Even while forcing himself to swallow water at regular intervals, Wesley could feel himself losing his voice, the tenderness in his throat beginning to flare up into pain that felt like sandpaper and broken glass rasping one against the other, sharp blades of sensation that radiated outwards from the healing scar. 

However badly he wanted to help, he knew that he was going to have to accept his own limitations if he wanted to even think about doing something more practical and long-term than a bed for the night and a half-forgotten cache of pleasant memories. 

In the morning, he would need to find somewhere that supplied blood and didn't ask questions, try to get some more information out of Spike without triggering off another descent into whatever horror the soul had woken up in the vampire's brain, and still, somehow, find time to continue searching for Angel. 

It was beginning to seem that now he had ended all associations with his erstwhile job, he was in fact more pressed for time than ever before. 

He swwallowed more water, and paused, hoping that, as he had stated would be the case, the feel and sound of his heartbeat would be enough to work as some kind of tether to reality. He was nowhere near as confident as he had made himself sound that it would work, but he had also recognised that false assurance was going to be better than some hazy offer of possibilities. 

He knew that, theoretically, having to put himself and his own self-absorption and accusation aside was probably the best thing for him, but the part of him that still felt betrayed by the other members of Angel Investigations seemed determined not to be as pragmatic, swamping him with an almost childish misery as he wished that, just for once, someone could have come to his door not because they saw him as being of use, but because they understood his motives and wanted to be of assistance to him. 

It had always been an impossible wish, one which until now, lying beside Spike's cool, unmoving, unbreathing form, he had not even begun to admit to himself he wanted. And now, even as he realised that he had continued to hope for someone to come to him because they cared about what happened to him, he was trying to think of ways to help someone who was suffering from a pain that he could not begin to understand, and was simultaneously being forced to feel emotion for a situation other than his own, bombarded by unwanted feelings of empathy. 

Being accessible to others in any way, thought Wesley grimly as he stared up at the ceiling and tried to moderate his heartbeat and breathing to a pace that would not betray his agitation, was as damned near to a curse as anything anyone had ever laid on Angel. 

*

Spike woke up slowly, not opening his eyes. He was warm, clean and dry - an amazing occurrence after months of hiding from the sun in deserted buildings, if he was lucky, or shallow holes in the ground, if he wasn't. 

He also wasn't alone. 

He tensed as he went over the possible options. Had he, in his insanity, made a kill and then fallen asleep over it, guilt ridden, when he realized what he had done? No, the body was warm and he was wrapped around it like child with a teddy bear. 

"Awake then?" a rough voice spoke. "Relax… it's alright." 

The voice, Wesley, began a soothing litany of childhood rhymes. Poor bloke had probably run out of anything else to say sometime during his long night of vampire soothing. 

A soft smile crept over Spike's face as he repeated part of one rhyme along with Wes, "Upstairs and downstairs and in milady's chambers…" 

There was a low chuckle that he felt vibrating through Wes' chest. He had his head resting there, listening to the heartbeat that had kept him anchored to reality. "I had a little nut tree, and nothing would it bear…" 

Spike opened one eye and looked up at Wes, "Except for the crazy vampire I found laying there…" 

"Morning, Pet." He smiled a sleepy smile. 

Wes returned the smile, "Well, that's rather more profitable than an inedible pear. You seem a little better." 

"Am better…" Spike gave a long sigh. "First decent sleep I've had in a long time." 

"Then you must have been utterly exhausted. As far as I can tell, this bed comes straight from the sporran of Satan." he yawned and stretched. "Right, breakfast?" 

Spike's arms tightened slightly, tensing again, but his voice was steadier than it had been the night before. "Yeah... breakfast would do a treat.…" 

"Well, then if you'd just…" Wes gave him a pointed look. 

"Oh, yeah… sorry, mate." Spike released his grip, allowing Wes to climb out of the bed. "I'll come give you a hand then." 

"No. I have to make a few phone calls," Wes waved him off. "Why don't you grab a shower? Towels in the drawer, kick the boiler if it runs out of hot, and - well. Coffee and the newspaper when you're ready." 

"Shower, yeah…" Spike actually looked excited at the prospect.... climbing out of the bed with sudden enthusiasm and tugging off the sweat shirt and heading towards the bathroom. "Thanks, mate…" 

Hot, clean, water. It was a luxury he never took for granted. He quickly stripped the rest of the way and stepped under the warm spray, letting it run over him. 

It was never enough, though. Never would be. He'd never come clean. Never wash away all his regrets. 

A lock was firmly and quickly fastened down over those thoughts. He had to believe that something he did would help. Something would take the edge off of all the guilt. His Sire seemed to think that helping people did it. That "fighting the good fight" was his way to redemption. But his Sire was gone - lost. What he had now was an ex-Watcher who seemed almost as much in need as Spike himself. 

Spike finished up his shower and stepped out, wrapping himself in a towel. Maybe, just maybe, that would be a better option for him. Helping one person at a time - starting with the one who, in spite of his own problems, still seemed willing to help him. 

* 

Even five minutes of making phone calls served to convince Wesley that everyone in California was either a) under the misapprehension that he spoke in tongues, b) stoned out of what remained of their minds, or c) had just woken up and in worse need of coffee than he was. 

Temporarily giving up on getting any sense out of any of his contacts, he went to see if his morning newspaper and groceries had been left outside the door by the landlord-cum-grocery-store-owner who had proved, to date, to be unphased by anything he requested. 

He opened the door and stared. 

He was used to having his needs, such as they were, addressed at random and somewhat unexpected moments - the phone number for a bike mechanic had once appeared, tucked in with a loaf of bread, and a bushel of dried herbs that he had been unable to track down all week had once arrived with his tea, but this was verging on the completely surreal. 

Along with his newspaper, his paper bag of groceries, and a leaflet announcing that there would be work done to the mains on the 27th (of which month remained unclear) was a small cooler. Wesley opened the top suspiciously, and blinked. 

Inside were five bags of blood. 

Putting his reaction firmly away in the mental file that he had labelled 'Things I Will Deal With Later' (and wasn't it worrying how large it had become in the last twelve hours alone?) he picked up the delivery and went back into his flat. 

As he put the blood into a mug, and set the timer on the microwave, he reflected that this seemed to be the most normal thing he'd done in weeks, a suspicion definitely confirmed by Spike's reappearance from the shower, apparently convinced that reasonable breakfast attire was one towel wrapped around his waist, and another draped over his shoulders. 

"That was lovely, that was," he announced, looking much happier, and then breaking into a grin as the bell rang on the microwave. "And that will make it as close to Heaven as I'm ever likely to get..." 

Wesley felt his eyebrows quirk upwards quite involuntarily. "Your standards really do need adjusting. Oh, lord, and so does your wardrobe.... I'll put some clothes out in the bedroom..." He wandered off, continuing his self-answering conversation and taking his coffee with him* 

From the kitchen came what might have been a response or a statement, "'Sperfect, pet.... just perfect..." 

Wesley sighed and rubbed his hand over his face "And I wish," he said to the interior of his closet, "I knew who you were talking to. Actually, I wish I knew who I was talking to. Ah well. Jeans, shirts, and he can deal with the boredom. Right." He snorted at himself. " Piece of cake, Wes old boy." 

*  

Spike took the mug out of the microwave and raised it to his lips. "98.6... and O-pos…"  He released a contented sigh and then raised his voice to call out to Wes in the other room. "'Sperfect, pet.... just perfect…" 

Wes's muttered reply came back from the bedroom and Spike took his mug in to sit at the table. He unfolded the newspaper and took a look through it, although it really wasn't holding his attention. 

He glanced back toward the bedroom, hearing Wesley opening and closing drawers and doors. There seemed to be so much weighing on the man. Angel's disappearance, of course, and his guilt over that. Right, that was item one on the agenda. It was something he would have volunteered to help with anyway. In spite of their many disagreements and enmity, they were still "family" and he would have put that on the top of his own list if he had been more….well… coherent. Find Angel… and get the two men… what? Back together as friends? He wasn't sure that was possible. Angel could carry a grudge from now to the end of the millennia. Hell, if you looked stubborn up in the dictionary, you'd find a picture of his Sire's face. 

Second? The ill health. He'd do what he could there. Taking care of people had always been one of his strong points. He often wondered if that was what had kept Angelus from killing him half a dozen times when he had infuriated him - the fact that he was so good at caring for Dru. Hopefully, the ex-Watcher would not be quite to recalcitrant at doing what was best for him. 

Thirdly? Well, Wes had a purpose at the moment - to locate Angel. Once that was done…… 

Spike had no clue of the man's plans, but he doubted they included trying to get back in with the people who had so easily kicked him out of their lives. He'd have to give that a bit more thought. Sound him out. Get to know him better than he did at present. 

If he could hold himself together. 

*

Wesley came back through with some clean clothes. "Listen, I have to go out. I should be back reasonably soon, but it seems that in the quest for knowledge, I'll even take humiliation over ignorance." His mouth twitched again in that odd not-a-smile, which he found himself regretting as Spike looked up at him, his eyes wide and nervous. 

"Got a blanket I can borrow then, mate?" Should be able to make it to the manhole out front... Stay gone until nightfall...." 

Wesley resisted the desire to roll his eyes in exasperation. The response should have been exactly what he was expecting, but it was still beginning to irritate him, and he began to wonder if he should have his offer to help tattooed on his palm, so that he could just hold it outwards instead of being on permanent repeat. 

"No," he said calmly, "because you're staying here. I have to go out to the library, I need the books. They - I can't use my own, or I'd tell you that I'd be back within the hour. So. Please. Stay here? There's...translations, if you wanted to take a look..." 

"Sure, mate..." There was another hesitation, and then - ."You sure you mean that though? Could walk off with all your stuff or something...." 

Wesley snorted and waved his hand. "Feel free - but I expect a cut of any profits, so if you make a good sale, call my mobile number and let me know, hm?" He handed over one of his cards, and slung his bag over his shoulder. "Right. I shouldn't be too long." 

He was very careful not to look back and check to see that his words had got through. He had a suspicion that if he tried to ensure that he was having any sort of even vaguely reassuring effect, he would never leave. And he had been telling the absolute truth. He truly needed the books, more than his own peace of mind. 

Once he got outside the apartment, he slammed the elevator door closed and allowed himself to shake, partly from reaction to lack of sleep, partly from his hatred of enclosed spaces, partly from not wanting to leave the apartment, and mostly because he was letting himself open the mental file he had constructed over the last few hours and trying to think coherently about what he could do to help with the new difficulties that had, quite literally, arrived on his doorstep. 

And that, of course, was when the lift broke down between floors, and stranded him literally as well as metaphorically. He thumped futilely at the defunct system and swore, realising that apparently they had meant this 27th. 

Claustrophobia, quite abruptly, took precedence over all his other problems. 

* 

Spike had just settled in with Wes' translation when the lights went out. He started and jumped to his feet, looking around wildly. 

"Keep calm, Spike…." he told himself. "Just the lights is all…" 

He tuned his hearing, listening to the sounds of distress from other apartments. A few thumps and "ouches"… mild cursing… elevation of heartbeats and……….. 

"Wes?" He definitely heard the voice… and… 

Spike stalked out into the hallway. He had heard Wes and now that he was out in the hallway could hear his heartbeat…smell his fear. But where--? 

The elevator. 

"Wes?" He leaned in close to the doors. "You there, Percy?" 

A furious reply, "Do you know, there are times in a man's life when he would rather suffocate slowly than be compared to a bloody children's book?" 

Spike's mouth quirked but he managed to keep from laughing out loud, "Right then.... see if I can get you out…" He forced his fingers into the seam between the doors, prying it open. 

Again Wes' voice, sounding nervous and restless, "Yes, I've always wanted to die like this. Stuck in a lift, with a newly-ensouled vampire's lifeblood dripping through the cracks to provide my only sustenance... Go down a floor and pull this blasted thing down ten feet if you really want to help!" 

Spike shook his head, "Doesn't work that way, mate. When the power goes out... the brakes lock into place…" 

He popped through the opening and then jumped lightly down onto the roof of the cab. "That's so they can't fall…" 

"Right, wonderful. Go. Away." Wes's somewhat strangled reply. 

"No…" Spike opened the overhead hatch and peered down into the cab. "Give us your hand then, Wes.... Get you right out…" 

"Have I mentioned that I hate my life?" Wes reached up and took Spike's hand, allowing him to lift him out of the cab. "Thank you. Too kind. Let me die of humiliation in peace, now, would you?" 

"Humiliating to let me help? Yeah... guess it would be... Vampire, yeah…?" Spike's jaw tensed he turned and jumped back through the open shaft doors, holding his hand out once again. 

That would be the whole end of his idea, wouldn't it? The man was an ex-Watcher, after all, trained to kill his kind, not befriend them. He'd been lucky the man had met him at the door with a towel instead of a stake. 

Useless - his ideas to help himself by helping Wes. Useless…. He was useless. Dirt under his feet the way he'd been under the Slayer's… 

He moved back down the hall towards Wes's apartment… then stopped not knowing if he should or not… 

*

Wesley stared upwards in disbelief from the roof of the cab, before hoisting himself up and rolling out onto the corridor floor with a movement that, while it was reasonably efficient, employed a good deal less grace than Spike had used. He was rather grateful for the lack of lights as he got to his feet with a small sigh of effort, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom, and his hearing begin to compensate for his reduced visibility. 

It took a few moments, but within a few seconds he realised that apparently everything had cut out, not just the electricity, judging from the irate tones of the muffled voices coming from below him. 

Sometimes he wished he could just keep his bloody mouth shut. Embarrassment and fury at himself led him to behave like an arse at the best of times, and this certainly wasn't one of those for either of them. 

Apology had never been Wesley's strong suit, but clarification of a point was something he was well-trained in, and as long as he retained a modicum of detachment, he thought he could probably convey why he had sounded so dismissive. 

"It's humiliating," he said precisely, coming up to his door, and Spike's far-too silent form in front of it, "to need help. Especially to get out of a fucking lift, incidentally, for which I most definitely thank you." 

Spike's reply was still too quiet, and apparently aimed at the door, but at least it was a response. "Everyone needs help sometimes, Wes....If they're lucky it's given ungrudgingly…" 

Wesley snorted. He couldn't help it, despite all his intentions to curb his bitterness and hide the dichotomy that led him to try and help, while being unable to believe that help truly existed. An ungrudging attitude from others towards him was something there had been very little of in his whole life, and never in a way that could be associated with help. 

"And I'm sure that's absolutely bloody lovely for them," he said dryly. "There are a nicely selected few, though, who get to take on board the sins of the world - or at least all its perceived errors. Stops others from having to feel a damn thing." He rubbed the back of his hand across his throat in a swift, rough gesture, as though to erase his thoughts and the events that had led to them in one movement. "Right, well, thus endeth the going to library day. I'm not buggering about with books if the power's going to be out all day." 

He pushed open the door to his apartment, and went inside. "Sorry," he added. "There's not exactly going to be much for anyone to do, for now." 

Spike paused as he closed the door of the apartment behind them. "You helped me, Wes.... Didn't have to... but you did. Still are.... Won't you let me help you? Someway?" 

Wesley paused, but didn't turn around as he answered, "There isn't any help to be had for me. You have a chance. I - don't. Thanks for getting me out of the lift. It was kind of you. " 

With that, he walked into the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind him. The sound of running water soon filled the flat. 

Spike scowled at the closed door. He was getting bloody tired of people shutting doors in his face. 

He opened it and walked into the bathroom behind Wes, leaning casually against the door frame. "Everyone has a chance, mate. If you aren't offered one, sometimes you just have to take it…" 

Wes turned from the mirror like a striking snake, furious beyond belief at Spikes casual invasion of his privacy. "Get. Out." 

His voice was rasping and jagged, miles away from the smooth hum that had lullingly chanted rhymes only hours before. Wesley was lacking the turtlenecked sweater, and his scar stood out in hideous red across his throat, matching the star of a bullet that flared across his midriff. 

"Get out of here!" He coughed and choked, fumbling for the sedatives and painkillers. 

"Can't. Can't leave you alone to hurt." Spike flinched at the harsh words but ran a glass full of water, and helped with the pills. 

"Actually, yes, you can. Now. Get out of here." Wesley grabbed the water and swallowed a selection of pills, before leaning limply against the wall, a scowl on his face. "I'll be out in five minutes. Go away." 

Spike ignored the scowl and the words and instead reached into the shower to test the water. "Best get in... while it's hot…" 

Wes laughed, the sound dry and jagged. "I need the steam. The shower doesn't help in itself." 

"Get your shower then. I can fix something up for you in the kitchen... yeah? More steam is better?" 

"Yes. Yes it is…" Wes answered, defeated. Anything at this point to get Spike out of the bathroom. 

Spike closed the door behind him, smirking slightly as he heard Wes' relieved sigh. 

"Kettle...no, not kettle, pan of water on the stove...on…right…" He started scouring the apartment for all the things he'd need. 

When Wes came out of the shower a short time later, Spike had everything set for him. 

"In here, pet.... Sit at the table…" There was a large bowl there, a sheet draped over the back of the chair and the kettle just starting to whistle. "Not as good as a humidifier, I'd 'spect... but it's what we've got." 

Wes looked at the set up, a bit warily, still coughing. 

"Sit." Spike helped Wes to the chair, draped the sheet over his head and shoulders, and filled the bowl with the steaming water. "Let me know when the steam dies down and I'll refill it." 

Wes just gaped at him for a moment, "Oh, Good God....are you trying to be nice?" 

Spike's jaw tightened. "Just trying to.... Fuck... just forget it, right?" 

Turning sharply, he stomped off back to the kitchen, refilling the kettle and putting it back on the stove. 

Wes continued, hurriedly, "Because if so, firstly, thank you. Secondly, don't act like a prima donna, and thirdly.…" He breathed in steam and sighed into the misty privacy of his sheet-draped cave. "Oh, never mind. Just...thanks." 

"Used to do it for my mum, ya know?" Spike admitted and slowly returned to stand next to Wes. "Just breathe deep... slow.…" 

"Still... much better at taking care of vampires It's easier." His lips quirked "I'd just yell until Dru did what needed doing…" 

Wes laughed from somewhere beneath the wet sheet, then coughed. "Please....don't scare me with that kind....of thought.…" 

"Sorry, mate…" Spike moved closer and began rubbing soothing circles on Wes' back. "How long do you need to do this? Weeks? Longer?" 

He paused, "You haven't actually been divin' have you? Probably not the best idea." 

"I have...and I know. I'm not trying to live this out...I....a life for a life. Good bargain. Or it will be." Wes paused. "I'm not trading with Angel, though. I'm trading for Connor. Some things I can't and won't endure, some things.....it doesn't matter." 

"Does matter." Spike's voice was low, is eyes searching for the face he couldn't see beyond the tenting. "Always matters." 

Wes pulled the sheet away, and his smile was small and sad and tired. "Not this time. The world can't be changed for me, but for Angel....it will stop on its axis and spin backwards. All I ever wanted was for someone to listen - and it's too late." 

"Angel's a bloody wanker with more gel in his hair than brains in his head." Spike huffed, then looked directly into Wes' eyes. "And I'm listening." 

"Yes, you are. But...as yet...I haven't hurt you. I hope. So - what could you ever absolve me for?" Wes stated it calmly as if it were more than obvious. 

"Don't need to absolve ya... just need.…" Spike cut himself off short. "And you don't need that from Angel either. Wanker needs it from everyone else." 

Wes rubbed water and exhaustion and steamed sweat out of his eyes, focusing suddenly and intently on Spike. "What? What do you need?" 

"Just need someone to need me." Spike said it gruffly, picking up the bowl and going back toward the kitchen to refill it with more steaming water. 

There was a dead silence in the room, then Wes ventured, "I don't suppose someone who needs help with maps, steam and the occasional word of encouragement would do, would it?" 

Spike carried the bowl back into the dining room and slid it in front of Wes, looking at him with steady blue eyes. "Might do.... if.…" 

Then a hesitation and his eyes suddenly looked anywhere but at Wes "...if you could stand to be around a crazy man... a monster at that…" 

And that was the summation - the final word, as far as Spike was concerned. 

*