, the business - these were supposed to be his focus. Not how he felt, not what he wanted, not what he had managed to ensure he would lose.

He was a failed Watcher, with all that entailed - and he had determined that he was going to behave as such, with all the reserve his role required. He had to do the right thing - had to be able to keep on doing it - and if that meant closing himself back into the things he knew, into the way he had been trained to behave, then so be it.

But Spike's desperation proved to him that he had not managed to close himself off completely, that the ice his father had taught him to encase himself in was obviously not yet present, because how else could the feeling that an icicle had been driven straight into his heart be explained?

Do whatever you want... Anything... Take whatever you have to give...

It hadn't been real, then. The joy he was trying to convince himself he could never have had never even existed in the first place. It had all been an attempt to pay him back with the one thing experience had told Spike was the only thing he had to offer - the one thing Wesley should never have taken, however badly he may have wanted it, however well he had deluded himself that they both wanted it, this was the truth.

Make you feel good, Wes. Know I can… Just… just don't go….

It had been payment, and something inside Wesley screamed once, short and sharp, in horrified denial, before he pushed it all away, blocking out the absolute revulsion he felt towards himself with his training, forcing himself to control his voice before he spoke.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said firmly, stilling Spike's movements against him as best he could. "I live here, and I work here, and I'm not going anywhere. Please...stop."

And Spike did, looking at him with far-too-sane eyes now, comprehension dawning.

"Yeah," he said eventually, stepping back, and Wesley forced himself not to close his eyes against the pain in that one word, willing himself not to crumble beneath it, not to explain and beg forgiveness, to stay in his self-imposed isolation and let this inevitability continue. "Got it."

Wesley nodded, once, and went into the bathroom, locking the door for the first time in weeks, stripping off his clothes with shaking hands and turning on the water.

It seemed appropriate that it was cold. And at least the sound drowned out any noise he might be making as he finally allowed the last twelve hours to catch up with him, the tears in his eyes feeling as though they were boiling his skin as he held his face up to the cold water and washed everything he had felt away into evaporation.

He pulled on the closest things to hand in the airing cupboard - an old sweater and jeans - and stuffed the once-favourite t-shirt and jeans from the night before into one of the laundry bags, moving out into the living room and forestalling Xander with one upraised hand.

"I'll be back in a minute," he said calmly, and went out into the going to-be garden, and the incinerator that Mr Pak had got going to remove the rubbish.

He stood over it for a long time, but even above the smell of scorching fabric and accelerant, he thought he could still smell Lilah's perfume.

He rubbed his hand over the scar on his neck, realising, now that it was no longer surrounded by stubble, just how bad it was. It seemed appropriate, that now people would avert their eyes from him as they should from what he had become inside, that he carried a warning on his skin that reflected what he was capable of.

A quel dinanzi il mordere era nulla
verso 'l graffiar, che talvolta la schiena
rimanea de la pelle tutta brulla.

He had always thought that this meant literally. He had never believed he would be alive, be made to function and focus, to try and do what was right, while all the time, his actions became in themselves the teeth and claws of Dante's hell, and tore at what was left of his soul.

Wesley stared into the glowing embers of his newly-discovered betrayal, and wondered whether true hell could ever be as unendurable.

*

So...this was it. A few scant hours of happiness and perfection… and then the rest of eternity stretched out before him like a long unbroken plain. No affection... no caring - just overwhelming guilt and a sense of uselessness.

Spike didn't want it to be this way. He'd tried to explain it to Wes. Tried to tell him that he'd take whatever crumbs Wes would give him and give Wes whatever he would take in return - Blood, body, brain… everything Spike had he offered to Wes.

No good. Wes didn't want it. He wanted what? That lawyer bint? Spike wasn't sure… but Wes had gone to her. Found comfort in her that he had not been able to supply.

It hurt... pain so deep that every movement ached from it.

But...still... as much as he cared for Wes, he wanted him to be happy. And if that meant... Lilah...then he'd just have to...deal with it.

Deal with it somehow...and find someway to stay connected to reality, to function without having Wes to anchor him. Or...take himself away for the times when it got too bad. Just couldn't bear to put that on the bloke anymore.

XANDER'S JOURNAL

Well, here I am… in Los Angeles…. The City of the Queen of the Angels if you want the complete translation. And the city of Angel.

That was, after all, the reason I came here. Although, of course, being Xander Harris, nothing ever really works out the way I plan.

After I lost my eye to Caleb, I tried to do whatever I could to be useful. I agreed to Buffy's plan to take Dawn away from Sunnydale for her own good, even if it felt like a betrayal. Not a betrayal of Buffy… but of myself. I needed to be there. Needed to help. But, well, if Buffy felt it was more important for me to take Dawn away… then I'd take Dawn away. And I did… only, of course, it didn't work out that way. Dawn used a taser, shocked the living hell out of me and drove us right back home while I was unconscious.

I had failed. Failed Buffy. Failed Dawn. And, as Anya was quick to point out… it was no surprise, really, because I wasn't what I used to be.

So I waited. Did what I could do. What they would allow me to do. And then… I decided. If I couldn't help… I would find help for them. I got in my car and drove straight through to L.A. to the big old Gosh awful hotel that Angel was living in. I over came my dislike of the big…. Goober.. For Buffy's sake… and the sake of all the Slayer's in Training. I laid it on the line to him. Asked for help…. No… I fuckin' begged for it. For something… anything… that might make a difference.

I don't know what I thought he'd do. Go charging to the rescue or some shit, I guess.

He did nothing. Offered nothing. Pretty much gave me a pat on the head and told me that if Buffy needed him, she knew where to find him.

Fucking asshole.

But there it was. I'd failed again. Humiliated myself… and still a failure. That was about the time I decided to hit the first bar. A sports bar on the ground floor of the Holiday Inn. That's where I met the people I spent the rest of the evening with - bar hopping. Well… until I lost them and found Mr. Pak.

I have to admit… I don't remember a whole lot of details about that night. Not sure how I wound up in front of that store… or exactly what I said to Wes. I know it was bad. Bad and nasty and evil… all ground together into an unpleasant brain vomit that sent Wes out into the night… Spike chasing after him barefooted, while I managed nothing more than passing out on their ugly-assed sofa.

Woke up, not much later... Wes was still gone, and Spike? Well there is a very long story there… lets just say that he was pretty much... er...bug-fuggin' crazy.

I managed to get him settled down… got the glass out of his feet... but it wasn't easy. It took a lot of gentle talking and reassurances... Which is sooo something I never would, in a million year, have thought I would have to do.

Wes is back now. He came home the next day… but things aren't quite right. I'm not sure what it is… but Wes has been acting strange. ((More on this later.))

Wes came home and...well...Spike seemed more than happy to see him. Kind, almost, threw himself at Wes and actually frisked him to see that he wasn't injured. I excused myself at that point...left them alone and waited out in the living room.

A few minutes later, Wes came back with a bag of...something...and disappeared down the stairs. When he came back, he smelled kinda like...well... I guess like he'd been burning something. And what does he do next? He launches into some crazy disjointed discussion of the weather, and scrawls away on a note pad.

It didn't take me long to figure out what was going on once I saw what he had written in large clear letters: APARTMENT IS BUGGED.

I blinked, then wrote in answer: AUDIO ONLY?

Wes nodded. Then we both started to work, looking for the device.

There were 5 actually… which I would have thought was a bit overkill for such a small apartment, but what the hell. Two in the living room, a separate one on the phone, one in the bedroom and one in the bath room. Sad day when a guy can't use the john in privacy.

"Good bye, Lilah." Wes spoke into the last one and then seemed to take great delight in smashing each of them. He flushed the remains down the toilet.

Wes seemed to relax a bit after that, although we did go into the kitchen while we talked...and turned on the water for white noise...just in case.

And what he had to tell me? Well...you could have knocked me over with a feather.

SPIKE HAS A SOUL.

Okay… even looking at that written out is just too wiggy.

Not only does he have a soul, but he went and got it himself...on purpose. Even more wiggy…

It does explain a lot though. See...Spike's having these bouts of craziness… Well… more like guilt so overwhelming that his mind ((and, I guess, his soul)) can't handle it. He pretty much loses touch with everything. It's kind of odd though. I mean, with Angel it was always, "That wasn't me… it was Angelus who did all the bad stuff." With Spike it's "I did all that bad stuff...and I'm shit... But I want to, somehow, work at making up for it." Somehow I can deal with that better. Oh, not that I've forgiven him for the things he's done... I can just...well...it's different.

The weird thing is...as bizarre as Spike's behaviour gets at those times… it's Wes that I'm really worried about at the moment. He's been acting...well...strange. Like he's there, but not there - detached. He's not really eating...rarely sleeping… and he's gone a lot of the time. Patrolling, he says, but I've seen the weapons he picks to take with him and they aren't for demons.

The way he's acting is having some odd effect on Spike too. I don't know where he was sleeping before… but now he's got this big nest in the corner of the bedroom. All pillows and blankets and a few books. And he's watching Wes all the time...like if he doesn't, Wes will disappear. And somehow, I think that would be very bad for Spike. Well, not that disappearing would do Wes any good either...but I think, somehow, it would make Spike go the rest of the way over into Wackyland… on a permanent basis.

Just hope that...well...whatever is going on with Wes that he fixes it soon. There's enough misery in the world without this.

Wesley was dealing with the new circumstances to the best of his abilities - which in some cases were really not too bad, and in other instances, he was forced to realise, were woefully inadequate and probably suggested, even to a casual bystander, that he would benefit from an extended holiday somewhere with nicely padded walls and bars on the windows.

Fortunately, Xander was too absorbed in whatever-it-was that had brought him to LA in the first place to be overly intrusive as to what Wesley was actually doing, and Spike...

Wesley stopped his thoughts from going any further down that path. His only way of even vaguely coping with Spike at the moment was to absent himself as often and for as long as possible. At least that might demonstrate that he had every intention of continuing to return...even if it involved little or no communication when he was present.

The routines he had fallen into had become additional torture to him in their simple lack of continuance. It was not that he had expected that they would continue to share a bed - he could no longer be trusted, after all, and he didn't blame Spike in the slightest for not wanting to be too close to him - but with Xander still occupying the couch, Spike had evidently decided that even having to be in the same room as Wesley was a better idea than trying to get any sleep whatsoever in the living room.

Xander, after all, was very much living on ordinary human time - Wesley emerged from his unsleeping attempts to convince the world he was actually getting some rest to find him very much awake and either watching television or doing something Wesley had left him written instructions about the night before, and returned from his trips out to find Xander already asleep.

It was oddly reassuring - in a way that Spike's silent observation of him was decidedly not. Every moment that Wesley spent in the flat, he found himself wanting to say something, to explain himself - to ask for an understanding and forgiveness he was damn sure he didn't deserve. After all, he hadn't the excuse of lacking a soul - or even days of incomprehensible treatment - to push him to the point he had reached. He had simply failed them both, and would have to live with the results.

It became easier to live in the university library, to doctor his outdated pass and pose as a doctorate student. Surprisingly, no-one questioned him, either the books he brought with him, the ones he ordered up from the stacks, or the long hours he stayed at whatever desk he could find. Perhaps it was because he had made no attempt to stake a claim on any particular area of the library - he was quite happy to work on the floor by one of the windows, if no table space was available - but really, he spent very little time trying to work out why they accepted him so easily, and was simply grateful for the quiet it provided.

It was the exhaustion that seemed to permeate his every bone, aching and dragging at him, that was the hardest thing to maintain his defences against. Once or twice, he had come back from his research tired enough to believe he could sleep - but the sight of Spike, curled up in the corner, to all intents and purposes asleep himself, inevitably banished all ability he had to let himself fall even into a doze. More than anything, on those few occasions, he had wanted to crawl into the nest of blankets and pillows and books himself, to talk about what he was doing as he had been able to do in recent weeks, to get Spike's opinions and ideas and take some of the thrumming out of his brain...

To stop being alone. To fall asleep knowing that there was someone in the world who gave a damn as to whether he was there or not, to feel Spike's fingers around his wrist, so that he was aware of his own continuing pulse...

On those nights, he went back out, down to the emerging garden, and worked until he was drained even of thought, sitting by what was going to be a fountain, one day, leaning with his back against the cool stone, and wishing to God that it would all just stop.

Xander, perhaps realising that the only chance he was ever going to have of getting a reasonable meal around the flat was to do the shopping himself, had demanded the key to the petty cash from Wesley on the second day after his arrival - and Wesley, shrugging, had given it to him.

"Wes - seriously, there's nothing to do here but take phonecalls and look through books for whatever random fact you or Spike want. Is it always like this?"

Wesley had shaken his head, thinking of the times he had taken cases on, knowing himself able to be effective, which he decidedly was not at the moment - he didn't even want to think of how quickly he would lose in any contest that required physical focus. He had managed to maintain his detachment, however, saying only,

"No. Sometimes it isn't nearly as exciting," and very obviously considering that to be the end of the conversation.

The thing was, Xander helped. Wesley no longer had to worry about keeping everything going while he tried to get the research part of things done...and he was sure that Spike was benefiting from having him around, as well, since while Wesley left and found him in the same place, the work was getting done.

Of course, that meant that when he encountered Xander during times when they were both awake and coherent, he had to endure his theories on the provenance of Mr Pak, who, along with most of Wesley's kitchen appliances, had somehow got Xander convinced that he was a demon.

With some difficulty, Wesley kept the impatience out of his voice, and wondered if he could escape the flat before Spike got up. "Xander, while I accept LA is, indeed, full of demons, let me reassure you on two points. The members of the community include neither the couch nor Mr Pak."

Neither his obvious irritation nor his dismissal of the topic seemed to have any effect on Xander, who continued to try to prove his theory. "But the couch.... The couch is evil. Really... It bit me last night... and in a terribly sensitive spot, I might add."


Wesley resisted the temptation to roll his eyes - barely. He reminded himself that Xander had made the very strong coffee he was drinking, and that it wouldn't be very grateful of him to yell 'Shut up!' in response. Still, sarcasm, surely, was allowed. "Right...perhaps you would feel better if you exorcised it? Feel free. Really. I always find that covering something in wax and holy water improves its comfort level."

Xander huffed, then gave in - unwillingly. "Okay.... I do a gimme on the couch... but I still think Mr. Pak is a demon. A good demon... but...Is that even possible?"

Wesley did roll his eyes at that. How long had Xander lived in Sunnydale? He had dated a former demon, for God's sake - he really couldn't still be this ignorant. "Yes, Xander," he said wearily, wondering how he got into these conversations, and feeling very, very old, "of course it's possible. But Mr Pak isn't one of them. He's just a very - and believe me, I emphasise the very - strange old man."

Xander seemed utterly sincere, though. "Yeah... but he knows stuff, Wes. I was down in the store and just searching for the Weetabix... and he just walks right up and hands them to me without me saying a word. He knew I was looking for them... Don't you think that's kinda strange?"

Wesley thought about Mr Pak's normal method of behaviour, and decided that it sounded pretty much the same as usual, really. Perhaps living here for two years had immunised him, but - compared to an unexpected delivery of blood, it was really rather mundane. "For Mr Pak? No." He frowned, wondering at why Xander, who as far as he could tell, lived on anything with a high sugar content, would be trying to find Weetabix. "Who eats Weetabix, anyway?"

It was Xander's turn to frown now - but at him, his expression oddly disapproving. "Spike does.... Or did. I just thought... well... nothing.. never mind..."

One day, Wesley told himself grimly, one day, this was going to stop hurting. It was going to be bearable, it was no longer going to feel like grief, it was just something he had to endure until it stopped being so damned painful. "No, that's -" For the life of him, he couldn't think of an intelligible reply, and he started to gather his things together, ready to make his escape. "Yes. Yes. I - well. I...need to go."

Apparently, his response had not impressed Xander in the slightest. "Yeah.... of course... because that's all you ever do...."

Not now! Wesley thought desperately, even as he heard his voice, dry and calmly detached, answer, "I can't see that my staying here to work will be of any value."

Xander met him with equal sarcasm. "No... no... of course not. And the fact that you almost flinch whenever I say Spike's name , well, that's of no value either...."

God, Wesley hated his ability to catch him on the raw every single time...hated this life, hated what he had to be, how he had to act - hated everything. "And I think, none of your business?" he snapped, picking up his bag, and left.

Working in the library was almost impossible that day. It was an Open Day for prospective students, for one thing, and the fact that Wesley's thoughts were behaving remarkably like a hamster on a wheel was doing nothing whatsoever to aid his concentration.

By eight in the evening, he had given it up as a bad job, and was on his way back, hoping, against all previous experience had taught him, that if he worked late in the garden, he would be able to get some sleep for once.

*

It was becoming a regular night time habit for Spike. The very moment the sun set he was out the door, tracking Wes. At first, it was from some sense of self punishment; he expected to be lead to that Morgan bint, eventually, and let that pain, once more burn him. But as the night's passed and that never happened, he grew more and more confused… and despondent. If Wes had preferred someone else...well, that would hurt, but Spike would deal with it. But if there were no one else, things were less complex… and very much more painful. That would mean that Wes simply did not want him - no matter who else was in the world.

But still he followed Wes through the night...charming his way past the University's librarian some nights...or waiting outside, if his mental state was not stable enough for charm.

Then, when Wes called it a night and headed back towards the apartment, Spike rushed ahead, slipped inside and into his "nest" before Wes returned.

His days were more austere and more frustrating. He rose after Wes left… choked down some blood...and then worked on translations until his eyes and back ached and Xander finally stole his pen and gave him a very bad cup of tea. The boy had been amazingly civil to him… but, of course, they were still avoiding the whole Buffy subject. It made Spike wonder exactly how badly the other Scoobies had treated the boy, to make staying in residence with his old enemy a palatable choice.

After working until he couldn't see straight, he'd try to sleep, but it was never restful - filled with ramblings and nightmares that Xander had often, thankfully, interrupted. It seemed the only decent sleep Spike got was after Wes came in and collapsed for the night...the warm, familiar scent of him, lulling the vampire into sleep, even from across the room.

It was now day ten of their stand-off. Day ten of heartache and backache, bad tea and silence. Day ten of little sleep, little food, and avoidance so strong that the stench of it burned Spike's nostrils.

Spike needed to make a decision, but it all hurt so damned much.

So much that when Wes left the library early that evening Spike didn't even bother to rush to beat him home. Wasn't like Wes would even notice his absence. Hell, Wes could barely look at him, even when he was pretending to be asleep. If Spike purposely caught his eye, Wes flinched back like the gaze would burn him. It was almost as bad as a stake to his heart, every time he saw it.

It was making his decision just that much easier. Just that much more imperative.

That evening, Spike arrived home after Wes. He came into the building through the store front and was heading towards the stairs when Mr. Pak flagged him down.

"Spike. We've done so much to the garden, your Wes and I." The elderly man grinned at him. "You should go look and enjoy it - Envision how it will be when we finish."

"Yeah… I'll take a look. Need a smoke before I go up anyway." Spike didn't have the heart to tell Mr. Pak that envisioning would probably be the only way he'd see it completed.

He went down the back steps and looked around, casually. In spite of what Mr. Pak had said, he knew that most of the physical labour had been done by Wes. He'd watched him every night, from the shadows. Wes was good at this - almost as good as he was with his books.

The moon was bright and full and Spike reached the bottom of the steps, leaning down to pluck a bit of mint leaf out of one of the seedling trays. He crushed it between his fingers and breathed in the aroma.

Yeah… that was what he'd smelled on Wes last night… that bright, sharp scent. Spike held the leaf close, as if memorizing it.

Suddenly, there was a shift of movement off to his left, and a quick inhalation of breath. It was Wes.

"Oh… Spike." Wes cleared his throat… and then he shifted as if the metal in his spine had just hardened into rebar. "I was just going."

"No, Wes." Spike spoke softly. "I'm the one who's going."

That got some reaction, at least. Spike wasn't sure what kind of reaction - good or bad - but it was better than the dead air and silence they'd been living with.

"I just wanted to give you these." Spike pulled his keys out of his pocket and sat them down on the steps, not trusting himself to get any closer to Wes. "I'll have all my stuff ready and out by tomorrow evening when the sunsets."

Spike rushed ahead, afraid that if he didn't, the words would get stuck and he'd never get them said. "I just want what's best for you, Wes. Know you don't love me. Know you couldn't. But I just can't live in between anymore. It hurts too fuckin' much. I can't do…this. I'd rather live with rats than a block of ice. Can't take the cold, Wes. Never could."

He forced himself to look up at Wes...wanting at least one last look at the man with his face lit by moonlight. It was something he'd have to hold on to.

*

Wesley had been working, with Mr Pak's 'help', on getting the ornamental grating for the fountain pipes installed. It was beautifully wrought iron, mimicked by the little pieces of exquisite metalwork that kept appearing in odd corners, presumably belonging to Mr Pak's family, rather than purchased recently. The rent was nowhere near extortionate enough for the old man to be able to afford the things, even if the supermarket did do trade in things that the taxman would probably not know how, let alone where to bracket.

He thought Mr Pak was trying to help in some way, making him look at the intricacy that went into even nail covers, telling him what each thing symbolised, making him focus on each minute change that he made. And ten days ago, Wesley would have cared, would have looked for the meaning in all the little details, would have looked up exactly what power was being channelled into what he was being steered no-so-subtly into creating.

But he was past caring, now, his mind too tired and aching to make sense out of anything, even Mr Pak's incredibly unsubtle hints that he should talk. He didn't think he could talk, anyway - everything seemed not so much to have dried up as simply faded into a twilight non-existence, a pointless, dragging unhappiness that wasn't even worth putting words to.

He just hurt, and he wasn't even sure how, only that everything seemed too great an effort to try to make sense of any more, too vast a chasm between what he did and how he felt to overcome with thought or speech.

He picked up one of the little nail covers, and looked at it, letting one finger nail trace around the lines and swirls, turning it into the half-lit patches that the moon created amidst the almost-garden. It was nearly beautiful. Even he could appreciate that, but it was as though he was being told by someone who knew more, knew better, that this was how it was, and so he should think it. He didn't feel anything respond at all, not even a faint satisfaction at knowing how much of it he had helped to bring out of the forgotten debris.

He had no idea how long he stood, turning the little thing over and over between his fingers, wondering what it meant, wondering if anything would ever mean anything again, when he became aware that someone else was in the garden. Spike.

He was turning over a mint leaf in his hand much as Wesley had been playing with the nail-cover a moment before, but breathing in the aroma, holding it close to crush the scents into the night air, and Wesley caught his breath on a sudden, surprising twist of real pain, replacing the dead misery with the horrible, vivid grief of now that overcame him at the most surprising times.

"Ya smell like sunshine...and warm earth...and...rice wine?"

He had to get away, before he made a complete and utter fool of himself - but Spike's next words stopped him cold, the icicle back and skewering through him in freezing agony.

"I'm the one who's going."

For the first time in days, Wesley looked straight at him, unable, now, to hide anything from his expression. Not the guilt, or the grief, or the love, or the utter loss that was crashing through him now in waves, dulling his hearing with a roar like surf, so that only a few words came through as Spike put the keys down.

"...Rather live with rats...block of ice...cold, Wes. Never could."

"No," Wesley whispered, as much to the garden and himself than anything, because there was nothing he could do, now, the gulf between himself and words to great to be overcome, and too late anyway, even if he could. "No, I see that....it's odd, isn't it? You're right, of course you are, and yet - I love you. In my own way....I do, but whether that. Whether. It's enough. Whether I....well. Yes. I know I'm - yes. As you say. Rats and all that. Good point...."

Spike was staring at him, as though he were waiting for something else, but there wasn't anything, and besides, he might as well already be gone - what more could there be. How ironic, Wesley thought, that people should always be accusing me of leaving them, when I am the one who is left.

Or maybe he had made as little sense aloud as his thoughts did when they ran around the hamster wheel of his mind, because Spike seemed to find it necessary to repeat himself.

"Can't live in between anymore, Wes.... hurts too fuckin' much. Can't get any body to fuckin' well stay...ever...And when all of eternity stretches out in front of you.... it just feels...... Sorry... Sorry... not your worry... not your problem.... Don't mean for it to be...Can't be good enough... ever... so... should just..." He waved towards the entrance to the garden, but to him it was an exit - an escape? God, was it that unbearable for him to be near Wesley? - and there was something wrong about what he was saying, something utterly, fundamentally wrong, and Wesley couldn't make his mind work around it, like some terrible dream where his legs were glued to a road and the car wasn't stopping, he couldn't make anything work, and the sheer terror of that galvanised some last remaining coherency out of him, the urgency of it sounding harsh in his voice as he took an involuntary step forward.

"Wait!" he said, knowing that even if he couldn't stop any of this, could never make up for what he had done, he had to at least make this one thing clear. "Wait, don't - it's not that. It was never that. If you feel...you have to leave, then - I don't blame you. But it's not you. You have to believe that. It's me..."

Spike was for some reason furious at that, life blazing in him for the first time in what seemed like days. "How can it not be me? Drove you right out of your own apartment, Wes....you went to...."

And just like that, the anger and the life were gone, replaced by a resigned dullness that was too close to how Wesley had been feeling since that night for comfort. " ... so that's it," he concluded, and Wesley had time to think - What? - before he continued, "That's where you want to be... and not with me... so... I have to let you. Bloody soul won't let me do it any other way... Got to do what's right for you..."

And this didn't make any sense, except - except it did.

All the perfumes of Arabia...

Spike had known where he had been - what he had done. And he thought, as a result, that he knew - somewhere inside Wesley, thoughts and feelings and speech suddenly collided at once, the words spilling out as though they had been stored up, waiting for him to make the right connection. "Hold on, hold on, what? You think I want Lilah? That I want to be with her, and not - Exactly what do you think I was playing at, then, the day Xander came here? Oh, God...listen to me, listen. I was wrong. I should never have left that night. It wasn't - I was trying to get away from myself. Not you. I'd ruined the only good thing that had ever happened to me and I had to get away - and you warned me about Lilah, again and again, and I was too bloody wrapped up in myself to notice until I'd made the most stupid bloody mistake of my life. It's not my problem, don't you understand I know that? It never was. It was my choice - and I wrecked it. I never believed you would want the same things I did...do. Until that night you let me kiss you and we ended up in bed together - God, I thought I'd died and gone to heaven." He snorted, the sound oddly wet, and he realised he was crying - perhaps had been since he started talking, but it didn't matter any more, as long as he could get the words out. "Every time I think about that day, I still think it's...unreal. I can't believe you could have kept on wanting me...I know I was taking advantage of you, you were depending on me to keep you safe. And I...I abused that...I used you when you were vulnerable. But - you don't need me anymore...and I'm scared of losing you - and I don't want that to happen!" Christ, this was death, this was hell, but at least it was true, and it didn't matter, any more, how much it hurt, because it was real... "I don't want to lose you!"

*

After the silence of the last ten days, Spike was almost too shocked by the sheer volume of what Wes was pouring out to hear the meaning behind it. Then, suddenly, what Wes was saying was the most important thing in the world - the most important thing he'd heard in his life.

Could it be possible that--? Was Wes actually saying--?

It was too much to take in. Much easier to simply deal with the pieces, one at a time. He looked down, slowly gathering his thoughts.

And when he finally did manage a reply, Spike's voice was soft, the sound of late night traffic passing the front of the store almost covering it, "Never took advantage of me, Wes... Even when I was.... wandering.... I knew what I wanted. Didn't you know? You were the only one, Wes... the only one who held me here... held me in reality when I was driven to escape it. Loved you for that... for even bothering. Know it must have been hard, but you never gave up on me."

Bright blue eyes flashed upwards in the moonlight, locking on Wes, "And before you go getting it in your head that I... want you... out of some... misplaced sense of gratitude... That is abso-bloody-lutely wrong."

Wes' answering voice was broken and wavering, "Didn't I tell you? I excel at getting things wrong…"

Bloody Hell.… Spike grabbed Wes and pulled him into his arms... figuring it would be better to be told directly to bugger off, than to stand there feeling so.... lost and miserable. Better for both of them. "Getting things wrong... just means... you have to correct 'em, yeah? If... if you want to.... If... If you think it's worth it?"

And could I sound any more pathetic? A harsh voice inside Spike tried to break out - tried to protect him from feeling quite so vulnerable. But then, another part of him, the part that was wrapped around Wes and not getting shoved away, silenced it.

When Wesley replied, he sounded too out of all energy to do anything but hold on to Spike anyway, "Please."

Spike held him tighter, relishing the warmth and rightness of having him there, "Can't say no to you, Wes... not about this... want it too much."

"Not sure whether I think that's good or bad..." Wes mumbled against his shirt front. "God, I don't think I can think anymore at all, actually…"

"Let me think for you then.…" Spike tried to summon up a half-hearted joke, "Not like I use my brain for a lot of my thinking... but in this case, I'll give it my best shot. Tell you what I want... ask what you want? That be all right?"

"More than," came the muffled reply.

Spike led Wes over to the steps, sat down and settled the other man against him, comfortable and comforting, "Want you, Wes... in my arms.. next to me... and watching my back... all of it. What do you want?"

Wesley's voice started quietly as he began to relax. "That actually sounds...as near as damn it to perfect. I want....I want you to call me on things. Before I do something irretrievable. For you to be happy."

He gave an abrupt laugh, "I'm not very good at this, am I?"

Spike leaned in, resting his chin on Wes' shoulder, "Doing fine, love...just fine."

"Not going to be easy though…" Spike continued. "I'm stubborn and snarky and..." He paused there, whispering against Wes' ear, "Think you can keep me in line? I need it..."

"I think I can try…" Wes gave a small smile, "...and I don't think I expected easy. Or actually want it..."

Spike nuzzled Wes' neck briefly, breathing in that wonderful much-loved scent, "Gonna be a hub-bub, ya know... Watcher and a Vamp…" He chuckled, "Peaches isn't going to like this…"

"Probably not...I can't imagine Xander's going to be too ecstatic, either." Wes frowned and then shrugged, "I don't think I care terribly, come to think of it…"

"Bugger Xander!" Spike blurted out.

Wes turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised in amusement.

"No… I mean..." Spike huffed, "Actually, bugger the whole of Sunnydale and my poof of a Sire.... Kid's had it rough, really. Never thought I'd say this about Xander-bleedin'-Harris... but... they treated him like shit."

"That much I'd gathered...unfortunately, I've had my head far too firmly stuck up my own arse the last week to do much more than offer him a bed. What's been going on?"

Spike frowned. He didn't really want to talk about Xander right now... he wanted to be sure that things between them were alright and would stay alright... but... "Kid had his eye put out... could have easily been both of them... then they send him off on some fool's errand that didn't work out... So they treated him like he was now useless.... Why he's here, really... Wanted to do something to help. Went to Angel, who pretty much fobbed him off with a, 'We'll look into it.' Bleedin' Poof."

"Did he now? Hmmm." Wes shook his head, "I don't know about you, but I think Angel's superiority complex could do with a little home-grown psychology.…"

"Needs his arse kicked."

"Yes, he does...hard."

"Better yet, just shoot him in the arse... where his brain is most of the time anyway." Spike chuckled and then whispered against Wes' ear, "Love to watch when you get all tough. So fuckin' hot.... "

Wes looked surprised, "Since when do I 'get tough'? Not that I'm quibbling about the result, but..."

"When you fight... When you argue with one of our snitches... When you tell off the soddin' newspaper boy for tossing the bloody news in a puddle..." Spike was quick to name off just a few. "Your jaw gets all tight and your eyes.... flash. 'S beautiful.…"

"You like it when I'm bad-tempered?" Wes laughed, deciding that this kind of bizarre compliment is one he can deal with. "Good job, really…"

"Hello? Vampire.…" Spike chuckled against Wes' neck. "Like when you get your blood up…"

"You work at sounding disturbing, don't you?" Wes, continued, trying to be casual. "I suppose it's a good thing I love that, then..."

Spike's voice was suddenly steady and serious. No laughter left in it - as if this was the most important thing he'd ever said, "Love you, Wes."

"And I you." Wes turned around completely, all pride gone, clinging to Spike, as if to a lifeline. "God, I'm so fucking sorry."

"Missed you, Wes... missed you so much..." Spike clutched at Wes just as tightly.

"Me too…" the words were a tight little ache.

Then Spike echoed the words he'd said to Wes days before... when he first asked permission to move closer, "Wes... can I just?"

"Not just. Everything." Wes met him half way, melting into the kiss, melting into Spike.

*

Wesley had never thought very much about his body . It was there, it usually did most of what he required of it, as long as he took reasonable care, and unless he was in some kind of pain, he generally tended to ignore it.

He would have put his reaction to a simple kiss down to the insane sense-deprivation he had been forcing himself towards over the last few days, except it had been like that from the first time Spike had touched him with any intention other than a need of grounding or sometimes in a random gesture of friendship, an overload of sensation that turned him into a collection of nerve endings and not much else, as though everything even vaguely near to where Spike was touching him were comprised of live wires had become electric, a succession of sparks and blue light, dissolving his bones.

He had never been more aware of where he was, of how he felt, nor less in control, as he let Spike break the kiss with a reluctance he imagined was palpable, but oh - breathing, yes...and he was not the only one affected, judging from the soft moan Spike gave, before they were kissing again, the dark behind Wesley's eyes like thick black velvet, a blindfold of desire.

And his body, it seemed, could find a coherence that he knew he had already lost, pressing closer in a silent acquiescence to the demand for more that could have been coming from either or both of them.

Spike hissed softly against his mouth, and yes, apparently he was the one doing the thinking, because his next words were "Upstairs - now."

Wesley nodded, but that meant movement, meant using all this new awareness of where and who he was to do something he really didn't want to, and his legs seemed to have more sense than him, because he didn't move, however hard he willed himself to do so.

Spike kissed him again, long and lingering, whether in encouragement or reward for his intransigence was impossible to tell. "Right..." he said, as though in agreement to something Wesley had said, when he was damn sure he couldn't remember speaking, "here is good too...."

And yes, yes it was, it was beyond good, but - they were in a half-finished garden, and very definitely outside, and there were supposed to be rules about that sort of thing...Wesley sighed, ruefully. "And possibly foolish..." he volunteered unwillingly.

"Told you I don't usually do my thinking with my brain...." Spike pointed out, and kissed him again.

There was something wrong with the idea of moving, beyond the obvious, and Wesley tried to remember what it was, before saying with a desperation that had nothing to do with the need that clamoured through him - "Spike...Xander's on the couch..."

Spike's moan sounded equally desperate as he pressed against him. "Oh, bloody hell..."

Wesley decided, quite abruptly, that good sense could go and hang itself slowly and painfully, along with rules about outside and everything else that wasn't immediate. "Here is fine..." he said dreamily, thinking, now? and please? and a sort of confusion of hope that neither of them would start thinking properly or being sensible about anything in the next few minutes.

That didn't look as though it was going to be an issue, as Spike started unbuttoning Wesley's shirt, following his fingers upwards with his mouth blazing a trail of kisses and licks, his mumble of "God, yes..." interpretable as anything from agreement to commentary, and quite honestly, Wesley didn't care which it was, as long as it didn't mean stopping. He shivered, and slid his hands up beneath Spike's t-shirt, his fingers tracing over cool skin, thinking, as he had before, skin-hunger and, this time, caring only whether he could satisfy it, not what it might mean.

With all the things he had tried so hard to forget, it seemed that the one thing Wesley actually had succeeded in blocking from his mind was how much Spike talked - unless that hadn't been true before, and Wesley really didn't care in any case, the words as soothing to his exhausted mind as the touches were arousing to his body. Everything Spike did to him was punctuated with speech, the unneeded air blowing cool across his skin, sending shivers across each individual inch of his skin.

"Missed you Wes...missed this...So bloody hot..." Spike trailed his tongue down to Wesley's navel, making him draw in a too-deep breath that only served to dizzy him further, the almost-warm, wet flesh circling and dipping inside the small hollow, as Wesley arched into the caresses almost involuntarily, his conscious mind still one step behind what he knew he wanted, his hands stroking rapidly, shakily, over any part of Spike's neck and shoulders he could reach, listening to the pounding of his heart in his ears as much as to the continuing words "...taste so good..."

He pulled the zip on Wesley's jeans down, barely pausing as he freed Wesley's by now uncomfortable hard cock, and ignoring the odd sound Wesley made, amusement mingling with his arousal as Spike murmured, "Beautiful."

Wesley clenched his hands tight on Spike's shoulders, amusement dissolving into urgency as Spike, acting as though infinity were a working hypothesis, ran his tongue lazily over the head of Wesley's cock, his own insistence seemingly vanished. "Want this to last," he said, running his tongue from base to crown and repeating the process as Wesley moaned low in his throat. "Want to taste you for hours..." He chuckled then, as Wesley made a small noise of protest, and laughed rather breathlessly.

"You want me dead?" was all Wesley could think of to say, wondering if it were actually a possibility. "Spike...we really shouldn't be outside..."

Spike barely slowed, his eyes drifting to half-mast, but reminded him "Xander...couch..."

Wesley cursed helplessly, his breath quickening as Spike covered him completely, his mouth gaining heat that Wesley knew he must be leeching from his own feverish skin, taking Wesley in deep and rough, the added friction unbearable. Wesley was only just aware of the fact that his hands were tightening, his fingers probably driving through muscle to bone, the fluttering of the muscles in his belly of more importance, feeling the pressure coil at the base of his spine, and his hips begin to thrust forward instinctively.

"Can't last..." he managed, "...sorry..."

Spike, impossibly, only took him deeper, and Wesley sighed, long and quiet, feeling his entire body relax to an impossible level, dimly aware of Spike cleaning him with little kitten licks, before working his way back up to Wesley's neck, nuzzling into the pulse there.

"Love you," he murmured, and Wesley knew that he should respond, but both his brain and his body seemed to be on the same level of complete lassitude, and all he could do was to mutter something that he knew was unintelligible even to Spike's superior hearing. He felt as though all his bones had been liquefied, and the most he was able to accomplish was to bring one hand up, making an enormous effort to focus enough to touch Spike's face, and hope that this would somehow communicate a part of all he was feeling.

He seemed to have communicated something, at least, because Spike was laughing softly, saying something about upstairs and bed. Wesley wondered, for a moment, if he should try and get himself more together, offer to reciprocate, but the most he could manage was a faint sound of agreement, as Spike stood up and rearranged their clothes into something approaching decency, helping Wes to his feet as though this was entirely normal.

"Come on then...not far..."

Half asleep, Wesley wondered if he looked so bad that the bloody obvious had to be pointed out to him, and with the almost-irritability that only the half-asleep could truly manage, he responded, "I know..." before finding that his eyes were already closed, and the black velvet of before was no longer filled with desire, but with a siren's call to oblivion.

He frowned, a little, when he felt Spike pick him up, laughter still running through him at the cusp of audibility, but it was easier to decide that none of it mattered, and let his head rest in the curve of Spike's shoulder, letting exhaustion pull him down through the waves of comfort and relief into sleep.

*

He's light as a breath…

It was a poetical thought, although the truth of it was not so poetical. Spike knew that he, himself, had not been sleeping well, nor eating as he should, throughout their estrangement, but he was a vampire…he would go on whether he took care of himself or not. Wes, however, was human, and on the thin side to begin with.

Spike let that thought rest for the moment as he got Wes the rest of the way up the stairs, knocking on the door insistently until Xander tugged it open from the inside.

"Spike?" Xander blinked owlishly in the brighter light of the hallway, "Something wrong with Wes?"

"Nah... his brain's just leaked out all over the concrete and I've got to get him to bed so he can grow a new one.…" He shoved past Xander and on into the bedroom.

"'K…" Xander answered groggily, as if that made perfect sense, then stumbled back to the couch and his interrupted sleep.

**

Spike awoke the next day wrapped tightly around Wes... and right where he wanted to be. Wes was still asleep, warm and relaxed. Spike traced patterns over Wes's bare chest, then nuzzled into his neck, his mouth against the pulse point there. He reveled in the warm thrum, the feeling of Wesley's life under his lips, strong and steady.

Nibbling up to Wesley's ear, he whispered softly, "Love you, Wes.... So much..."

There was a grunt, a blink and then a mumble of something that was, just possibly, a response.

Spike chuckled, softly, "And I love how you mumble in Meriadon when you're waking up..."

"I do?" Wes frowned, waking up a bit more. "I am awake...aren't I?"

Spike rubbed up against him suggestively as an answer. "Getting there.…"

"So it seems…" Wes chuckled, and kissed him. "Hm...definitely awake…"

"Awake and here." And there was something in Spike's voice that said he was still marvelling at that thought. Marvelling that the misery of the last 10 days was over. Not only over… but somehow, amazingly, set to rights.

"I live here, remember?" And it was obvious that Wes meant more than the apartment, because while his voice might have been teasing, his eyes were serious.

"Yes... right here…" Spike pulled Wes closer, his touch welcoming him home, teasing and tempting.

Wesley's eyes crinkled in a mixture of amusement and desire, giving back touch for touch unstintingly, completely different to the almost-passivity of the previous night.

"Oh, god... yeah, Wes.…" Spike moaned, encouragingly, "More..…"

By now, Wes was half-way to laughing, kissing Spike while his hands moved over him. "More what? This? This?"

One hand slipped between them, long fingers stroking, as Wes questioned in an amused voice, "This?"

"Yes.... more... Everything…" Spike groaned, his patience quickly evaporating, "Please…"

And then there were hands, warm hands, roaming over his chest, teasing and flickering, and lips tasting, arousing, burning.

Spike moaned, rocking his hips against Wes... rubbing them together, velvet skin with steel beneath... "So bloody warm.... So good."

Cool skin, grinding slow, and hips snapping upwards to meet their match. Wes's hair was damp with sweat, and his soft moan of: "Yours…" was oddly clear, though whether he was referring to himself or the warmth was open for debate.

"Yours too, love.... long as you want.…" Spike chose the latter interpretation to reply to, between long strokes and Wesley's shuddering breaths, proving as much as anything that he had made the right choice in his response, "…long as you'll have me....Love you, Wes..."

"And I you..." One day, Spike thought with a small, still-working part of his mind, Wesley might not have problems saying that, but right now it was probably too mixed up with things he didn't want to think about yet, acting as a guard on his tongue as efficiently as his previous silence had done. And then, thinking of anything but where he was and what he was doing became too difficult, words impossible, as he shuddered from head to toe, seeing Wesley with his eyes clamped shut, his mouth opening in a soundless cry. Spike closed his own eyes, and dots of colour and light flashed beneath his eyelids for a brief moment

"God yessss…" a hissed cry from Wesley, and Spike joined him in climax, his quaking arms giving way to drop him back beside the other man, panting loudly.

"That was... bloody... Brilliant…"

Gasping in cool air, urgency fading but still moving against the aftershocks, Wes kissed his shoulder wordlessly.

"Wish I could bite you…" Spike's soft words were wistful, laced with regret. "You'd taste so good right now... all that lust and desire floating in the mix…"

"I'll find a way of getting that damn thing out...and then you can tell me," Wesley's words were a bare whisper, but tinged with determination.

Spike froze for a moment... then levered himself up and looked right into Wes' eyes, "Would I lose you, if it was gone? Nothing would be worth that... Keep it in until doomsday if it meant that."

"If it meant losing you...I wouldn't be trying to find a way." Wes's answer was honest at least, a trace of the man who had threatened to shoot Gunn glinting through as he continued, "That - that thing - in your head is an affront, and it has nothing to do with - with how I feel."

Relaxing once again, Spike nuzzled back into the warm body next to him, "Wes.... I just..." For once, he was at a loss for words. "I want it out," he said simply at last, and from there it was easy. "Scares me how much. I... I worry that something will happen... something I can't protect you from. I can protect you from demons... but a 10 year old with a water balloon could get right past me.…"

"I--" Wes stopped, unable to think of a single way to tell Spike that he wanted him to be able to protect himself without it coming out wrong and causing maximum offence. He aimed for levity then, rather than tact, knowing that Spike tended to take his rather brutal humour for its underlying meaning, rather than the tone in which it was delivered. "Well, if you're going to be kicking my arse when I stuff my head up it, it would be nice to give you the opportunity to do it for real, after all."

"And I want you to be able to kick mine right back... without feeling guilty about it." Spike chuckled softly in reply.

"Oh...give me time…, " was Wes's soft reply, then a sudden laugh, "Spike - do you realize I've cancelled every single bloody case offered to us? That Xander thinks every piece of kitchen equipment we own is possessed? And for some strange reason, Mr. Pak thinks we should meet his student for tea - and I haven't done anything about any of it?"

"Harris is a strange bloke..." Spike looked at Wes for a moment, "But... I've gotta say... not as bad as I remember him being... 'Specially to me considering the fact that... Well. He has reason."

"Yes, he does. For all of it. And that reminds me....I'd say a certain phonecall is long overdue - wouldn't you?"

"Phone call?" Spike looked blankly innocent, and saw Wes quirk his mouth in recognition of the ploy, before he smiled grimly.

"I need to speak to Angel."

Spike grimaced at that. "Gawd, Wes.... please... I beg you... never mention that name when we're in bed together. Puts me right off."

"Yes, it wasn't going to make my list of aphrodisiacs, either…"

"Or Lilah…" This request was much softer, but even more heartfelt.

"Absolutely. Christ, yes."

Spike relaxed then and snuggled against Wes's chest, "Thanks, love…" he sighed, and shifted, preparatory to moving away. "Should get you cleaned up... Gonna be all stuck together soon... Should feed you too... and take care of some business, I suppose." The lack of enthusiasm for any of these ideas was apparent in Spike's tone.

"And to none of that do I even want to even vaguely agree…"

Spike chuckled his agreement, "Me either.... Just want to be here... with you.... "

There was a loud crash, a thud and the sound of Xander cursing... somewhere in the other part of the apartment, "And to shoot Harris... That would be good too."

*

Somewhere in the other room, Xander was cursing with a fluency that, under most circumstances, Wesley would have appreciated. This was not among them, however, and he groaned with wholehearted irritation.

"Oh, God, gladly…do I want to know what that was?"

Spike raised his head and sniffed. "Coffee pot," he said after a moment, "says it hates him."
For one glorious moment, Wesley's mind focused on what it deemed to be the important part of that statement, and he brightened considerably. "He made coffee…?" he began hopefully, before the rest of the sentence and its context joined the optimism, as he remembered the crash. "Oh," he ended mournfully, realising that coffee was not only probably not going to materialise this morning, but probably not at all in the next few days until he bit the bullet and bought a new pot. From the look on his face, Spike had come to the same conclusion.

"Could have been a cup.…" Spike suggested, proving that hope did, indeed, spring eternal. Wesley just thumped his head, hard, on the headboard.

"Oh, God," he muttered to the ceiling. "Remind me, would you, that I am definitely asking Mr Pak about the bigger apartment…?"

Spike nodded in somewhat desperate looking agreement, obviously wishing he could follow up on his ideal scenario and shoot Xander anyway. "Yeah.... want to be able to shag you without him knocking on the door to find out why you're screaming." There was a small, slightly horrified pause, during which Wesley tried, and failed, not to imagine exactly that happening. "Come on.. you know he would." Spike seemed to have taken his silence for disagreement rather than stunned horror, and pressed his point. "Probably think I'm killing you or something..."

Wesley just groaned at the whole concept. "Oh please....no," he said, before adding plaintively, "Can we put that on the list?"

Spike snorted, and Wesley realised that he had been pegged as the optimist now. "Well, yeah.... but Xander has a way of creeping in, y'know? He's just that kinda bloke…"

Wesley stared ostentatiously at the door, half-joking, half in genuine concern. "A thought to increase all insomnia…" he said in only half-feigned alarm, before adding quickly, "ah...not that I would know."

His half-arsed attempt at deflection was met with the scorn it deserved - and a surprising amount of tolerance for his idiotic behaviour recently. "I know you've not been sleeping, love. Been watching you, haven't I?"

Wesley winced. "Right…" he said vaguely, wishing he'd never said anything. It seemed that he was doomed to enter awards for stupidity every time he opened his mouth at the moment.

Surprisingly, Spike apologised, before returning to silence. Expecting a lecture on sensible behaviour, Wesley was taken aback, and it took him a moment to focus his thoughts before he realised that no elaboration on the quiet "Sorry," was forthcoming.

"Hm?" he asked, bewildered. "What for?"

"Whatever I did... I know part of it was me. Not stupid. Not sure quite what... but.... No... never mind. Don't want to go back to that. Just tell you I'm sorry... You tell me you're sorry... and we'll shove it under the rug and move ahead, yeah?"

Right, so apparently that really hadn't been made clear. Wesley's curses might have been quieter than Xander's, but what they lacked in vocalisation, they made up for in variation of languages and construction, safely within the confines of his head. "Oh no you bloody well don't…" he said, tightening his arms, and resolving to make this clear if it was the last thing he did. "What happened was my fault. Completely, entirely, and utterly. I should have known better - hell, you warned me how many times? - and I was still stupid enough to think I was in control." He paused briefly, and added with slow emphasis, "None of what happened that night was your fault."

"Wes…" Spike was obviously trying to think of something to say that would take some of the responsibility away from him, determined to find some way of making what had happened less unconscionably stupid and damaging. Whatever he saw in Wesley's expression, however, made him visibly reconsider, and he added instead, "You weren't in the best frame of mind that night, y'know?"

Wesley sighed, determined not to take the out and remain honest. "I still had a choice. And each time I had even a slightly different path to take - I took the wrong one."

Spike paused, hesitated for a moment, then continued, not looking at him, "Wes... only fair to tell you... This chip comes out... and she does one more thing... I'll kill her."

Wesley carefully didn't say that he was amazed Spike was planning on that much restraint, opting instead for a more non-committal hum of agreement. "I know. I'm not under any illusions." He shrugged. "And believe me, you'll have to move very fast to have your chance."

Spike laid his head back down, idly running his tongue over one of Wes's nipples, apparently deciding that the window of time allocated for discussion was over. "Just so we're clear, love."

"Spike…" Wesley's breath was hitching a little, making his voice rise at the end in a slightly questioning tone that was not what he had intended. He gritted his teeth, and added, "Much though I want to tell you to keep doing that, quite possibly for the remainder of my natural life...You were right. We need to get up."

He could just imagine the slow smile that could be very clearly heard in Spike's voice as he replied, "Just give me a minute or two more and we will be…"

Anything Wesley might have been prepared to concede to that vanished into the ether at the sound of another crash. He sighed heavily. "Oh....hell."

Spike, losing patience, yelled in the vague direction of the door, "Oi! Harris! Give it a rest, yeah?!"

There was the sound of something breaking into very small pieces, and Xander's irritated voice, "It's not my fault.... It hates me..…"

"An implement of astoundingly good taste.…" muttered Wesley, giving up, and Spike snorted.

"Yeah... well, I can see he's got you all distracted. Come on... into the shower with you.…" he got up, and began dragging Wes towards the bathroom.

Wesley, forcibly coming into full functionality without the aid of coffee, was inclined to be cross. "I swear to God," he said, hoping that Xander didn't come in to explain what had happened, as he was in no mood to deal with the inevitable yells that would result from seeing both himself and Spike naked, "I am still too young and technically irresponsible to have a younger brother living with me..."

"Hey..." Spike managed to sound both alarmed and amused at the same time, proving that it wasn't an entirely alien thought to him, either, "we are not bloody adopting Harris.... in any way, shape or form..."

Wesley grinned, his mood lifting. "Too late, Spike....too late.…"

There was a groan, and Spike said, with great sincerity, "Oh.... bloody hell..." his voice trailed off into mildly horrified contemplation, and Wesley laughed out loud for the first time in days.

"Oh God," he managed, trailing off into snorts, "we're doomed..."

Spike glared at him wordlessly for a moment, before grabbing Wes, tossing him over his shoulder and beginning to carry him off to the bathroom. "You are so lucky I'm still chipped..."

With spurious and entirely false meekness from upside down as he tried to stop laughing, Wesley said dutifully, "Yes, Spike..."

His attitude elicited another growl. "Oh, right... what the hell. Not getting any right now anyway... I'll take the chance." Before Wes could say anything about whatever was being planned probably being a bad idea, he was bitten, right on the arse, and promptly dropped unceremoniously onto the floor.

"Augh... Damn…"

"Yes," Wesley agreed from the floor, looking up at a chagrined Spike, who had the heel of one hand dug into his eye, and was looking a rather pathetic mixture of miserable and in pain.

"What?" he got in response, and then a sigh. "Yeah... sorry, love..."

Wesley shook his head, unsure which one of them his negation was aimed at, before getting up and pulling Spike into his arms "Idiot," he said gently. "Lunatic." He punctuated the words with soft kisses to the top of Spike's head, wondering when words that should have been insults had become his best means of showing affection.

Spike lowered his hand and peered up at Wes slowly, and the look of uncertainty on his face would have had Wesley promising anything, as long as it went away - even if his next words had not asked for something that he could give without question. "Call me anything, Wes... as long as you include...yours?"

Sometimes, Wesley wondered how he still had breath, it had been taken away from him so many times recently, but he recovered himself, his voice only shaking slightly as he replied, "I can do that...my idiot," he tried to smile, but was afraid his seriousness was showing through both his light words and his expression, "and my lunatic..." He gave up on all attempts at humour, and kissed Spike instead, trying to convey what he really felt through his hands and mouth, before getting up the courage to say, very quietly, "and yours."

"Mine..." Spike agreed, and he drew Wesley in for a very long deep kiss, to which the other man responded wholeheartedly, one hand cradling the back of Spike's head.

From the other room, there was a succession of increasingly loud thumps, an "Oof!" of annoyance, and then, very clearly, "Ow, damn it!"

Spike broke away, glaring. "Kill him, love... just for me?"

"Oh, gladly..." Wesley was definitely annoyed now. "What the hell is he doing, anyway...?"

"Don't know.... don't care…" Spike was sulking. "Shower... now.…" And he walked away with his hands over his ears.

Wesley rolled his eyes to the ceiling, and wondered when this had become his life. "Please, God," he said with enormous sincerity, "if nothing else in this life, let me go deaf..." And he followed Spike into the bathroom.