Fred opened her eyes - still hers, he thought desperately, still hers, she's still there, there's hope... - and smiled at him. 
 
"Hey," she said quietly. "You mad at me?" 
 
Wesley shook his head, and sat down in the chair by her bedside. "Not in the least." 
 
"I'm really sorry, y'know? I just put my hand out, and -" 
 
"It's all right." Wesley swallowed. "You were just curious. It's a healthy thing, curiosity." 
 
"Not for a cat..." 
 
"You're a scientist, not a cat." From somewhere, Wesley found a smile, lifting her hand to check it, then peering into her face until she giggled. 
 
"What?" 
 
"Nope. No whiskers. No pads. Not sure about the claws, but - evidence suggests you're a girl." 
 
"Not for long..." Fred stopped smiling, turning her head away from him. 
 
"We'll stop it. I promise. All you have to do is hold on, and we'll find a way to stop it." 
 
"Book man on a mission, huh?" 
 
Wesley snorted. "No, you did all the work for me. Something better. Far better than books." He smiled, and whispered directly into her ear, as quietly as he could, "Better than demon tacos, too." 
 
Fred's eyes widened. "Sp -" 
 
"Ssssh. Yes. And Xander." He held his hand over one side of his mouth, covering it from any hidden cameras, and murmured into the bruise-blue shell of her ear, "Tracking spell on me. Now do you believe?" 
 
She nodded, and reached for his hand. "You - Wes, you're my best friend, you know that? Or - we could have been." 
 
"You are." Wesley let his forehead rest against hers. "We are." 
 
"Would you have told me secrets?" 
 
"I'll tell you everything." 
 
"Tell me now. Tell me everything, now. Don't let me sleep anymore. Every hour I sleep is an hour I don't got...Wes, keep me awake. Tell me things." 

He talked, true to his word, telling her things he hadn't dared even vocalise to himself, yet, truths he was trying to keep from his conscious mind in case they turned out to be based on sand, dragging things out from their buried inertia to hold her interest, but she fell asleep anyway, restless and burning to the touch, her hand still clinging to his with a feverish intensity that burned him as much as the heat that seemed to be coming from her in tangible waves. 
 
She woke with a jump, eyes searching his for something he knew he couldn't give her yet. 
 
"Not enough. I need noise to keep me here. Is it today? I mean..." 
 
"You only slept a few minutes. Not long at all." 
 
"Minutes gone. Never-again minutes..." Tears welled up in her eyes, and Wesley put his fingers to them as they spilled over, not letting them reach her cheeks. 
 
"Shh, darling one. Shh. You'll have plenty more. It's nothing to fret over. Don't cry..." 
 
"Everything's so bright and hollow...why did I come here? Why did I think I could beat it? Evil, Wesley. It's bigger than anything." 
 
"I don't believe that." Wesley held onto both her hands, willing her to keep going as though he could push what strength he had remaining to him into her with his mind alone. "I'll never believe that. Don't..." 
 
Fred nodded. "Wes...my skin. I can't feel your hands. You won't leave me?" 
 
Wesley closed his eyes, swallowed his grief, and shook his head. "I won't." 
 
"I've walked with heroes. Think about that. Handsome man...saved me." 
 
"You never needed him. You never needed any of us. You are one. You're a hero in your own right, with a power of your own - stay with me!" 
 
She breathed out a laugh, struggling to sit upright. "Superhero. And this is my power: to not let them take me. Not me." 
 
Wesley put his arms around her, holding her so that she could sit up in the bed, hiding his face in her hair as he tried to hide his grief from her. "That's right." 
 
She nodded against his chest, her voice determined. "That's right. Oh, God, Wes! It hurts, I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry..." 
 
Wesley held her more tightly, feeling her begin to shake uncontrollably in his arms, her skin hard as iron now, "No, no, no, you have to fight. You don't have to talk, just concentrate on fighting. Just hold on." 
 
"I'm not scared." She was gasping into his shirt, even her breath scalding. "I'm not scared. I'm not scared." She looked up at him then, her eyes wide and terrified, asking him to keep his promise though they both knew it was too late. "Oh, God! Please, Wesley, why can't I stay?" 
 
And then she was still, frozen in his arms, her breath stopped as though by a switch, her hammering pulse silent. Wesley, praying to any god that would hear him, felt the more human heat on his face that was his own tears, and whispered, 
 
"Please... Please..." 
 
He looked down into her face, somehow thinking that she would take one more breath, that the heat would begin to burn from her again, willing her to start fighting again. Even the agonizing convulsions would have been better than this stillness, better than watching her eyes glaze over as though they were frozen, the deep blue haze covering them in an ice that went beyond death.  
 
Then she did move, a violent, bone-cracking shudder, sending them both toppling from the bed, his head cracking into the hard floor with a force that jarred him into blackness for a moment, his eyes closing involuntarily. 
 
When he opened them, to a slow-moving world of head-pounding double vision, she was standing over him, more beautiful than she had ever been before, even to his blurred eyes, the blue of her hair and astounding, mesmerising eyes the most vivid thing he had ever seen. 
 
But when she spoke, it was no longer the girl who had called him her best friend, or laughed when she was nervous. It was a voice that resonated with power and confidence, the voice of a warrior god. 
 
"This will do," she said. 
 
And around them, Wesley heard metal slam into place, and knew that the doors and windows had been sealed. 
 
They were trapped. 

* 
 
Perpetual motion refers to a condition in which an object moves forever without being driven by an external source of energy. It also describes a sun-trapped Vampire whose lover has been kidnapped. 
 
"Spike…settle!" Xander snapped finally. "Bouncing around the apartment will not make the sun go down any faster." 
 
Spike scowled and then threw himself down on the couch, sprawling there for a full two minutes before bounding up to resume his pacing. 
 
"Sp---" 
 
Xander's further complaint was cut short by Mr. Pak's return, "I am ready." 
 
Spike spun back toward the front door. "About bloody time…" 
 
"Spike!" Xander shot an apologetic grimace in the older man's direction. 
 
"I, too, am concerned about the time," Mr. Pak assured them, "but these things take as long as they take and may not be rushed." 
 
"Sorry, mate," Spike's voice was tinged with worry. "Just want to get on with it." 
 
"As do I." Mr. Pak led them out and up the stairs to the top floor of the building. Neither Spike nor Xander had been there before and looked around at the dimly lit area, taking in the space with a few quick glances. 
 
The area was large and open, empty, with the exception of a few old pieces of furniture and a couple of crates addressed to Mr. Pak. A protective circle was already mapped out on the floor, as if this were where Mr. Pak often did his casting. Pillar candles lit the Quarters and a small brazier sent the comforting smell of amber and sandalwood drifting through the air. Mr. Pak's nephew, Nuygen was already there, waiting. 
 
Xander and Spike watched nervously as Mr. Pak performed both location spells. Neither one of them had ever had much luck with magic, normally winding up on the receiving end of spells gone wacky, and were reluctant witnesses. Mr. Pak, however, seemed to be well in control, performing all the rituals and steps in a clear concise manner.  
 
Although, it does seem odd to hear a spell in Korean, rather than English or Latin. Xander watched as Mr. Pak first used the threads he had retrieved from Wes' shirt… and then some odd sort of leather bracelet, presumably belonging to his student… to centre the spells capabilities. It would allow them to track Wes first, and then, by speaking the name of Mr. Pak's student, track him down as well. 
 
"It is complete…" Mr. Pak stepped out of the circle, handing Spike a slip of paper. "Speak your partner's name now… and then read the name of my student when you are ready to track him." 
 
Spike nodded. He was taking Wes' motor cycle, with Xander and Nuygen following in Nuygen's SUV.  
 
"Let's go."  
 
The three men hurried down to their vehicles and Spike spoke the words which would activate the spell, "Wesley Wyndam-Pryce." 
 
Spike immediately felt a pull… a tug toward the North. He cranked up the bike and took off, trusting Nuygen and Xander to follow him. 
 
Momentary guilt hit Spike as he thought of the two younger men. Xander - still feeling his awkwardness from the adjustments to his depth perception. Nuygen, a very intelligent young man, with his own computer sales business - what would Spike do if something happened to either one of them?  
 
Can't worry about that now. They want to help Wes as much as you do.  

* 

The location spell pulled them up Figueroa Boulevard… then… West…. The Wilshire district… 
 
Bloody well figures. Wolfram and Hart's castle. He went past the building and then pulled up, parking the bike in a public lot. 
 
Nuygen and Xander soon joined him. 
 
"Can we even get into that place?" This from Xander. "Wes told me they have all kinds of magical and non-magical wards." 
 
"They do." Spike sighed.  
 
Wolfram and Hart had telepaths on staff and wards that detected vampires and a hell of a lot of demons between them and Wes… let alone standard alarms and locks and…. "Bloody Hell." 
 
"Ah… not to worry." Nuygen grinned, undaunted, and pulled a case out of the back of the SUV. "I was a Boy Scout… and Uncle Shin was…well… more like a "Mystic Scout", I guess." 
 
The case contained glamour charms and ID and shirts that identified them as employees of So. Cal. Edison, the electric company. That should get them in the doors, even after dark. 
 
"Sometime having a huge extended family has its perks…" Nuygen started pulling on his new shirt, passing out equipment to the other two. "especially when plotting a bit of espionage."  
 
"Are you sure this is working?" Xander had the charm hung around his neck but was frowning. "I don't feel any different." 
 
"Got to key it in, don't you?" Spike stepped forward, handing Xander a pen knife. 
 
"Awww… why does it always have to be blood?" there was bit of a whine in Xander's voice, but he poked his thumb and spread the blood over the charm with no real complaint. "These won't set off any alarms?" 
 
"Doubt it." Spike activated his own, passing the knife to Nuygen. "This is L.A., probably most of the women and a lot of the men in that place use them to look good. Know that Lilah bitch probably does…" 
 
Xander nodded, picking up his tool belt and buckling it with practiced ease. He'd have to be point man at the beginning, since he was the only one who actually "knew" something about a building's electrical systems. He hoped his bluffing skills were up to it. 
 
"Let's do it." 
 
In the end, it was easy… almost too easy. They showed their identification and got into the main electrical room and, with Nuygen's computer skills, quickly shut down as many physical alarms as they could, with no discernible detection. Within 20 minutes, they were once again following the location spell, with legally obtained clearance badges that allowed them into all the public areas of the building… and a few of the not-so-public ones. 
 
The whole thing was making Spike's skin crawl - easy was never something he'd like to associate with this kind of caper… it never meant anything good. 

*

 
Wesley tried, hard, to remember that this was a large room, that even if it was sealed, there was a ventilation shaft, that there was light and room to move, and really, there was nothing to worry about. 
 
He wasn't succeeding particularly well. 
 
Nor, by the look of things, was Illyria. 
 
"This is not acceptable!" 
 
"No," Wesley agreed for what felt like the twentieth time. "No, I entirely agree." 
 
"I can move through dimensions. I am the warrior of my people. Yet I cannot open this door!" 
 
"That would be the wards against you," Wesley said. He looked at the bed longingly. His head was pounding and had a rather large lump on the back, he suspected he was, at the very least, mildly concussed, and the only thing he wanted at that precise moment, other than to get out, was to find Spike, get to the garden, and be able to talk. 
 
…comfort. You remember what needing that feels like, right?" 
 
God, did he. He didn't remember what it felt like, he needed what it felt like. Talking to Fred, trying to keep her anchored, he had been forced into acceptance in a way that nothing anyone else had professed to see in him could have managed. Even if he were second best to Spike's bright particular star, even if he would, in the end, be left behind, even if he could not promise the eternity that should have come with the profession of such an emotion -  
 
…for the rest of my natural life will never be enough… 
 
- he had to admit it, even if only he and a dead girl 
 
Best friend, Wesley…  
 
- ever knew that he could say and think it. 
 
"I love you," he whispered, as he had done once before to his shattered reflection, deep within the same building; and wasn't that irony for you, wasn't it? That the one man who should have heard those words still hadn't, and the centre of evil within LA had heard it twice, and each time directed at someone who couldn't even hear his voice. 
 
He had to get out of here, if only to say it aloud to someone who would hear it and take it for its worth.  
 
He wanted to be with Spike. Well, irony could go and shove it up its own arse and choke on it, because that was exactly what was going to happen. Xander had taken the details for a tracking spell, God knew he had all the ingredients, and if anyone could think for himself to the point where this was going to be achievable, Spike could. 
 
He was going to get out. He was going to be found, pride and the disgust about having to be rescued be damned, he was going to be got out if nothing else. 
 
And then… 
 
He was going to say it. In front of Xander, in front of Lilah, in front of the whole bloody world if need be, he was going to say it to Spike. 
 
"I love you," he repeated, testing the words in his mouth, hearing how they sounded in the dead air, and ignoring Illyria's puzzled look. "I love you. Spike." 
 
He was going to have that chance to say it. And he was damned if a few sheets of warded metal were going to stop him. 
 
"You stink," Illyria said contemptuously, breaking into his thoughts. "You stink of grief, and fear. You are weak, and unfit for existence. Were I not entrusted with you and your protection as my guide, you would be dead." 
 
Wesley looked up at her with disgust equal to that in her voice. "Believe me, Illyria, I'm not your guide. You're like me. You're on your own." 

* 

Long corridors of offices, leading into….more long corridors of offices. It was beginning to be frustrating how little they were finding…  
 
"I'm betting the more important stuff is at the top of the building," Xander whispered as they ducked into the latest in a series of Utility closets to reconnoitre. "Bosses usually like being on the upper stories… gives them a view down over the peons." 
 
I can hear, underground, that sucking and sobbing, 
In my veins, in my bones I feel it,-- 
 
"No… down…" Spike looked at the stairs, then back over his shoulder. "More secure… more protected - hidden. Why do you think the Initiative used it?" 
 
Xander had to agree with that. He nodded and they headed down the stairs, coming up short two floors below ground as they found a locked door. Nuygen looked at it closely.  
 
"Not an electronic lock... It's alarmed, but we already shut those all down." He glanced from Xander to Spike. "Can you pick it? Jimmy it?" 
 
Spike stepped forward, grinned, and proceeded to rip the latch completely out of the door. 
 
"Okay… that's useful." Nuygen gave a wry grin and they continued on down the stairs. 
 
They carefully searched through next two floors and were still drawing a blank. Although, strangely, they were beginning to see quite a few more people - far too many for the time of night…. Even at Wolfram & Hart. 
 
"Do you think we've been spotted?" Xander whispered as they ducked into a vacant office to wait for a security guard to pass. 
 
"Dunno, mate…" Spike paced up and down in the limited space. "If we had, I'd think they'd be searching a bit more thoroughly." 
 
Nuygen nodded, "They look a bit more worried and panicked than like they're hunting for someone." 
 
Xander cracked the door open just a hair and listened to the people passing. 
 
"I thought they said the area was secure -" 
 
"-- Gone in a flash. Like all the precautions were nothing." 
 
"She took him along?"  
 
"Find them, dammit! I've worked too hard to set this up to let Security's incompetence jack it up." 
 
That last voice that sounded much more familiar to Xander. To Spike too, Xander would assume, since Spike had instantly shifted into game face, and then forced it away. It was Lilah. 
 
"There are two more of these in my office. Get them to the best sharpshooters on your squad. They'll need them…." 
 
"How all the other passions fleet to air, As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embrac'd despair, And shuddering fear, and green-ey'd jealousy." Spike muttered under his breath, causing Xander to look at him sharply. 
 
"Spike? You holding together alright?" There was actually concern in that voice. Concern that was more than just the worry that their one fighter might go off on a trip to Insanityville.  
 
"Yeah… yeah…. 'M fine…" Spike assured him. "Better when we find Wes, yeah?" 
 
"Yeah." 
 
They waited until the corridor was clear, then slipped out to continue their search.  

* 

"I do not like this room." Illyria sat down beside Wesley with a distinctly undignified huff. 
 
"Well, it's better than eternity in a box," Wesley responded absently, trying to ease the pain in his head by rubbing at his neck. It wasn't helping. 
 
"You are in pain?" 
 
"Yes, Illyria, I'm in pain. One of those lovely little inconveniences of weak humanity. When you slam their heads onto the very hard floor, they end up in pain. Ow," he added, quite genuinely, as his fingers found an extremely tender spot. 
 
"You are in other pain. For this...shell. It is unpleasant to be near you, at this time." 
 
"It's called mourning a friend," Wesley replied shortly. "You're using the body of one of the few people I care - cared - about. Don't expect unbridled glee." 
 
"I do not understand." 
 
"I loved Fred. The - shell - you refer to. She had a name. She died in my arms. If I disgust you, Illyria, then let me tell you something. It can't even begin to compare with what an abomination I find you." 
 
She blinked, tilting her head to one side like some uncanny insect. 
 
"You did not summon me. You did not wish my presence." 
 
"No and no." Wesley sighed. "Look, I understand that -" 
 
"She is gone. I am - what there was of her, I have absorbed. She no longer exists, except in me. I hold her in my mind, in my memories. She has become me, as I her. You must not mourn her, my guide. She remains as long as I do." 
 
"No. You're a parody." 
 
"No. I am Illyria. I am the warrior god. I was summoned to my people - and they are not here. I fail to understand. I fail to comprehend you. And I do not like this box of a room." 
 
"Could you perhaps not..." The cold sweat that was starting to coat Wesley's back had nothing to do with the pain in his head, and a great deal to do with the nauseating claustrophobia that was threatening to overwhelm him again. 
 
"You fear the room?" 
 
"I - don't like enclosed spaces." 
 
"Ah." Illyria frowned in thought, then held up her thumb and forefinger, a blue line of pure electricity crackling between them. "Yes. I remember. You -" 
 
"Don't want to discuss it." 
 
"Refuse to discuss it. Why?" 
 
"I find it as unpleasant to think about as you find the stench of humanity." 
 
Illyria nodded. "I am trapped. Here, in this world, as much as this room. It stinks of need, and fear, and pain, it is a place I cannot help or destroy, save or vanquish. I do not understand why I was brought here." 
 
"Nor I." Wesley sighed once more. "Illyria...can't you just leave? Can't you go - wherever home is, and let us have Fred back? You could go anywhere, you could leave..." 

"That is not possible." Illyria shifted on the floor beside him. "I was called. I must remain. I am not this - demon being - you think me. I was protector to my people, object of devotion. Yet I serve, too. Where I am called to, I must abide." 
 
"Yet...you travelled dimensions." 
 
She nodded, proudly. "I travelled all of them as I pleased. I walked worlds of smoke and half-truths, intangible. Worlds of torment and of unnameable beauty. Opaline towers as high as small moons. Glaciers that rippled with insensate lust. It was - astounding, even to my eyes. My power granted me more than you could ever dream of. But you are my guide. I have chosen you. Within this place..." 
 
"I'm not your guide. I'm not anything you want. Illyria, please..." 
 
"She is not retrievable. She never can be, nor will be. This is not my choice, either. But I must remain, and I exist here. I must learn to walk in this world. I'll need your help... Wesley." 
 
"I don't.." Wesley stumbled over his own words, and swallowed. "Yes," he said, finally. "Yes, of course. I'll help you. I'll try. It isn't your fault they brought you here for their own ends." 
 
Illyria looked at him, and grinned, sudden and feral, reminding him painfully of Spike. 
 
"The one you hate is coming," she said. "She will open the door. And then - we will leave." 
 
Wesley stared at her. 
 
"How?" 
 
Which was the point when Lilah opened the door, holding a gun that wasn't a gun at all, Illyria screamed a curse and grabbed Wesley's hand, and then everything around them stopped - caught like flies in amber as she fled the room, dragging Wesley behind her in frantic haste. 
 
Of course, he had forgotten about time control. And by the time he realised what she was doing, they were God knew where within the basements of Wolfram and Hart. 
 
Suddenly, Illyria stopped, the world beginning to move around them again in normal time. 
 
"There is...something. Someone. Here." She blinked at Wesley, and he realised that she was regarding him with what, for her, passed for concern. "Half-breed. Corrupted by your world of false power." 
 
"Half - Illyria, do you mean a vampire?" 
 
"I mean -" Illyria began, and then she stopped, her hands clutching at her waist. "Oh!" 
 
"Illyria, what -" 
 
Illyria screamed, doubling up, and the lights along the corridor exploded as one, covering them both in sparks. 
 
"Wesley!" Her toneless voice was made jagged by agony. "Wesley, help me!" 

* 

"What the hell was that?"  
 
"What?" Xander looked around. Then suddenly, he knew… they all did, as lights and electrical outlets all along their corridor started exploding and shooting out sparks.  
 
"Watch out!" Xander pushed Spike against a wall, hovering over him and blocking his fire vulnerable body as much as possible. 
 
Moments later, standing in the dark, the ozone smell of fried wiring in the air, they straightened up. 
 
"Thanks, Xander." Spike's voice was quiet, confused and subdued. 
 
Xander was a bit confused too. But hey, he was used to trying to protect people, even ones that didn't need it, like Buffy, so it was probably just his instincts kicking in. "No problem." 
 
More silence as the emergency lighting kicked in. 
 
"Guess we can get rid of these now." Spike took off his glamour charm. "Want Wes to be able to know it's me when we find him." 
 
Spike's voice was more confident than he felt at the moment. The location spell didn't seem to be working anymore. It had tugged them from left to right and back again, so erratically that Spike knew it had to be losing power. 
 
What the Hell is going on here? And where the Hell is Wes? 
 
"You alright, Nuygen?" 
 
"Fine…" a pause. "What do you suppose caused that?" 
 
Xander just shrugged. 
 
"Somethin' I'm thinkin', that we don't want to run into…" Spike muttered, but when he started walking again, it was down the corridor in the direction the noise had been coming from.  
 
Suddenly the corridor rang with a scream. 
 
"Shit!" Xander quickened his pace. Whoever that was… it sounded like they were in pain. He didn't care who it was… he needed to help them. 
 
"Wesley, help me!" the voice was toneless, but pained none the less. 
 
"Wes…!" Spike hissed, charging around the last turn in the corridor and into what looked like some kind of laboratory. 
 
"Spike! Wait…" Xander cautioned him, but Nuygen had apparently been caught up in Spike's caution-to-the-winds attitude and dashed after him.  
 
"Okay… don't wait…."  
 
God. I must be insane, myself… And Xander dashed after both of them, hand clutched around his knife. 
 
There was a woman, arms wrapped around herself, a huddled bundle of pain, and Wes, trying to comfort her…help somehow. Xander was picking up a strange feeling from her… immense age and power. That such an obviously strong creature should be reduced to this pain and suffering… was just so wrong that he could not imagine it. 
 
"Wes…" Spike wanted to go nearer - wanted to snatch Wes away from the woman that he, too, could tell was no ordinary woman.  
 
"Wesley…help me…" Even though the voice was toneless, the demand was more than obvious. If the request had been followed with the word "NOW", Spike would not have been any more surprised. 
 
"Wes?" Spike stepped closer, his uneasiness growing as Wes turned a sad face in his direction. 
 
"Spike? It's Fred…" Wesley's eyes were sorrow filled. 
 
Xander and Spike both looked over the being before them. Yes, Fred - but a Fred so changed that it was almost an abomination.  
 
"The mouse devoured the hawk…" Spike whispered, softly. Only in this case it was the more natural occurrence, with the mouse being subsumed and consumed. "Wes, are you --?" 
 
"HELP ME!" The being jerked in pain, and again sparks shot out of the walls and ceilings, the emergency lights dying the same death as the regular ones had a short time before. 
 
"Aaaaggghhhh!!!!"  
 
"Spike!" Wes' movement was as instinctual as Xander's had been earlier. "Are you alright? Are you burnt?" 
 
His hands patted down over Spike, searching for sparks or flares of fire. 
 
"Head… chip….." Spike managed to stutter out as he rolled in agony, his hands clutched on either side of his head as if he were forcibly holding it together. 
 
Wes gathered Spike into his arms, holding him through the pain, "What is it?" 
 
Spike curled into Wes, taking comfort through the pain, just by his very presence. 
 
"Oh, God, Spike… I'm so glad you're here." Wes rocked him gently, watching Spike's face in the nearly dark room. Watching as the pain seemed to diminish. "I…. I just need to tell you. I need to tell you that I lo--" 
 
Suddenly, there was a flare of magical light, and a taunting voice, "Well, well, isn't this cozy?" 

* 

Later, no-one was able to agree on what had happened first, mostly because no-one had been concentrating on the whole room. What they all knew to be true was this. When the smoke and sparks from the magically demolished machine died down, Illyria and Xander were in a heap in the corner, Xander rubbing his head and lying mostly on top of an infuriated blue warrior god, Wesley had the gun that was not a gun, pointing it at Illyria and frowning over the settings, Nuygen was standing exactly where he had been from the start, holding a piece of paper up with the expression of a man who had just remembered where he left his car keys, or perhaps discovered the precise translation of "Eureka!", and Spike... 
 
Spike was holding Lilah's dead body, his hands still around her twisted neck. 
 
"...put out the light," he mumbled, and, as Wesley lowered the gun and took one faltering, disbelieving step towards him, continued, "And then put out the light..." 
 
"Ow," Xander said coherently, as Illyria blinked up at him. "I hit my head. On the - thingy - wall. Thing. Wall." 
 
"Why are you on top of me?" Illyria asked with remarkable self possession. "And you wear a cloth piece over your eye. Are you Odin? I do not sense such power. Wesley, is he Odin?" 
 
"Oh, fucking God..." was all Wesley could manage. "Spike?" 
 
"Daniel Osborne!" Nuygen announced triumphantly, and garnered solidarity in a round of staring. 
 
Then Illyria screamed, convulsing beneath Xander, a small crack in the skin of her face opening up and pouring out light too bright to look at, and every machine in the room exploded. 
 
In what was obviously a very rarely sensible move, Nuygen threw himself to the floor. Xander pinned Illyria back down, cursing as the light burnt into him. Wesley wheeled around, pointed the gun back at Illyria, and fired, the light flooding into the gun, instead of out of it, and the power knocking him backwards into Spike, who caught him automatically, letting Lilah's corpse fall to the ground. 
 
"Hey," said an unfamiliar voice. "Like, cool. People. In heaps." 
 
Illyria lay flat and unmoving beneath Xander, who raised himself cautiously. 
 
"Hey, Oz," he said. "So, what's up?" 
 
"My cage stopped working." 
 
"Oh," said Xander blankly, and trying to ignore the Spike-and-Wesley-and-corpse-of-Lilah pile at the other end of the room, two of whose occupants were behaving in a manner that should definitely count as desecration of the dead. "That's good, yeah?" 
 
Oz looked around him, consideringly. "Yeah," he said at last. "Hey. Nuygen's on the floor. Actually....you all are. Did I miss something? And why's Spike...oh. Hey, Wes." 
 
Rather inaccurately, Wesley waved a hand in his general direction. Spike mumbled something, but it obviously wasn't at Oz, since the next moment Wesley was clutching his jaw and laughing delightedly.  
 
"You hit me!" he said. "My God, Spike, you -" 
 
Illyria blinked up at Xander sleepily. "I do not like electricity," she announced, and her eyelids fluttered shut again. 
 
"Yeah," Xander agreed. 
 
"Huh." Oz blinked slowly. "Should we..." he looked over at Spike and Wesley, and shrugged. "You know. Go?" 

* 

The chip was gone… gone…gone. And, it appeared, he was able to kill again. Kill ruthlessly - but not without regret. 
 
Regret, guilt, contrition, sorrow and self reproach. It weighed him down. Even if it was necessary. Even if Lilah deserved it. Even if he was protecting what was his.  
 
Spike had been very close to allowing Wes to ride his motorcycle home alone and walk there, by himself, in the solitude of his less-than-tranquil thoughts. But no, he couldn't do that. Couldn't take the chance that Wes would sense his feelings of guilt and try to take some of them onto himself. Spike killing Lilah had nothing to do with Wes…and everything to do with Wes. But either way it had been his decision and he meant to do anything he could to keep it from touching Wes. He'd batten it down, lock it away, and deal with it in private…all without Wes' help. Somehow. 
 
So, Spike had climbed onto the bike behind Wes… practically petting the man all the way home - reassuring both parts of himself, human and demon, that Wes was well and whole and safe. Petting, touching, sniffing, tasting - reassuring. 
 
Wes couldn't take his hands off the bars, but he curved every inch of his spine backwards. Spike was getting used to the way Wes would say 'Yes, fine, all right,' while his body whispered how much deeper those words went.  
 
"I'm fine," he had whispered, ignoring Lilah's dead body between them. "You're here, I'm fine."  
 
And the weight of his tired body, leaning backwards against the thrust of the engine, repeated the same. 
 
When they finally reached the apartment, it was all Spike could do to not pull Wes upstairs immediately - take him away and taste, at last, the warm cocktail that desire and lust made of his blood. But no, he'd never truly discussed that with Wes in anything other than a "I wish I could" kind of way. Maybe he wouldn't want it, allow it. Maybe the thought frightened him even.  
 
So, no. No joining with Wes anymore intimately than he already had. Not until Wes had time to consider what Spike being chipless really meant, to both of them. It would be less turmoil for them than if he did not have his soul… but still… it would be a change and an adjustment. 
 
"Saig-yui, you have returned… and brought my student back with you," Mr. Pak greeted them at the Market's entrance, locking the door behind them as soon as they were all inside. "Daniel… I am relieved that you are well." 
 
Oz gave a crooked smile, "Good to have friends." 
 
Illyria paused in the door, still looking a bit groggy, she tilted her head to one side, studying Mr. Pak. He had a sense of the eternal about him, somehow - aged and ageless - quite unusual for the average human. And his scent…. 
 
Her eyes widened and suddenly she was throwing her too-human body into the older man's arms, hugging him and babbling in a very Fred-like way. 

* 

Mr Pak dealt with Illyria's babbling - of which no-one could understand even one word in ten, and weren't really inclined to try too hard, either - remarkably well. With the practised air of a man who had possibly herded cats and snakes for a living at some point in his life, he took only five minutes to simultaneously soothe Illyria, point Oz sternly in the direction of his house - Oz just nodded, and went, and Wesley wondered if they should be worrying about him, before reminding himself that Mr Pak probably knew better than anyone how much worrying should be done about his own student - explain to Wesley and Spike that the top floor of the building was going to be the larger apartment they had all been forgetting to mention to him - this said with a knowing smile that made Wesley seriously wonder if he should revise the demon idea - and that perhaps they should use that for the night. This would mean that Xander, who now had Wesley's apartment to himself for the rest of the rapidly-ending night and probably a great deal of the next day, since Wesley doubted anyone was going to wake up for some time once they finally wound down enough to sleep, was saved from the demon couch, for once. 
 
Wesley saw why Oz had simply nodded, left, and forgone discussion. He was too tired himself to want to discuss anything, but he suspected that even if he hadn't been, he would be unable to add anything to the devastating organisation that was Mr Pak on a tsunami-like roll. 
 
Any feelings of resentment that Wesley had at being so thoroughly handled were in complete abeyance, for now, since Mr Pak may well have dictated their every move for the next twelve hours, but he also still had one arm around Illyria, and had offered to take her in for the night. Wesley felt he was going to be paying off his feelings of gratitude for the rest of his life. 
 
One immediate problem taken off his shoulders, Wesley took a moment to assess how the other two were handling the last twenty-four hours. It wasn't particularly reassuring, and he could quite see why Mr Pak had decided they needed managing. 

Xander, who had quite possibly had a more tiring day than any of them, looked as though he was so wired that his entire body was about to resonate into another dimension, Wesley didn't feel much better himself, and Spike, who had wandered off to the side and was staring into one of the herb baskets rather blankly, seemed to have retreated into a private world of his own that Wesley knew from experience could be nowhere good. 
 
"I'm gonna watch TV until my head stops thinking," Xander announced exhaustedly. There was something wrong with that statement, but Wesley was damned if he knew what. He was still trying to think of what it was when Xander waved his hand in front of his face. "Wes? Apartment. Keys." 
 
"Oh." Wesley fished them out of his jeans. "Sorry. I should have given them to you when -" 
 
Xander held up one hand. "Not going there. Not discussing today. Not talking about anything to do with today until it's at least nearly the day after tomorrow. Jeez, and I was complaining about how dull things were." 
 
"Be careful what you wish for," Mr Pak agreed wryly, beginning to shepherd Illyria away. "No more talking now, Xander, Wesley. Go and sleep, hyeongnimi. Things will look different tomorrow." 
 
"It is tomorrow," Xander grumbled, but took Wesley's keys with a faint grin. "Yeah, yeah, I'm going." 
 
"Xander?" Wesley put out his hand. "We're not talking about it, but - thank you. Just - thank you." 
 
Xander looked at his outstretched hand as though Wesley were offering him a dead frog, before snorting. "Right, yeah, let's be British. Cos today just so calls for a manly handshake. You scared the crap out of us, Wes." He hugged Wesley, hard. "You two gonna be OK?" He looked across at Spike worriedly. 
 
Wesley nodded, and patted Xander's shoulder, rather awkwardly. "Go on," he said. "I'll see you tomorrow. Day after tomorrow. Whatever it is after a lot of sleep." 
 
"Bed," said Mr Pak in tones of warning, and Xander grinned, touched his hand to his forehead in an odd kind of salute, and left. Mr Pak gave Wesley a stern look, implying they were going to be having a long talk very soon, but forbore to say anything more, and led Illyria off with a nod to Spike. 
 
Wesley sagged back against one of the shelves. "Right," he said wearily. "Stairs. Up them. Yes." 

* 

"Right. Stairs. Up them. Yes." 
 
Spike heard the words and bestirred himself from his stupor. He didn't want Wes to know that he was thinking about Lilah and the murder he had committed so unthinkingly. Didn't want him to think of anything except sleep and being home. 
 
"Come on, love. Get you up there and into bed." He hoped to Hell that the resourceful Mr. Pak, had planned enough to have a bed brought up to the top floor, since he'd suggested they spend the night there. No way he was letting Wes sleep on the cold hard floor. 
 
He'd get Wes up there and tucked in, good and tight, and then…. Well, he wasn't sure what he'd do then. Sleep held little appeal at the moment, since he feared the day's activities would bring on a reoccurrence of nightmares and he had no wish to disturb Wes' much needed rest.  
 
Spike was aware he was hanging on to his coherence by a thread, moving and keeping busy with mundane tasks the only thing that were keeping him anchored. Yes, Lilah was an evil bitch… but she was a human evil bitch and a part of him said that, as long as there was life there was a chance for her redemption - A chance that he had taken away. 
 
Still, he didn't know how he could have handled it any other way. He saw Lilah with that bloody great gun pointed towards Wes and he just reacted - grabbed her and *snap*, it was over before his brain kicked in… before he even realized that the chip was no longer firing. And she was dead, and Wes was firing the gun at Illyria, and then there was Oz, and Xander with a possible concussion, and the long ride home, snuggled as close to Wes as balance and safety would allow. That's where he wanted to be right now, touching Wes, holding him while he slept. And that was right where he couldn't be. He'd inflicted his guilt-driven insanity on Wes long enough, and it was time he stood on his own two feet. 
 
It shouldn't be hard for him to slip away; Wes was almost asleep where he stood. Spike guided him upstairs to their proposed new quarters, as Wes murmured sleepily to him about "tired" and "cold" and "bed". 
 
Sure enough, Mr. Pak had arranged everything, not only was there a bed, but dozens of candles lit the room, giving it a golden glow. The crates and pentacle from earlier had been removed and the only trace of the magicks that had been worked there earlier was the lingering scent of sandalwood and amber in the air, and the slight prickle of power that danced over Spike's senses.  
 
"Come on, love… need your rest." Spike sat Wes down on the side of the bed and began to undress him, wanting to linger and assure himself that Wes was there and alright. He reined in those wants, biting them back almost forcibly.  
 
"Don't deserve him, but love him so bloody much." 
 
He got Wes stripped down and under the covers, then moved to blow out all but a few of the candles.  
 
"Sleep well…" Spike looked down at Wes, then turned, unsure of where to go. 

* 

Wesley slept, and dreamed... 
 
He was in the library, searching for a book, hoping that somehow the answers to his predicament would be in his father's copy of the Watchers' diaries. After all, the man seemed to refer to it often enough himself, quoting from it as frequently as he voiced his own opinions, and Wesley thought that perhaps he, too, could find something to aid him in this seemingly futile attempt to help with something that he wasn't sure, as yet, even what it could be. To his left, the shelves stopped, then resumed again a few feet further on past a closed doorway that he had never noticed before. Surprised at his failure to notice this before, he tried the door, opening it easily and stepping through onto a dust and debris-covered floor of a room that had evidently not been opened or used for years, lacking even furniture or wall-hangings. Ahead of him, Spike, his father and Fred stood waiting for him near a discarded sword. Backing away in abrupt panic, Wesley found the door to the library had disappeared, and behind him was only the road to Sunnydale, the crater in which it had been a dark hollow in the distance.  
 
"No," he whispered, an inexplicable dread rising to choke him. Turning back to the silent tableau, he moved slowly forward, his steps dragging, realising too late that he had come in there because he was bound for his own execution, had been doomed to this moment from the second he opened the door. When he came to a halt in front of the others he looked pleadingly at Fred, begging silently to be spared what he knew he was there for.  
 
But although there was sympathy in Fred's face, she said nothing that would release the still unspoken obligation binding Wesley. Instead, she gestured at the blade lying by their feet and said, "It's your duty. You wanted it."  
 
Next to him, Spike nodded. "Fair is fair," he affirmed.  
 
"It is fitting that you should be the one to end it, since you brought us here in the first place." His logic was as impeccable as ever, but it was clear from the resigned tone of his father's voice that he found no joy in it this time. "I trust you will be efficient about it."  
 
The thought that had been skirting the edges of Wesley's mind, tantalizing him with hints of hope, suddenly became clear, and he realised that there was a way out, that he did not have to bind the others to this moment as he was bound, that he could release them from the grim fate of appointing themselves his executioners. He felt an expression cross his face that he had never known before, an odd smile of relief and pain together, reflecting the harsh joy that flooded him as he recognised that he could finally redeem all his disappointments and failings. Willingly, almost lightly, he bent to lift the sword, finding it heavy, poorly balanced and clumsy in his grip. Strangely, he did not mind; its very nature was what made it so well suited to the job he needed it to do.  
 
Dropping to one knee, he reversed the weapon and drove the hilt between the loose tiles of the floor at a slight angle. He drew a deep breath, leaning against the sword, the tip of the blade against his own chest digging in between his ribs. It had no more than pricked his skin when Spike knocked it from his grip. The point skidded out of place, leaving a welt across his chest and the sharp edge cut his palms as it was struck out of his hold and fell. He clasped his hands together to contain the bleeding, wincing in pain and looking up, puzzled.  
 
"Why did you stop me?" he asked in genuine confusion. "I thought you wanted it this way." His breathing was uneven, not yet caught up from the one that was to have been his last.  
 
Spike shook his head, his eyes cold with unforgiving, pitiless judgement. "You're pathetic. What makes you think you can get out of it like that? We need to end this. Fred has to die, and you have to be the one to kill her because you haven't been able to come up with a better solution."  

Staring up at him, Wesley felt all the blood drain from his face and dreadful apprehension settled in his stomach. Fred had to die. Because he had failed to act soon enough or provide a better alternative, she was lost to him. He bowed his head over the shouted protest that he longed to make, pressing his lips closed over accusations and denials, forced now into the final terror of true comprehension, that his way out had only been a fantasy born of self-deception, the illusions of merit and wisdom shattered around him.  
 
He knelt in silence, turning the words he longed to say inwards, hurling the revulsion and fury he felt against the protective walls of his own sense of worth, deliberately breaking down the pride he had felt in his friendship for Fred, in his abilities, in his given word. Everything he longed to say to the others, he said to himself, and recognised his accusatory venom as falling far short of admitting the true extent of his crimes. He had failed Fred, and now he had to become a murderer, while before he had only been a killer. He would bear the mark of Cain for all eternity, because he had not been quick enough or clever enough to think of anything else to do. Driven past even grief with the sheer horror of what lay before him, Wesley took the responsibility for his actions along with the understanding of what they would mean to his soul. When Spike and his father lifted him from either side by his arms he rose slowly, pliant in their grasp until upright, absorbed in his own folly and self accusation to the point where he was scarcely aware of what he was doing. Then he shook himself physically away from his thoughts, shrugging away from them and moving to pick up the sword again. With the two of them flanking him more like gaolers than allies, he approached Fred, eyes downcast. He felt his friend's hands on his shoulders and finally looked up, flinching away from the sorrow he could see in the dark 
 
(blue? no, that's wrong, blue is wrong, her eyes are brown...) 
 
of Fred's eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered, knowing it would never be enough. "Forgive me."  
 
The look in Fred's eyes changed, softened to something less painful to see, but it was still distant, already becoming more attuned to what lay beyond the moment of her approaching death.  
 
"Goodbye," she said, the word a soft sigh barely discernible to Wesley over the pounding of his own heart. "Keep safe." 
 
Then she lay down on the ground, turning her head to the side to pin Wesley once more with that merciless, all-knowing gaze. 
 
"Well?" she prompted. 
 
In that single word Wesley heard neither forgiveness nor resignation, but every nuance of the accusation he knew Fred would never detail aloud. Feeling separate and removed from his body, as if he watched his own actions from outside himself and had little control over them, he lifted the blade with desperate care, moving as quietly as possible to place it over Fred's chest, knowing exactly where the steady beat of the heart was seated, knowing that it fell to him to stop its regular cadence for one simple, terrible reason - because he had failed to find any other solution. Blinded with grief, he gathered all of the guilt and anguish and loss into himself and leaned his weight on the hilt, knowing the whole time it should have been his own life forfeit instead.  
 
The sword plunged into Fred's chest, drawing a low, keening cry of mortal pain from her. Bright red with oxygen, her heart's blood fountained out of the wound and quickly soaked her chest. Her last words were lost, stopped and choked into inaudibility by blood, though Wesley leaned forward, trying with all his might to hear what was said. But there was nothing on that final breath for him, and he only saw Fred convulse once more with agony, then go still in the loose sprawl of death.  

The others were already gone. Left alone on the cold, dusty floor, Wesley reached for the sword's hilt, intending to pull it free and make the only restitution he could offer, to die as he should have done before the choices were taken away from him. But as his hand touched it, it dissolved away to nothing, leaving only the wound that disfigured Fred's chest to mark its passing.  
 
He gathered the corpse of his friend into his arms, bowing his head over the dark hair, his cheek resting on the pale forehead. My fault, I could have stopped this if I'd been intelligent enough... Without the energy to even pray, he simply held Fred's limp body, sometimes rocking very gently, sometimes shaking with the effort it took to draw breath. Wesley wept bitter tears, feeling, as though for the first time, what it was like to lose someone without ever having said goodbye properly. Far more cruel than that lesson was the constant whisper in the back of his mind that would not let him forget this death had been at his own hand, that the life had been taken because of his own failure and that no matter what he did, he would never be free of that knowledge.  
 
How long he spent there was impossible to tell, as the midnight sky above him did not change at all. The body in his arms continued to cool until at last he could not bear to hold it any longer, the cold skin too plainly devoid of the least remnant of Fred's life and warmth. Gently, he laid the lifeless form back on the ground, folding the white, drained hands over a wrongly motionless breast, hesitating over laying them in the darkening blood there. He bent his head, thinking to kiss her in farewell, but realised that he had surely lost that privilege when his inability to find any other solution to their plight had doomed them both. All he allowed himself was a single fleeting touch, tracing the curve of cheekbone and jaw with his fingers, before he forced himself to his feet and began walking. It did not matter to where, so long as his destination held the peace of forgetfulness, and he had several ideas already in mind as to how he could achieve that state. Nothing fancy or complicated, just quick and permanent.  
 
Under his feet the path that led away from the tiled floor and Fred's body reflected the faint starlight, making the packed earth brighter than the grass to either side of it, and he aimlessly followed the lighter path it gave him. Wandering down the centre of the path as if hoping to be hit by some car coming over one of the low, rolling hills without warning, he stumbled occasionally when his dragging feet caught on the rough ground, but never quite fell. Every once in a while he would tilt his head backward, trying to see the stars overhead but never able to make anything out beyond the faint blur of light they became when seen through the water that filled his eyes. The road he followed became darker and darker, the sky above him shedding less light until the time came when he looked upward and the stars were gone, leaving nothing but darkness above him. 
 
He blinked, realizing his eyes were really open, the ceiling above his head as he lay in bed as tear-blurred a sight as it had been in the dream. 
 
"Oh, my God," he whispered shakily, rolling onto his side and pushing himself upright. "Where the hell did that come from?"  
 
He looked around him blurrily, trying to re-orient himself, and the whole sense of wrong that had pervaded the dream on every level hit him with renewed force. Save for a few still-flickering candles, he was the sole occupant of the room, and, more importantly, of the bed. 
 
Unthinkingly, running on instinct and reaction rather than any prior knowledge, he dragged on his discarded jeans, and, shirtless and barefoot, headed up to the roof. 

* 

Darkness… 
 
Melancholy… 
 
Guilt… 
 
Overwhelming guilt that threatened to drag him back down to the depths of insanity. Threatened to toss him into a spin he might never recover from on his own… another weight on his soul and another thing he might have to put on Wes. 
 
"No, dammit! Can do this. I can…." Spike muttered to himself as he sat, curled up in a ball and leaning against the wall created by the roof's stairwell access door. "Master Vampire… strong… can't break down over killing a vicious bitch that would have as soon dusted me as not." 
 
A soft whimpering sigh escaped his lips, and Spike clamped them tight shut. No… he wasn't going to feel anymore guilt over this. He had been protecting his own… protecting what was his - Wes, and yeah, Xander. He had to admit that, to himself at least. The Scooby was part of his life and his to protect, no matter how much they sniped at each other. 
 
Spike had always fought to protect his own. Hell, he'd even fought to protect Angelus a time or two… and his Dru… Not Darla though. That bitch had always hated him and had made no bones about it. 
 
He thought about that a moment. Would he have had any qualms about dusting Darla? Angel certainly hadn't.  
 
When they had been the Scourge of Europe there had been so many times when he'd wanted Darla gone… wanted her dust… Not just for himself, but to protect Dru. He hadn't been strong enough to do it then. Couldn't protect his Princess from Darla's petty rages or her explosive anger. All he'd been able to do was clean up the blood and the pain - sometimes substitute himself, take the bitch's anger and torture, and grin at her through it all. Not the same as getting rid of her, but it was all he had then. 
 
But this? Lilah was a threat he *had* been able to stop. He had been strong. Surely that was good? 
Spike uncurled from his spot on the roof, walking over to the edge and looking down into the dark unfinished garden. It was, actually, beginning to look like a garden, instead of a barren patch just one step up from a junkyard. The soothing sounds of the pigeons trilling in their nests made him smile. That was one of the first stories Wes had told him; about Mr. Pak's feeding the birds every morning.  
 
So many things had changed since then. He had a place to live - a real place with decent furniture…well, barring the demon couch. And a job; although, really, he thought of it more as "helping out", even though Wes insisted he share in the earnings. And he had Wes.  
 
Wasn't that an eye-opener? Wes. Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. Ex-Watcher, ex-rogue demon hunter, and current translator/private investigator of supernatural complications… was his.  
 
And he, the pride rang out, even inside his own head… he belonged to Wes. Fangs, guilt driven flights of insanity, angst-ridden soul and all - Wes wanted him. 
 
The man was amazing. 
 
Spike walked along the low edge of the roof, and spreading his arms for balance. His mental state was improving. His set backs were fewer and farther between… and, he thought, not as severe as they first had been. 
 
He was still standing there moments later, his arms spread like a big leather-clad bird, his face turned up towards the last light of the moon, when the door to the stair well, crashed open and someone came rushing out. 
 
Spike never even turned around, "Evening, love…. Sleep well?" 

* 

Wesley blinked.  
 
Of all the damn-fool, unexpected, ludicrous -  
 
- things he couldn't say. 
 
"Mm," he agreed vaguely. In a sort of not-at-all, nightmare-ridden definition of the term 'well', yes, his mental voice of addenda contributed helpfully. "Fine," he added, hoping it would shut up. 
 
There was something about this whole scenario that was too uncomfortably close to his dream, close enough to make him wonder that if, when Spike turned around, he would see that same pitiless judgement in his eyes that had been there when 
 
Fair is fair... 
 
he had been judge and jury of Wesley's failure. 
 
It was a dream... he reminded himself, but, looking at the figure at the edge of the roof, it was somehow blurring into reality. 
 
Those lines had long since been crossed, one way and another, during the course of the preceding day, and he was no longer sure of what he had remaining to him that was tangible. The sharp edges of the sword that had never really existed seemed to have etched themselves into his palms with far more emphasis than even his still pounding head could remind him of the hour upon hour that had preceded his return home, Spike's dream-words of moments before - 
 
"You're pathetic." 
 
- still resonating within him, causing emotions that were affecting him more strongly than any memory of Lilah's broken, dead-bird body could achieve. 
 
He had not known what he was expecting, really, when he finally got the door to the roof to open - and one day he was going to remember that doors pushed open, not pulled, in this damn country - but the sight of Spike - what? Exulting? - had not been one of them. 
 
It brought home to him too vividly that he was the only one among them who had cause to grieve, the only one who had lost that day. Because in all other worlds, in all worlds that were fair, and right, and just, in each and every scenario in which that rotten bloody piece of misshapen wiring was removed, he would have been equally exultant. 
 
But now he had something to compare the defunct chip to. Now he could only think to himself that it had been as great an abomination as Illyria's presence in Fred's empty shell was, and with that comparison came no joy - how could it bring joy, with such a terrible fact to counteract it? - but only a renewed and aching helplessness -  
 
My fault, I could have stopped this if I'd been intelligent enough… 
 
- and that thought could do nothing for him but renew the terrible, silent grief of his dream, and with that renewal bring him realisation. 
 
The guilt he felt was not only for Fred's death. It was for the fact that he knew, he knew that he would have traded her in a heartbeat for this, whether Spike had allowed it or not. He would have given anything to have Spike free. 
 
He would have given up Fred, even had she not already been taken. He would have given up anything, everything. 
 
The guilt he had felt in the dream was well earnt. And he knew, now, where it came from. 
 
"Just checking," he said, hoping that he only sounded flat, and sleepy, and not as purely shaken and horrified as he felt. "I'll - er - go back down." 

* 

Spike could hear the hesitancy in Wesley's movements, the slight halt of breath and heartbeat. He lowered his arms from their spread-eagle balancing pose and turned towards the other man. "Wes? Love?" 
 
Wes's shrug was half-apologetic, half-dismissive. "I think I ran out of sleep." 
 
But that wasn't it. Not really. There was something more, but Spike had learned not to push for it. Any pushing and Wes would shut up quicker and tighter than a clam. 
 
"Sorry, love... should have been there with you." Spike glanced back up at the moon and then at Wes. "Had... well... had a couple of things in my head that I needed to work out and didn't want to disturb you." 
 
The bleak look on Wes's face had Spike kicking himself. Somehow, he should have had the strength to keep it together and stay with Wes. Somehow. But he hadn't. And, more than that, he knew he hadn't. So he left Wes alone, to sleep. 
 
Spike moved closer to Wes, one hand sliding cautiously up his bare back... But there, he hesitated. "Sorry about Fred, Wes. I liked her.... a lot." 
 
He scanned the other man's face, looking for the right words, "Are we sure there's nothin' we can do?" 
 
A myriad of thoughts danced over Wes' face, chasing one another like the bedazzled after a will-o-the-wisp. "Nothing. We're sure. Illyria's - sure. Not that I would trust her, ordinarily, but --" 
 
The hand on Wes's back moved to make soothing circles. "Right... Sorry.... Know you'd have done something if you could... "  
 
Spike paused, then looked sharply at Wes. "Can't blame yourself for this, Wes. It was that god-damned bitch's fault... not yours." 
 
"But - I'm supposed to be the one with the answers. That's how Fred saw me. And there wasn't a single one I could give her...even at the end." And now the bleakness had reached his voice. Even his body seemed to shrink inward. 
 
"Might be true. Might be why she asked for you. But, love, Fred was a scientist. She knew there was no such thing as knowing ALL the bloody answers. Even the Powers that Be don't have 'em all... or they wouldn't need us!" 
 
"There wasn't any answer. I keep telling myself that. And yet....I wonder…" 
 
Spike nodded, one hand reaching out and wrapping softly around Wes' wrist, seeking and giving comfort in that simple touch. "Of course, you do, love. Wouldn't be you if you didn't…" 
 
"Don't tell me I'm something good. Not tonight." The voice was almost cracked with grief. Wes curled his own hand around Spike's wrist, fireman's grip, holding on. "I just - can't hear it right now. Can't bear to. I failed her…" 
 
"Sometimes, love, shit just happens.... It's not fate. It's not ignorance... It's just the bloody bad luck of being in the wrong place at the wrong time." Spike's head leaned onto Wes' shoulder, "You were there for her, when she needed you. You can't fix every fuckin' thing. Fred... she knew that. You have ta know it too." 
 
"And if my head would shut up and leave me alone for five blasted seconds, I might be halfway to achieving that." Wes gave his head a wry shake. "I'm poor company tonight. And you - somehow I imagined this would be one of those few times of celebration." 
 
Spike looked at him blankly... then ventured, "Because...er.... ding-dong the bitch is dead?" 
 
Wes choked on a surprised-sounding laugh, then gently reached up and tapped Spike's forehead, "Er. Yes? No? Chip?" 
 
Spike blinked.... blinked again.... Then suddenly let out a whoop and spun around laughing, his arms, once more, spread out like a giant bird of prey. 
 
The chip was gone. 
 
The chip was gone. 
 
The chip was bloody well gone!!!  
 
After his initial joy/shock/amazement back at Wolfram & Hart, he had been too tied up in concern over Wes and the guilt that the soul was hammering into his head, to really think about it. 
 
The chip was gone. 
 
An evil grin lit his face. 
 
"No more chip... I can…" He stopped, "No... well, can't very well do that can I? Couldn't get the damn thing out when I was still able to commit some mayhem, could you...? "  
 
He gave the moon, and The Powers that Be, a two fingered salute, "Bloody hell."

* 

Wesley was beginning to feel as though he were two, or perhaps three, maybe even four different people - the feelings were all too separate to be classified as different part of him, at any rate. 
 
There was the persistent, aching grief for Fred, the welter of emotions that still wanted vengeance and a chance to make things right, the sheer disbelief that such a thing could have happened and the way his mind kept shying away from the whole concept of Illyria - all coalescing into someone who didn't want to deal with anyone or anything for a few days, to go back to being the man who had hidden in an apartment amidst busy-work of badly-paid translations and tried his best to cut off all communication. 
 
That man seemed to be underlying everything he thought or said - but it didn't make any of the other people who seemed to be inhabiting his mind any less real. The calm, pragmatic version of the grief-ridden one, who had already accepted Illyria's presence, and was thinking of ways to help her, as she had requested, some part of this detached personality already making a mental list of books that might hold information, of questions that would have to be asked. 
 
The selfish, self-absorbed, self-pitying persona, who could be affected by a simple dream to such an extent that everything else was affected by it, that even the thing he knew to be real had become less so, everything tainted by the unutterable horror and despair that had infused what must have, in real time, been only a few minutes, and yet had seemed like hours of sorrow. 
 
How could his throat still be aching with the need to weep that had racked him throughout that long, surreal experience, and yet now, looking at Spike, he could feel joy and pleasure - not even for himself, but for someone else - equally strongly? 
 
It was as though he had accumulated different versions of himself from other dimensions, and brought them all together on the rooftop, left for whatever little core of him was still Wesley to try and assimilate into one coherent, cohesive being. 
 
He couldn't ignore any part of this, couldn't pretend that none of these different men existed, and yet he could not believe that all these feelings were equally valid, could be so detached and separate as to warrant such distinction. Yet they did, and he could only try and sort through them to dredge out what might be deemed acceptable - might be understood, even - and try to make something new and distinct and cogent out of the parts of each. 
 
He suspected that it was guilt which was the underlying factor in all these - the one strand that made every emotion recognisable.  
 
Guilt that he had been unable to help Fred - and that he was unable to mourn her as she deserved, because of the myriad of other factors that now surrounded her death.  
 
Guilt that he could have transferred his own feelings of worthlessness into others' mouths, even in his own subconscious, and was allowing that fear to affect him even now, as he stood awake.  
 
Guilt that he was this self-absorbed, that in all the confused attempts he had made to come to terms with the past day, he had failed to spare a single thought for all the things Spike was now having to come to terms with, and guilt that he couldn't feel anything as pure and unadulterated and simple as being pleased for him, without the underlying mess of other considerations that were distracting him. 
 
Including now. Well, hopefully, the rather absent-minded and unfocused stare he was no doubt giving at the moment could be explained away by the fact that its vague trajectory was at least on Spike, who was giving the moon - or perhaps the world in general - the traditionally British form of the finger, and apparently bemoaning the fact that he was no longer in a position to cause as much mayhem as he would have liked to. 

Considering how much he could probably have caused even with the chip, Wesley really didn't see how this was something that was of primary importance, but a good step forward from - or rather out of - this damnable self absorption would be to at least try and get what remained of his frazzled brain into vaguely the same place as wherever Spike's had been for the last few hours. 
 
"Oh - mayhem," he said wryly, not quite dismissing the concept, as such, but certainly trying to imply that it was a fairly secondary consideration, what with everything else that had happened recently. "Well, I suppose you still could..." 
 
Spike turned around and looked at him, his face more serious that Wesley would have expected, given the circumstances. Whatever had happened for each of them that day, it had ensured with a strange kind of precision that every attempt they were making to be even remotely on the same page was failing miserably. 
 
"No..." he said at last, "I couldn't. What... what I did today was... bad. Not in a 'she didn't deserve to die' way... but more...." he paused, looking for words, and Wesley remained silent, knowing that anything he offered was bound to be either just off-kilter enough to stop this train of thought reaching whatever conclusion Spike needed it to, or so wrong as to change the subject completely. At last, he continued "...more like... 'If I did that... what else might I do?'" 
 
Well, that was, of course, a consideration. It was a consideration that most people had to deal with every day of their lives - and was certainly one that anybody who had to deal with the less savoury aspects of life - be it demonic or just the seamier side of humanity - was forced to inwardly debate on an alarmingly frequent basis. 
 
Of course, Wesley thought, with a sudden shock of realisation, this was not exactly true in Spike's case. He had been made to come to terms, with horrible and unwanted immediacy, with what he had done, what he had been capable of - but he had never been made to factor into the equation of the soul what could be. The chip had removed any such approximation to free will before that had ever been something to take into account - and it was only now that it was even something he was going to have to think about. 
 
It was really damnably unfair that the sudden opening up of that new realm of possibility had co-incided with Lilah's death at Spike's hands - he had been given no time to consider possibilities, simply being presented - yet again - with a brutally unavoidable instance of capability and capacity. Most other people were at least given time to dwell on this in theory, before the irreversible step of yes, I can, and I will, and sometimes it's right, had to be taken. 
 
And really, while it might have been something that Wesley had made himself consider, when he had begun thinking about the chip's removal, there was no reason that Spike should have even begun to start thinking about all the different avenues this was going to open up. 
 
Spike was looking down at the roof top, obviously contemplating the most obvious turn Wesley's thoughts could have taken - and really, he was going to have to start saying things aloud fairly soon, because otherwise they were in for on long, and avoidable dose of misunderstanding. "Never hurt you, Wes... Know that, don't you?" 
 
Wesley didn't even have to stop to think about that one. "Good God, of course I know that!" Perhaps his quickness in responding wasn't as reassuring as it might have been, implying, perhaps, a lack of thought on his part, but really, of all the things he had even briefly worried about, that had never been on the list. More thoughtfully, he continued, "As to the rest...well...welcome to the world of a conscience. I would have killed her. And taken pleasure in it. What else does that make me capable of? What are any of us truly capable of, at the end of the day?" 

* 

"That's just it, Wes... being capable... not the same. I have done those things in the past... Done them with joy and a smile on my face. Don't want to... ever again."  
 
When Wes replied it was with utter conviction, "Then you won't. Not like that." 
 
Yeah… like it was that simple. Or could it be that simple? 
 
Spike frowned, considering. Was that all it would take… just deciding that he wouldn't do any of those things again? Somehow it didn't seem right.  
 
His lip twitched slightly. But what a laugh it would be on Angel… 100 years of angst and rat-eating and all it really took was a bit of will-power.  
 
Well, will-power and someone who cared.  
 
Spike looked back at Wes, "You can't know that, Wes. I don't even know it…" 
 
He reached out to take Wes' wrist again... that feeling, still a comfort, "Come on, love. You're starting to pebble up…" He ran his hand over the goosebumps on Wes' arms. "Bit chilly out here." 
 
Spike took off his duster and draped it over Wes' shoulders, helping him to shrug into it. 
 
"I wonder how many candles Mr. Pak left…" Wes allowed the subject to be changed for the moment. "Perhaps we should have had him install a dreamcatcher as well." 
 
"Don't need one.... I'll be there from now on.... Chase away all the bad dreams." Spike suddenly quirked a smile. "And I'll bite 'em.…" 
 
Wes smiled. "Hard, I devoutly trust." 
 
"Yeah... rip their throats out... and give you their hearts as a gift…" Spike smirked and then quirked his lips. "Can I do that to Harris?" 
 
Wes spoke dryly, "No, we may need him for something. At some point."  
 
Spike pouted, "Damn…" 
 
Well, he'd have to learn to deal with Harris since, it seemed, that Mr. Pak had moved him right in. It would be alright. Somehow. The little git had been helpful to him… got right home and told Spike what he needed to know. And, Spike admitted, Xander had handled himself pretty well once they'd gotten to Wolfram & Hart. 
 
"Think he'll stay?"  
 
Wes shrugged, "I've asked. But really it's up to him." 
 
Spike nodded slowly, "Not much to keep him here, I guess. Just want you to, ya know, have someone else you can depend on. Some one who can be there if I go… looney." 
 
Wes scowled at him. "What? Wait, wait, what?" 
 
"Uh… I mean, well…" Spike returned the scowl. "Damn it, Wes. You know what I mean." 
He began pacing, frowning. "No good this way... Not fair to you.... Can't expect you to keep babying me whenever I do something that gives me guilt twinges…" 
 
"I'm sorry." Wes spoke in his driest tones. "I missed all that babying I was doing, given that I - oh, let me think - didn't even manage to get undressed by myself. I obviously missed something.…" 
 
Spike paced left, "Didn't mean tonight, did I?" He paced right, "Just... damn it, Wes. 'M tired of this... " He paced back to the left, "Tired of you having ta drag me out of the crazies. Gettin' better, but it's just not damn fast enough…" 
 
"I know you're tired of - of things. I get tired of all those blasted tablets you insist I finish. Healing's - never fast enough. As soon as you're well enough to want it, you're well enough for it to make you want to spit with how slow it is." Wes shrugged. "It's been the sort of day to make insecurity into a national pastime. And by that I meant for me. I came up here because...you were here. Or I thought you might be. Not because I thought - I just - it was a rotten bloody day all round, you know?" 
 
"I know…" Spike stalked away again, then looked down off the edge of the roof. When he spoke again it was softly, his voice almost drowned out by a passing car. "Scared me, love... so much.…" 
 
"I'm sorry." Wes went after him, unsure if he'd be rebuffed, but put his arms loosely around Spike's waist, almost, but not quite, leaning in. "I really am." 
 
Spike put one arm around Wes, but didn't look at him. "Hate when I can't protect you... Couldn't even leave the bloody apartment.... " 
 
"There are many ways of protecting someone. You - gave me something to hold onto. I'm not sure I had that, before. Actually, I'm sure I didn't." 
 
"Gonna hold on to you forever, Wes…" Spike suddenly stopped, caught himself. "I mean, well, as long as you'll let me." 

* 

Each time he thought that he had truly learnt humility, Wesley was discovering that this was not, in fact, the case. He knew, of course, that there was a world of difference between self-deprecation and a true appreciation of proportion, but it seemed recently that each time he felt that he had a handle on where he stood, he was fated to be shaken out of his assumptions yet again. 
 
He wanted to be logical. He wanted to say all the things he knew to be true - that he would age, that he could not promise anything near to forever, that all he could offer was by its very nature ephemeral. He wanted to remind Spike that there were some things he would never be able to promise, or to give, that the passage of time would take such desire from them both - but he could not. 
 
Astounding though it might be - unbelievable though it might be - Spike meant what he said. Wesley knew both from first-hand accounts and from his reading that while the concept of love and loyalty was supposed to be completely alien to a soulless vampire, it had never been so for Spike. In many ways, his soul was a drawback, not an addition, giving him doubts as to what he was capable of in areas where there should never have been any. 
 
That this capacity should be turned on him was startling, overwhelming, utterly incredible - but not something he could either dismiss or explain away. It was there - an irrefutable and almost overawing fact, but nonetheless, a fact, and logic and reason paled into insignificance before it. 
 
"For as long as you want," he managed from somewhere, his only way of reconciling the two things he knew to be true - the inevitability of time's passage and his own longing for that 'forever'. Innate caution made him add - "I never claimed to think I can be enough, you know..." 
 
Because if he heard time's footsteps at his back, how much more clearly would Spike be able to hear them, given long enough to think? But the scowl he was receiving now was one of pure disbelief, and he realised that, yet again, he had miscalculated. 
 
"Enough?" Spike demanded, now glaring at him. "You don't think you're enough? Bloody hell, love. What do you consider enough, then?" 
 
And that was what it came down to, in the end, wasn't it? That he couldn't be. That he hadn't been. That the one thing his odd dream had got right was that he failed, each and every time, and sooner or later, Spike was going to see that. "Someone who - is," he tried, knowing even as he fumbled for the right words with which to explain that he wasn't succeeding in conveying what he meant. "Who can find the answers. Who isn't so bloody pathetic!" Because, no matter what anyone said, that was what he was there for - to find the answers. And if he could no longer even rely on that - then what was there left to him? 
 
Certainly not a capacity for explanation, it would seem, because all his attempt at putting into words what seemed completely obvious to him had achieved was to make Spike step back and start up once more with his irate pacing. 
 
"Is that what the bloody fuck you think? That I would love someone who's pathetic? Gods, Wes.... You are so far from pathetic that you embarrass me. I'm a master vampire... and I turn to you for support." 
 
Oh. 

"No," Wesley began, haltingly, "no, that's not what I -" He stopped, and snorted, thinking about how completely lunatic he must sound, given the circumstances. "Well, when you put it like that...but - I worry. I'm -" He stopped again, scrubbing his hands over his face, desperately looking for the right words. "Sometimes I'm too damn fallible, even to bear it myself. And then...I'm so very tired of disappointing people." 
 
Spike stopped in front of him, raising one hand to his cheek as though to reinforce what he was saying. "You're human, Wes," he said, and didn't that make a mockery of everything he was afraid of? If he could truly be accepted, flaws and all, then - he shook his mind firmly away from that, and forced himself to focus on what Spike was saying. "And you've never disappointed me." He smiled a bit crookedly at that. "Scared the fuck out of me a time or two... " 
 
Yes, Wesley rather imagined that was true, especially given - "That's not the sole preserve of humanity, by the way..." he proffered, his mouth beginning to tilt upwards. 
 
He should have been used to responses that were not what he was expecting, by now, but somehow the bewilderment factor at the routes Spike's mind could take never got less. 
 
"Yeah... sure I've screwed up and disappointed you lots of times, Wes. Know of one big time at least...." 
 
Well, if he did, it was more than Wesley knew about. 
 
"I meant the scaring me, you ass!" he snapped straight back, because God, how could Spike even think that he had meant anything else? "You have never, never even come close to screwing up. And God - disappoint me? Not the adjective I'd choose. Ever." 
 
"Must have done... or you...." Whatever it is that Wesley hadn't, or had, or should have done was let drop, Spike obviously uncomfortable with whatever it was. "And I don't mean ta scare you, love. Just not used to holding back... worrying about me.... Or someone else doing it..." 
 
No, well, in that, at least, they were alike. And Wesley might, all previous vows to himself aside, still have problems saying the actual words, but he could damn well try to convey what he meant to the best of his somewhat lacking ability. "As I told you...it comes with the territory. Worrying, caring, I don't know...giving a damn as to what happens? All part of the same package. And wait. I haven't gone deaf. What do you mean, you must have done? How? What have I missed?" 
 
It was obviously something that made Spike completely unable to look him in the eye, whatever it might have been. Wesley held onto his temper with some effort, and waited. 
 
"Told you I wanted you... anything you could give me... Would do whatever it took…Didn't want it, did you? Pulled away from me. Sorry... sorry... Shouldn't bring it up now. You came back." The last words said more clearly than any other explanation could have that this had been more than enough for him, but nonetheless, it left Wesley stunned. 
 
He had assumed that those words had been born of his monumental failure to do anything but act on what he had wanted, another tally on the chart of mistakes he had made. 
 
In a sense, they were. Because they had, God forgive him, been meant, and he had been to absorbed in his own folly to realise it. 
 
"I. You. Oh, dear God...." He dropped his head onto Spike's shoulder and mumbled, in a mixture of embarrassment and far-too-belated realisation, "I think I may, just, quite possibly, have completely misunderstood something...." 

* 

<