Help Wanted: Inquire Within 

It never rained in LA. There were songs about it, jokes about it, poetry - usually dreadful - written about it, and books that revolved around the heated smog of the place. It never rained. 

But it was raining tonight, straight and heavy and smelling of dust and car fumes and the whole staleness of the city, coming down in great lines of water, pouring off leaf-clogged water spouts and roofs that would leak, streaming down car bonnets and into gutters and drains. It was warm and dirty and felt mildly unpleasant where it touched skin. But it was rain, it was a change in climate, it wasn't the perpetual misty sunshine of the rest of the year, and it was, after all, something to watch. 

Wesley had spent his life watching, trained for it, bred for it, doomed to it, he sometimes thought. Because what can a Watcher ever be but the man in the shadows, on the sidelines, never a part of the action, of life, but simply a detached observer? Taking notes and writing up events in which he could never interfere, never assist, never enter into at any cost. 

Because, as he now knew, the cost when you tried to step out of your allotted part was too high to pay. It was the loss of hope and the destruction of a soul, it was the sharpness of a knife slicing into your skin, it was emptiness and pain in one, it was betrayal and acid and the coldness of ostracism. 

It was Angel's hatred and Connor's disappearance, it was his own error and folly and the absence of friendship that might never, now, have existed. 

Did they think he had stayed to run the agency because he felt some great obligation to the Powers That Be? He was no Cordelia, condemned by a kiss, like a fairy-tale princess, to a life of visions and pain, no Angel with humanity to earn and a soul to redeem, not even Gunn, with his blazing sense of right and wrong and his desire to protect the world. He was simply a failed Watcher who knew what they didn't, could see what they would end up paying as the final price without that last ingredient they needed to succeed; the book-learnt knowledge that he had been brought up to have at his fingertips. 

Knowledge. Understanding. Ability that had nothing to do with leather and a motorbike and a crossbow, but was all about pencils and books and eyes that sometimes wouldn't focus even with glasses, about dust and boredom and trying so hard to master everything you could so that the people you had to stay detached from could have that knowledge in a parcel that they could use in their fights. 

He had stayed because he thought they might need him, because no-one else would have any use for him now, no-one else would see past his failures and ask for what he could offer. He had stayed because, unlike the rest of them, he did have somewhere else to go. And he had absolutely no desire to take up that offer of a place, unspoken at first, and finally offered to him at an unacceptable price - Faith. 

He had stayed because he was 'Wes' and 'English' and 'Wesley' with a smile that should have won a pretty girl any part she wanted. He had stayed because they had wanted the man, and not the trained Watcher. 

But they had wanted the man without his knowledge, in the end, without the abilities that were as much a curse as Angel's soul, without his understanding that sometimes things had to be done, not for the Powers, or for friendship, or even for love, but because what would happen if they weren't accomplished was unthinkable. 

It had been, in the end, unsayable, his knowledge of what was happening. If he had tried to explain what he had seen, what he now knew, they would have tried to stop Angel, and they would have failed, and the world would have plunged into chaos, the world they all fought so hard for would have descended into darkness, taking Fred's innocence and Gunn's conviction and Cordelia's bravery and, God help them all, Angel's soul with it. 

Better to pay the price. Better to lose them all, and save Connor, save what they had all fought for, save their chance at light and redemption and freedom from the Powers. 

He had believed that until the knife sliced across his throat, and he saw his complete failure spill out with his blood. 

Sometimes, Wesley thought, looking out at the rivulets of water that streamed down his window, it would have been better had he told them and let them try and fail. Because at least then they would have all failed together, and he would have had someone with him, at the end. 

He wondered if he should put on some music, pretend that his life was going on, act as though he were doing more than simply drifting through the days purposelessly, as though he lived and breathed in the same world as the rest of humanity. He could, he thought bitterly, make some tea and read a book, if he wanted. A novel, even, rather than one of the dusty encyclopaedias he still possessed. 

Or he could sit where he was, perfectly still, and watch the rain fall outside, and be glad he wasn't out in it, chasing something large and demonic and probably smelly when its blood got on him. 

The other option, of course, was that he answered the door, on which someone seemed to be banging with increasing desperation. With a sigh of effort, he got to his feet, and walked across to it, wondering who it was this time, and what they might want from him before they turned their back on him again. 

When he saw who was on the other side of the door, it was so completely nonsensical that he simply stared, unspeaking, for several moments. Not Gunn, come to beg another favour from the store of knowledge he no longer wanted to associate with, not Lilah, come to demand the impossible from him once again, not even a murderous Angel, hell-bent on exacting the revenge he had been restrained from attaining before. 

It was, rather, a soaking wet, bleached-blond vampire, dripping onto his doormat and glowering at him. 

"Good bloody God," said Wesley numbly. "Spike?" 

* 

Rain. Rain was bloody annoying… in England, in Africa, or Los Angeles. It was in your eyes and down your collar, soaking everything and washing nothing away. No sins gone… no internal filth… no sorrows… 

He had stumbled through the rain soaked streets until he had managed to reach the Hyperion… banged desperately on the locked doors and then stood in the downpour with two crossbows pointed at his heart while he tried to be coherent enough ask for his Sire. For Angel. 

"He's not here, Spike…He's gone." Finally, an answer from the Cheerleader. 

"Gone? Gone. Gonegonegone…" He fidgeted and looked around desperately… urgently. "Gone where? That's the question, yeah?" 

"Yeah… that is the question…" This from a large, bald, black man. Daddy has new muscle. And behind him? A little Mouse…brown hair and huge eyes. 

"Is it a question with an answer?" His attention wandered, eyes going from face to face. "Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames, each battle sees the other's umber'd face…" 

The cheerleader's face grew dark, "We don't have time for this nonsense, Spike. Just leave…" 

And she, and the Muscle, and the Mouse, scurried back inside the cavernous doorway, leaving him to the rain and his drifting sanity. 

He collapsed against the steps, wondering if there would be enough sun, when morning came, to take his troubles away with the rain. 

He wasn't sure how long he lay there before he heard it… the slow creak of the door reopening… and the little scurry of footsteps. Furtive flash of huge brown eyes… and a paper pressed into his hand. 

"Go… he'll help, I'm sure…" then quick retreating steps and the door slammed and locked. 

* 

An address and a name…. a dingy apartment over a Korean grocery story… and another door to get beyond. 

*Bang…bang…bang* 

He tried to knock calmly… but it was getting more and more difficult to keep his mind organized and functioning… the memories were sweeping in on him again. The blood… the cries and begging…. 

*Bang…bang…bang* 

And then the door flew open… 

An unshaven face, stance wary, eyes cold and steely as they looked up and down his water drenched frame. 

"Good bloody God," said Wesley numbly. "Spike?" 

"Yeah, 's me…." he kept his eyes down, trying to hide the wild look he was sure he carried. "Can't find m' Sire… Can't get those gits ta tell me where he is… " 

A harsh growl from the doorway, "They don't know. No one knows." 

"Gone… gone they said…" he managed to get that out before slumping against the hallway wall, and looking up at Wes with all the weariness he felt. "'s all hopeless… helpless and hopeless…and the burning goes on and on until you feel consumed. Hopeless, like the songs of slaves…" 

He slid slowly down the wall and curled up, hugging his knees and rocking. 

* 

Of all the things Wesley had imagined that he would end up doing, coming out of his flat in order to deal with an apparently lunatic vampire wasn't one of them, and feeling mild flickers of worry about said vampire definitely hadn't been on his agenda for the night. 

He had no idea what he was going to say, but he felt sure that dealing with whatever-this-was in relative privacy was the best idea. 

Wesley took a very, very deep breath, and crouched down beside the still-rocking vampire, who was holding an apparently meaningful, if inaudible, conversation with the ratty hallway carpet. "I think," he said as calmly as possible, "that you'd better come in. If nothing else, you will save what remains of my doormat from imminent saturation by doing so." 

* 

"I think that you'd better come in." The words sank in, just barely, getting past the horrible flashes in his head. 

"Shouldn't do that, mate," he told Wes quietly. "Bad form to invite the evil undead into your home. 'Specially crazy ones…" 

Wes was so close that he felt the self-deprecating snort as a caress against his neck, "Insanity is practically a prerequisite for entering my home." 

Then warm hands helping him to his feet and guiding him inside… a towel soon draped over his head and his duster being hung to drip in the kitchen, while he still stood, blank and wet, on the inside mat now. 

"Here and there on the dark mud, grey snow crusts lingered, perforated like honeycomb, with wet weed-stalks sticking up through them.." he muttered to himself… fingers combing through rain-twisted curls. He struggled to right himself, to be sane for a few more moments. "What's happened, mate? Really? 'S not like Angel to just disappear." 

* 

The request was more than enough to drive Wesley back into his self-imposed silence - though he was not sure whether it was the casual assumption of oh-so-bloody-British friendship, the unexpected summation of what was so frightening - not like Angel - or the fact that he was dealing with something he truly did not understand. 

He fought back the desire to retreat, swallowed down the rawness of his instinctive response - How would I know? Stop asking! - and strove for honesty. 

"I don't know," he heard the roughness of his voice, and winced, trying to modulate it. "He vanished. They're - I'm - " He sighed. "We're trying to find him. Look, take a seat, hm? Tell me what you're doing here. I can't imagine..." his mouth quirked into the half-smile that seemed to be all he could manage, these days, "I can't imagine that you're here from choice. What happened to you?" 

* 

"I can't imagine that you're here from choice. What happened to you?" 

For a moment there had been relief. Relief that Wes had changed the subject, because, bloody hell, he'd been lying through his teeth. It was just like his sire to disappear. He'd done it before, no reason to expect that this wasn't a repeat. 

"I can't imagine that you're here from choice. What happened to you?" 

What had happened to him? A huge mistake. Trying to hurt someone he cared about. A trip to Africa to try to right himself, inside and out Then pain… anguish…insanity, but the strong thought that his sire could help him…somehow. 

"I can't imagine that you're here from choice. What happened to you?" 

"Can't say. Can't tell… Just…. Just need - want. Want him." His head nodded, eyes closed. "Help me… He can if he will. Burn it out or stake me. Take it away… God…." 

The last was on a sob that he couldn't hold back and he looked wildly around the room, hands twitching, feet glued to the mat, where he still stood, dripping. 

* 

Wesley had absolutely no idea of what he should do. By all rights, he should have been jumping at the mere opportunity to stake a vampire who had killed two Slayers, been a healthily active quarter of the Scourge of Europe, and done his best to remove just about everyone Wesley knew from the face of the earth at one time or another. 

He just....didn't want to. 

"Spike?" He put his hand out tentatively, laying it on the damp shoulder. "It - I'll try and help you. But I won't kill you to do so. I'm sorry. You're going to have to be more specific." 

He sighed to himself. If what Spike truly sought was oblivion, then Angel was certainly the best choice of someone who would happily provide it. Wesley, on the other hand, was a long way down the list - simply because of what the vampire had said while sitting outside his door... 

Helpless, hopeless... 

It was going to take years before that was something he could remove from his subconscious, inextricably tied up with the memory of Cordelia's bright voice on the phone, with the knowledge that, for once, he was being of use. 

"What do you need taken away?" he asked, and his ragged voice caught with instinctive concern. "Is that why you're here? Some kind of spell?" 

"A spell, yeah. It had to be a spell…" His eyes flew around the room and settled on Wes' books. His feet followed his line of sight, heedless of the fact that his clothes were still leaving a trail of water as he moved. 

"A spell… The magicians of Egypt stayed in that city of Aea, and they taught people spells that could stay the moon in her going and coming, in her rising and setting." He continued to mutter, searching through the books frantically. 

And then, as suddenly as he had moved and snatched up the book, he let it fall from nerveless fingers. He collapsed, to sit on edge of the couch, head on his knees, fingers joined behind his neck as he moaned - a sound of hopeless keening. "No…. did too good a job. Never come out. Never! I'll hear them forever. The blood and the spark and the ages of death…" 

His eyes suddenly flashed towards Wes, "Tear it out if I could. I tried. Clawing and cutting…burning… but it didn't help…Nothing did. Nothing will." 

At that, he tore open his shirt, and looked down at his chest. 

* 

Wesley stared like a man too drunk to focus at Spike's chest, blinking as though the simple flicker of eyelids could take away what he was looking at. 

Vampiric healing could only do so much. The scars were white, but there was layer upon layer of them, torn and ragged as though whatever Spike had been searching for, he had indeed tried to gouge out with his own nails. 

"Oh God," he whispered softly. "Christ, no." 

If this was insanity, then it was earned with the tooth and claw of bitter justice, self-imposed, by the sound of it, and completely horrific. 

Anathema, whispered the buried voice of a Watcher in his head, and Wesley stamped on it with all the mental force left to him. 

"Spike?" he kept his voice as soft as hs torn throat would allow. "Who gave you back your soul?" 

Because if it was some Egyptian pseudo-God, he was going to take great delight in tracking them down and performing a very painful exorcism. 

There was still no response. 

"It's all right." He knew how he must sound, but at least his voice was real, and might provide some kind of tether to the outside world. "Here, I'll..." His voice trailed off as he realised that he had no idea as to what he was going to do. "I'll get you some dry clothes," he finished, inadequately. There was no reaction. 

"Right," said Wesley, pointlessly, and vanished into the bathroom, where he pulled a couple of towels out of what he still thought of as the airing cupboard. He looked at his reflection in the mirror as he passed, and winced. He was unshaven, too pale still, the scar across his throat livid. He looked like he felt, drained and exhausted, and hardly a man to trust or confide in, even for a newly ensouled vampire. 

Poor bastard. He really has got nowhere else and no-one else. And when, exactly, did I start to feel sympathy for William the Bloody? 

Wesley grimaced at his reflection, and walked out of the bathroom, carrying the clean clothes. 

"Here," he said, tossing them to Spike. "Dry off. The - the bedroom's through there, and the bathroom to the side. Use whatever you need." 

* 

The clothes landed on him and he flew away as if they were stakes… slipped and wound up curled in a tight ball at the foot of the couch. 

"Won't help… won't come clean. Won't help…won't come clean." his voice rolled in an endless litany of sound. "Can't do it. Can't do it. No..no…no…. " 

The anguish in his voice could have made strong men falter. It was all pain and sorrow and over a hundred years of guilt, burning itself out from the inside. Storms of it, rolling and rolling through his newly regained soul. And the regrets, that was the worst of all. Regrets for the killing, for the destruction and for still living when others were long gone. 

Then suddenly, as if there had been an epiphany somewhere deep inside him, he looked up at Wes, blue eyes wet and hollow, "God, please…… help me?" 

* 

Wesley flinched. While every part of him that still had a vague claim to decency wanted to give the answer that yes, yes, he would, of course he would, consider it done, he knew that this was one thing he could never promise. 

"Spike..." He reached out and cupped the back of the blond head, looking straight into the hollow eyes. " I can't take your soul away. I don't know how. But - I can - I will try and help you with making it less...excruciating. If you'll let me." 

He tried to ignore the small voice that was telling him, in no uncertain terms, that this was something he could never do, was a fool to try, and had no business even attempting. 

Wesley knew how prone to error he could be. But he had never in his life done anything other than try to help someone who needed him. 

Spike's arms wrapped around Wes' legs, tight but careful not to trip him up. "Shouldn't ask you. Know I shouldn't. Not worth it. Not even close. No where else to go… No where…." 

A soft sob and then Spike seemed to pull himself together with a grip of resolve so strong it was almost tangible, "Do whatever you ask, Wes. Help you somehow. Do what I can." 

Spike gave an all over body shudder… then slowly released his grip on Wes and climbed to his feet. "Got you wet. Sorry." 

He carefully picked up the clothes Wes had brought out and looked vaguely around, "A shower, huh? Need one I'm sure." 

But he looked lost, as if even the challenge of finding his way to the bathroom was all too much. Too much of a burden on top of trying to keep himself coherent. 

* 

A very long time ago, at Oxford, Wesley had tried to make friends with the college cat. It was small, and stripy in odd places, and probably half-feral, but if you fed it bits of jam sandwich, it had come close enough to sniff at your hand and make an odd kind of purring growl that could have meant anything from 'Nice human' to 'Will you taste better than this if I bite you?' 

One day, it had been stuck up a tree. Wesley still had the scars on his left shoulder from when he'd rescued it, spitting and snarling and hanging on to him for dear life. 

He'd kept on feeding it bits of sandwich until the day he left. 

Wondering how many scars he'd end up bearing from this encounter, he steered Spike into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and went back to his maps of the ocean. 

He hadn't quite lied when he disclaimed any knowledge of Angel's whereabouts. After all, the Pacific Ocean was almost infinite. 

* 

Spike came out of the bathroom a short time later, looking more together than when he went in. He was wearing the joggers that Wes had given him and held the sweatshirt in one hand while he rubbed at his still dripping curls with the other. Yes, curls - soft and honey-gold with platinum tips where the old color still lingered. He tugged the sweatshirt on over his head and then looked around. 

"Wes, where should I….?" He looked at the wet towel. "And my clothes are still pretty wet too." 

It was then he realized that Wes was working on something. "Oh… sorry… never mind. I'll just……." 

But he wasn't sure what he should "just", so he stood there, head down, for a few moments, counting the seconds like heartbeats. 

Spike took a deep, unneeded, breath, then looked up at Wes. "Can I help you with that? Whatever it is?" 

* 

"Wha' - !" Wesley jerked his head up, startled out of work and into the truly strange events of the evening. It was a moment before he realised that his hand had closed around the gun taped to the underside of his desk, and yet another breath of panic before he realised there would be no need for it. 

"Oh. Oh, the clothes....Just put them in the washer...thing..." He shrugged, forgetting what it was called. It was big, and opened at the top, and bore no resemblance to any washing machine that he had ever seen, but it washed and dried clothes with amazing quickness, and that was the main thing. Privately, he was sure it was a demon. 

"Just turn the middle dial," he added. "The rest of it's all set up." He thought for a moment, remembered what the question had been, then said - "And yes, um, yes, actually....you can help..." 

He pushed a book of maritime charts across the table. 

"Right then… just a minute." Spike quickly gathered up his clothes and the towel and put them in the machine, starting it. 

He came back and stood over Wesley's shoulder, looking at the charts, "Plannin' a trip, are ya? Did lots of sailing back in the day. Dru had the habit of munching on the crew an…." 

He stopped that thought right there. Down that path lay guilt and a return to lunacy. 

He drew his attention back to the charts. The local areas were marked off in a grid, with large "X"s through may of them. 

"No. Lookin' for somethin' then." He considered softly. "Artifact, maybe? How big?" 

He pointed to an area on the chart where a peninsula jutted out. "If it's small, I'd look there next. With the way the current runs a lot of things will wind up there, butt against that sand bar." 

Wesley laughed, then. He laughed, and coughed, and choked on bile, and knew that this was not what dying felt like, even if he wished it were. 

"Myself," he managed to rasp out, looking at Spike's half-annoyed, half-terrified expression. "I'm...laughing at...myself." 

He took a drink of water from the glass on his desk, and aimed for sanity. 

"I...was panning out possible paths...I've been...." And Christ, this was not a good time to think of pillows, or pressure, or why his lungs had decided to pack it in, but he was, and his breathing was fitting into his brain patterns with alarming ease. "Angel..." he managed to choke out. "I'm...tracking Angel." 

And then it didn't matter, because all he could think of was oxygen, and molecule percentage, and how little there was of either in every breath he was trying to take. 

Cool hands were suddenly on his back, Spike's hands, rubbing soothing circles over muscles tensed by coughing and the effort to breath. 

* 

"Slow and deep, mate. Slow and deep. Relax…" He could hear Wes' heart pounding with fear in addition to the wrenching breathing. "Just listen to my voice…" 

He knew exactly what was going on with Wes, the panic rolled off of the man in heady waves. Waves that his demon could almost taste. Waves that his demon urged him to taste. 

Spike fought it back, shoved it down, concentrating on what else he could sense coming from Wes. 

He kept his voice steady, "Know some of what you're going through, mate… but your lungs sound off too. D'ya have medicine that you're takin'?" 

Wes's hand reached out unsteadily and pointed, and Spike immediately went to where he indicated, picking up the bottles, and the rest and reading the instructions. 

He put them down on the desk in front of Wes and then went to the kitchen for a glass of water. 

"Here, mate. Get this down as soon as you can…" He returned to rubbing circles on Wes' back, his voice making soothing conversation about nothing in particular… although it did catch once or twice as touchy topics were hit and then skirted around. 

* 

More than anything in the bloody world, Wesley wanted to be able to breathe normally, he wanted to do as Spike said, and he also wanted to die of embarrassment somewhere hidden and quiet. 

Life, however, still had vengeful little plans for him, and he swallowed his syrupy medications and water like an obedient schoolboy, hating his recalcitrant body with a passion that surprised even himself. 

"Sorry," he wheezed out eventually. "Thank you...." 

He pulled out his bottom drawer, and put the fifth of whiskey onto the desk. 

"Help yourself," he rasped, and poured some into his water glass, swallowing with only the faintest of grimaces. 

Sometimes, he truly loathed how much he responded to sincere help. 

Spike poured himself a healthy shot of the whiskey, tossing it back with abandon. Then poured a second, that he sipped at, savoring it now. 

"That's good. Thanks." He toyed with the glass, running one finger around the rim of it. When he spoke again, his voice was subdued. "Wes…. I didn't get much out of the cheerleader. She was too busy pointing a crossbow at me ta tell me what was what. But it doesn't take a genius to figure out there's more to what's going on than Angel's disappearin'." 

"Won't press you ta tell me. Not my place to suggest that an insane vampire is the world's best confidant…" He looked up at Wes then. "…but I've always been a good listener, so when you're ready…." 

Spike's voice trailed off and he looked back down at the chart on the table, "So, you figurin' that the Sire took a swim?" 

"Voluntarily?" Wesley ignored how horrific his voice sounded, and continued. "No. But I think his son...I think Connor had plans." He twitched out a half-smile from somewhere. "The woman who cut my throat told me that Angel's at the bottom of the ocean. But that...." he rasped in a breath, "...that tells me very little." 

He swallowed whisky, stared into the glass, and added - "Angel blames me for what happened. Deservedly. I - misinterpreted a prophecy, and took his son from him. Unfortunately...it seems he was worth killing to obtain." He rubbed his hand over his throat, hissing out revulsion even at his own touch. "So Connor was taken, and I was left for dead. But Connor...Connor came back. All grown up." He laughed harshly, drinking more whisky. "All grown up and affectionately known as the Destroyer - which is what he's done to Angel. Or thinks he has." 

He smiled wearily, and coughed again. 

"Still want my help?" 

* 

"A son?  A son?  But - "  Spike's head whirled at the idea "No… don't answer that.  Never mind." 

Angel had a son.  However it had happened, a part of him, somewhere inside, hurt.  A "real" son - since his Childer had always been such a disappointment to him. An innocent in their world of death.

No, he didn't want to think about that.  Wouldn't think about it. He had to concentrate on what Wes was telling him. 

"So this boy… Conner? He sent the Sire for a swim…." Something inside him was suddenly struck funny... and his voice choked off with a laugh. "Yeah... with the baby fishes swimming through his head…" 

"With the baby -" Wesley stopped. "Spike? Don't...come on, stay with me. Please. It's..." he sighed, and closed his fingers around the vampire's wrists. "You listened. You did a good job. Now stay with me" 

Bloody feral cats and their bloody purrs. This wasn't going to leave scars on a shoulder. This was going to be utterly annihilating. 

* 

"Sorry, Wes…" Spike seemed to curl up on himself again… rocking gently, but not completely withdrawing. "Soul... makes me crazier than my Princess sometimes.…" 

"I'll do what I can… to help." He nodded, his face downcast and haunted. "Got to, you know? Makes me want to even. Makes that bloody spark glow down... simmer instead of burn…" 

Spike's voice cracked, but he reached one shaky hand toward his whiskey glass, lifting it and taking a drink, "Just tired… Sorry…" 

"Gets worse when I'm tired." And that was true. But it also woke him from his rest. " Just.... just talk to me, yeah? Anchor me... Make me stay here... keep me thinking about something... anything.... Anything but...them…all of them." 

Weeks of disturbed sleep were taking their toll, even on vampiric constitution. His trip from Africa to Los Angeles had been made in such a haze of insanity and confusion that he still wasn't sure how he had managed it without becoming dust. Then, after all that, to find his Sire gone… lost…. 

Wesley had once thought of himself as being of about as much use as a chocolate teapot, and it was not precisely pleasant to return to that state of being. 

Anchor me... 

What with? he wanted to ask. What can I possibly do to help? 

Fred had babbled, when they first brought her to the Hyperion, snippets of myths and legends, all intermingled with equations and newly impossible physics. He had never been able to help her, either, save with the commonplace, a recitation of the daily routine. 

But he had never been afraid for Fred, never felt this concern or sorrow, not believed that he was her last chance. " I don't know," he whispered. "I'm sorry. But I can try to learn, and try to help. What would help? Now? What could I - anyone - someone - do? What -" 

The everyday and commonplace... 

He cleared his throat, and tried again. "The - um. The man who runs this place. He - he feeds the birds. Every morning. Same time. God knows what he feeds them, but they thrive like nothing I've ever seen." He drew his chair closer and put his hand back on Spike's wrist, trying to remember that this was not a scared cat, but a vampire with nearly three times the years' worth of experience going for him that Wesley might ever attain. "Every morning, when I got back, he'd be there. It means there's about forty thousand pigeons in the guttering, but it's not a bad sound. Well, I've never thought so. I don't sleep that much in the early morning anyway, and it's - quite soothing, hearing things going on while I write up what I've found out. When they go to sleep, I do. About nine. They...they make nice sounds then. The gutter amplifies it. Almost purring, not the way you think they'd be. It's nice, living here. Like today, with the rain." 

* 

Spike listened, eyes closed as if imagining it all. The elderly Korean gentleman with his bags of food for the birds - he could almost see his hunched frame and the pigeons skittering around each other to find the choicest bits. 

"Had pigeons one time in a cottage we stayed in... Dozens of them, up in the eves. Dru loved them. She said they sounded like flying kittens…" He spoke slowly as if trying to focus. 

Then a moan escaped him as another memory resurfaced, "We'd killed the owners... man, woman... two little girls. Pretty things they were too. Blonde hair and pink cheeks. Gone… gone…. little girls with thin white legs and big galoshes on their feet, on their way to the dancing-school." 

Spike moved with a sudden strike, grabbing Wesley's hand where it lay against his wrist, gripping tight as he fought the memories. His eyes seemed to drift in and out of focus as he looked at Wes, searching. "They barely made a sound… a soft sigh and they were gone… dead… drained" 

"Wes!" It was a panicked plea. 

* 

Perhaps even as little as five months ago, Wesley would have been surprised that anyone would turn to him for physical reassurance. Five weeks ago, he was hoping to God that no-one would, and five days ago he had been convinced that it would be perfectly suicidal to allow anyone close enough for contact to even be an option. 

"They do," he agreed quietly, wrapping both his hands around Spike's this time, and focusing his eyes on the vampire's face, trying to bring him out of whatever hell he was currently inhabiting with the sheer force of his gaze. "They do, they sound exactly like kittens when they're sleepy. That's real, not in your head. You'll hear them tomorrow, and that will be real too. Focus on what's here, not what you remember. Do it minute by minute, ten-second periods, even, if you have to. Listen to me. This is going to work. We'll make it work." 

He wasn't letting go, his thumbs rubbing circles at the point on Spike's wrists where a pulse should have beat, trying to keep talking even when he knew most people would have dismissed what he was saying as nonsense, partly because he knew that sound of his voice was probably helping, even if infinitesimally, and partly because he truly believed what he was saying. 

"The good's real too. The ordinary. The bloody stupid and pathetic. That's as real. Pigeons...the fact that I need to make some phonecalls in few minutes to make sure that neither of us starve...the translations I'm trying to do for Friday - and yes, yes, in fact please, you can help me with those...every minute, there's something. Real, and dull, and sometimes annoying. But it's here, and it's outside your mind, and half the time you can touch it, and - " He smiled a bit, in relief, as recognition came back into Spike's eyes, and he was being seen again. 

"This is real, " he repeated, softly. 

* 

Spike focused on the rough sound of Wes' voice as if it were a lifeline, "'S good, mate.... because not much more stupid and pathetic than me right now... and I feel bloody real.…" 

"Too real," he looked down at where long fingers, only a shade or two darker than his own, clasped his wrists, thumbs circling, unconsciously, with the rhythm of the warm human heart so close to him. "Too real and so very, very tired…" 

He looked up then, "Can we move to the couch, mate? Need to sleep... Maybe I can if you keep talking to me." 

There was a short puff of a laugh, "I'm like a bleedin' animal.... got to be gentled into sleep…" 

Spike stood. Then sat. Then stood again, looking around nervously. "Sorry, mate. Probably want to be rid of me by now. Grateful for what you've done…but you didn't sign on for Crazy Vampire Watch." 

He edged towards the door, a picture of detachment and resignation.  

* 

"What the - what are you talking about?" The babbling poetry had made more sense than this, as far as Wesley was concerned. "If I gave you anything other than the impression that you could stay, I'm sorry...and actually, I have no intention of letting you go anywhere when you're this tired." 

He moved over to where Spike stood, and put a hand on his shoulder again. "You're going to have to sleep in the bed, though. That couch counts as cruel and unusual punishment, and while I'm sure a vampire knot would be a fascinating subject for study, it's not something I feel would be particularly good for you in the long run..." 

He was, he reflected, getting quite good at his own style of babble - and whatever state of mind it proceeded from, he doubted that it sounded any saner than Spike's. He was sure, however, that by now it scarcely mattered what he said, as long as he continued to sound as friendly and soothing as his throat would permit. 

"The bedlinen's clean, so don't worry about that...and there's no window in that room, either, so you should be all right..." 

He curled his fingers around Spike's wrist again, and pulled gently. "Look, at least give it a try for now. You never know how much better things might look after some sleep." 

"Don't want to put you out, mate…" Spike's voice was low, almost as rough as Wes' own.... his hand reaching out, unconsciously to brush against the other man as they moved. 

"You're not." Wes folded his fingers around Spike's wrist again, suddenly realizing that he was unconsciously mimicking the gesture he had used to get Fred out from under tables before his life went straight to hell. "If you do, I'll say. All right? Stop worrying. I'm not...well, I've been told I can be rather brutally clear, so really, no need to worry on that score. Here, bed." 

Spike looked at it, his face a mixture of longing and trepidation. "So it is…" 

As tired as he was, sleep brought dreams and dreams… Well, nightmares was probably more accurate. 

"Here, come on.." Wesley's hands were tired, but efficient, folding Spike between layers of blankets and the old bedspread on the top as though it was something he has done a thousand times. Then he lay down himself, with only a sheet as division between them - close enough for warmth yet not for intimacy. "Here, if I fall asleep, put your hand over my heart. It'll be something to focus on." 

Spike looked at him from the warm cocoon of blankets, his face worn and wary. 

"Right, good." Wes' smile was wry as he made sure the bottle of water by the bed was full. "I'm not all that - well, skilled. At talking. These days." 

His mouth twitched in what was certainly not amusement. "Anything you want to hear about?" 

"Whatever you want to tell me about.... " Spike answered quietly as he moved to get comfortable. "Anything.... more about this place, maybe? Or about when you were younger? In school or something maybe.... Whatever you feel like.…" 

Wes breathed out a laugh, soft and genuinely amused, "Ah, now, there...well...hm, stories and then some. Here, come on." 

Wes settled himself down more comfortably as well, staring at the dark space above them as he thought. 

"Now, stories of school - ah, yes. I went once on a field trip…" His voice trailed off, low and soothing, into nonsense, while he watched Spike's eyes close, and kept his hand clasped around the vampire's wrist, pressing the pulse of his fingers into whatever dreams might await. 

*