Worms Feed On Hector Brave 
 

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 blurt 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…" Wesley 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 Wesley cleared 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?" 
 

* 

Wesley 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…" Wes 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.