Prayers To Broken Stone

The bedroom was littered with detritus - blood, towels, paper and bodies…. 
 
At least the bodies were alive, more or less. Xander - snoring and in an uncomfortable looking position, on the floor and slumped against the wall, bottle of water clutched in one hand, the other flung out at an awkward angle. Spike - his feet bandaged and taped as if he were a mummy and not a vampire, curled up in corner, on his side, Wes' pillow still pulled tight against him as if it would give him protection, one hand wrapped around Xander's out flung wrist.  
 
It was the only place they were touching, but it spoke volumes in terms of desperation. 
 
"Xander…. Spike…." Wes spoke their names… softly and hollowly, not wanting to startle them. 
 
Xander came awake with a startled snort, blinking owlishly. "Oh, uh… hey, Wes." 
 
His tone was contrite, apologetic.  
 
"About last night. I was drunk and --" Before he could get any further he was interrupted by an anguished yelp and the blur of a spring-loaded vampire flinging himself at Wesley. 
 
Fortunately, Wes managed to brace himself just in time, as Spike slammed up against his chest, wrapping his arms tight around his waist and burying his face in Wesley's neck.  
 
"Came back… came back… came back…" the words were not an unexpected mantra. Also, not unexpected, a quick flurry of hands as the vampire ran them over him, checking, he assumed, for any injury.  
 
"Back and safe…" the words were a satisfied sigh against his neck as Spike resumed his previous position. 
 
"Yes… rather…" But Wes' tone was bleak and dark. 
 
"Uh, Wes…. What, exactly, happened to Spike?" Xander's tone was cautious, "Because, I'm thinking that this is something more than he missed you…" 
 
"Yes, much more…" Wes told him, wrapping his arms around Spike, "…and I'll explain it all to you. If you could just…. Give us a few moments of privacy?" 
 
"Yeah… sure…" Xander answered with a nod, edging his way towards the door. "I'll just…uh… wait out here." 
 
Wes waited until the door was closed behind him before turning back to Spike. "I'm here and I'm fine… everything's fine." 
 
Spike nuzzled into his neck, taking deep draughts, relishing the essence that was Wes - bookbinding, tea and gunpowder… 
 
He suddenly froze. No there was something else… something not right.  
 
His body tensed and he looked up at Wes, his eyes large and hurt looking. That perfume… he recognized it. 
 
"Oh, god… oh, god…." he pushed away for a moment… "You can't. You… aren't staying are you? Should have known… should have known. Not good enough... never will be." 
 
"No, Spike… I…" But Wes couldn't find the words. 
 
But then Spike was back, tight against him… hands rubbing over him, touching, stroking, "Don't go… please don't go… Do whatever you want… Anything… Take whatever you have to give… Make you feel good, Wes. Know I can… Just… just don't go…."  

*

Wesley had truly thought that he had managed to seal himself off from allowing himself to feel anything more about what he had done. Once he had worked out how Xander had been able to pinpoint all the still-healing rawnesses of his recent past with such appalling accuracy, that it had been nothing Spike had, or would have, said, he had been under no illusions as to the effect his leaving would have had. 
 
Or rather, he had drawn on his evidently limited experience to make a few guesses as to the effect. 
 
His new mode of behaviour had seemed simplistic and obvious to him as he stood in the shower room. To detach himself, to explain, to point out that with his evident failings he could not be the man he had so briefly allowed to emerge before Xander's arrival. There were, after all, more important things that he should be doing - things that would, in the end, be of more benefit. 
 
The prophecy, the codexes, the business - these were supposed to be his focus. Not how he felt, not what he wanted, not what he had managed to ensure he would lose. 
 
He was a failed Watcher, with all that entailed - and he had determined that he was going to behave as such, with all the reserve his role required. He had to do the right thing - had to be able to keep on doing it - and if that meant closing himself back into the things he knew, into the way he had been trained to behave, then so be it. 
 
But Spike's desperation proved to him that he had not managed to close himself off completely, that the ice his father had taught him to encase himself in was obviously not yet present, because how else could the feeling that an icicle had been driven straight into his heart be explained? 
 
Do whatever you want… Anything… Take whatever you have to give… 
 
It hadn't been real, then. The joy he was trying to convince himself he could never have had never even existed in the first place. It had all been an attempt to pay him back with the one thing experience had told Spike was the only thing he had to offer - the one thing Wesley should never have taken, however badly he may have wanted it, however well he had deluded himself that they both wanted it, this was the truth. 
 
Make you feel good, Wes. Know I can… Just… just don't go…. 
 
It had been payment, and something inside Wesley screamed once, short and sharp, in horrified denial, before he pushed it all away, blocking out the absolute revulsion he felt towards himself with his training, forcing himself to control his voice before he spoke. 
 
"I'm not going anywhere," he said firmly, stilling Spike's movements against him as best he could. "I live here, and I work here, and I'm not going anywhere. Please...stop." 
 
And Spike did, looking at him with far-too-sane eyes now, comprehension dawning. 
 
"Yeah," he said eventually, stepping back, and Wesley forced himself not to close his eyes against the pain in that one word, willing himself not to crumble beneath it, not to explain and beg forgiveness, to stay in his self-imposed isolation and let this inevitability continue. "Got it." 
 
Wesley nodded, once, and went into the bathroom, locking the door for the first time in weeks, stripping off his clothes with shaking hands and turning on the water. 
 
It seemed appropriate that it was cold. And at least the sound drowned out any noise he might be making as he finally allowed the last twelve hours to catch up with him, the tears in his eyes feeling as though they were boiling his skin as he held his face up to the cold water and washed everything he had felt away into evaporation. 
 
He pulled on the closest things to hand in the airing cupboard - an old sweater and jeans - and stuffed the once-favourite t-shirt and jeans from the night before into one of the laundry bags, moving out into the living room and forestalling Xander with one upraised hand. 
 
"I'll be back in a minute," he said calmly, and went out into the going to-be garden, and the incinerator that Mr Pak had got going to remove the rubbish. 
 
He stood over it for a long time, but even above the smell of scorching fabric and accelerant, he thought he could still smell Lilah's perfume. 
 
He rubbed his hand over the scar on his neck, realising, now that it was no longer surrounded by stubble, just how bad it was. It seemed appropriate, that now people would avert their eyes from him as they should from what he had become inside, that he carried a warning on his skin that reflected what he was capable of. 
 
A quel dinanzi il mordere era nulla 
verso 'l graffiar, che talvolta la schiena 
rimanea de la pelle tutta brulla. 
 
He had always thought that this meant literally. He had never believed he would be alive, be made to function and focus, to try and do what was right, while all the time, his actions became in themselves the teeth and claws of Dante's hell, and tore at what was left of his soul. 
 
Wesley stared into the glowing embers of his newly-discovered betrayal, and wondered whether true hell could ever be as unendurable.  

*

So… this was it. A few scant hours of happiness and perfection… and then the rest of eternity stretched out before him like a long unbroken plain. No affection… no caring - just overwhelming guilt and a sense of uselessness. 
 
Spike didn't want it to be this way. He'd tried to explain it to Wes. Tried to tell him that he'd take whatever crumbs Wes would give him and give Wes whatever he would take in return - Blood, body, brain… everything Spike had he offered to Wes. 
 
No good. Wes didn't want it. He wanted what? That lawyer bint? Spike wasn't sure… but Wes had gone to her. Found comfort in her that he had not been able to supply. 
 
It hurt… pain so deep that every movement ached from it. 
 
But… still… as much as he cared for Wes, he wanted him to be happy. And if that meant…. Lilah… then he'd just have to… deal with it. 
 
Deal with it somehow… and find someway to stay connected to reality, to function without having Wes to anchor him. Or…take himself away for the times when it got too bad. Just couldn't bear to put that on the bloke anymore.  
 

*

XANDER'S JOURNAL 
 
Well, here I am… in Los Angeles…. The City of the Queen of the Angels if you want the complete translation. And the city of Angel. 
 
That was, after all, the reason I came here. Although, of course, being Xander Harris, nothing ever really works out the way I plan.  
 
After I lost my eye to Caleb, I tried to do whatever I could to be useful. I agreed to Buffy's plan to take Dawn away from Sunnydale for her own good, even if it felt like a betrayal. Not a betrayal of Buffy… but of myself. I needed to be there. Needed to help. But, well, if Buffy felt it was more important for me to take Dawn away… then I'd take Dawn away. And I did… only, of course, it didn't work out that way. Dawn used a taser, shocked the living hell out of me and drove us right back home while I was unconscious. 
 
I had failed. Failed Buffy. Failed Dawn. And, as Anya was quick to point out… it was no surprise, really, because I wasn't what I used to be. 
 
So I waited. Did what I could do. What they would allow me to do. And then… I decided. If I couldn't help… I would find help for them. I got in my car and drove straight through to L.A. to the big old Gosh awful hotel that Angel was living in. I over came my dislike of the big…. Goober.. For Buffy's sake… and the sake of all the Slayer's in Training. I laid it on the line to him. Asked for help…. No… I fuckin' begged for it. For something… anything… that might make a difference.  
 
I don't know what I thought he'd do. Go charging to the rescue or some shit, I guess.  
 
He did nothing. Offered nothing. Pretty much gave me a pat on the head and told me that if Buffy needed him, she knew where to find him.  
 
Fucking asshole. 
 
But there it was. I'd failed again. Humiliated myself… and still a failure. That was about the time I decided to hit the first bar. A sports bar on the ground floor of the Holiday Inn. That's where I met the people I spent the rest of the evening with - bar hopping. Well… until I lost them and found Mr. Pak. 
 
I have to admit… I don't remember a whole lot of details about that night. Not sure how I wound up in front of that store… or exactly what I said to Wes. I know it was bad. Bad and nasty and evil… all ground together into an unpleasant brain vomit that sent Wes out into the night… Spike chasing after him barefooted, while I managed nothing more than passing out on their ugly-assed sofa. 
 
Woke up, not much later… Wes was still gone, and Spike? Well there is a very long story there… lets just say that he was pretty much… er…bug-fuggin' crazy. 
 
I managed to get him settled down… got the glass out of his feet… but it wasn't easy. It took a lot of gentle talking and reassurances…. Which is sooo something I never would, in a million year, have thought I would have to do. 
 
Wes is back now. He came home the next day… but things aren't quite right. I'm not sure what it is… but Wes has been acting strange. ((More on this later.)) 
 
Wes came home and…well… Spike seemed more than happy to see him. Kind, almost, threw himself at Wes and actually frisked him to see that he wasn't injured. I excused myself at that point… left them alone and waited out in the living room.  
 
A few minutes later, Wes came back with a bag of … something… and disappeared down the stairs. When he came back, he smelled kinda like…well… I guess like he'd been burning something. And what does he do next? He launches into some crazy disjointed discussion of the weather, and scrawls away on a note pad. 
 
It didn't take me long to figure out what was going on once I saw what he had written in large clear letters: APARTMENT IS BUGGED. 
 
I blinked, then wrote in answer: AUDIO ONLY? 
 
Wes nodded. Then we both started to work, looking for the device. 
 
There were 5 actually… which I would have thought was a bit overkill for such a small apartment, but what the hell. Two in the living room, a separate one on the phone, one in the bedroom and one in the bath room. Sad day when a guy can't use the john in privacy. 
 
"Good bye, Lilah." Wes spoke into the last one and then seemed to take great delight in smashing each of them. He flushed the remains down the toilet. 
 
Wes seemed to relax a bit after that, although we did go into the kitchen while we talked… and turned on the water for white noise… just in case. 
 
And what he had to tell me? Well… you could have knocked me over with a feather.  
 
SPIKE HAS A SOUL.  
 
Okay… even looking at that written out is just too wiggy. 
 
Not only does he have a soul, but he went and got it himself….on purpose. Even more wiggy… 
 
It does explain a lot though. See… Spike's having these bouts of craziness… Well… more like guilt so overwhelming that his mind ((and, I guess, his soul)) can't handle it. He pretty much loses touch with everything. It's kind of odd though. I mean, with Angel it was always, "That wasn't me… it was Angelus who did all the bad stuff." With Spike it's "I did all that bad stuff… and I'm shit…. But I want to, somehow, work at making up for it." Somehow I can deal with that better. Oh, not that I've forgiven him for the things he's done…. I can just… well… it's different. 
 
The weird thing is… as bizarre as Spike's behaviour gets at those times… it's Wes that I'm really worried about at the moment. He's been acting… well… strange. Like he's there, but not there - detached. He's not really eating…. Barely sleeping… and he's gone a lot of the time. Patrolling, he says, but I've seen the weapons he picks to take with him and they aren't for demons.  
 
The way he's acting is having some odd effect on Spike too. I don't know where he was sleeping before… but now he's got this big nest in the corner of the bedroom…. All pillows and blankets and a few books. And he's watching Wes all the time… like if he doesn't, Wes will disappear. And somehow, I think that would be very bad for Spike. Well, not that disappearing would do Wes any good either… but I think, somehow, it would make Spike go the rest of the way over into Wackyland… on a permanent basis. 
 
Just hope that… well… whatever is going on with Wes that he fixes it soon. There's enough misery in the world without this. 

*

Wesley was dealing with the new circumstances to the best of his abilities - which in some cases were really not too bad, and in other instances, he was forced to realise, were woefully inadequate and probably suggested, even to a casual bystander, that he would benefit from an extended holiday somewhere with nicely padded walls and bars on the windows. 
 
Fortunately, Xander was too absorbed in whatever-it-was that had brought him to LA in the first place to be overly intrusive as to what Wesley was actually doing, and Spike... 
 
Wesley stopped his thoughts from going any further down that path. His only way of even vaguely coping with Spike at the moment was to absent himself as often and for as long as possible. At least that might demonstrate that he had every intention of continuing to return...even if it involved little or no communication when he was present. 
 
The routines he had fallen into had become additional torture to him in their simple lack of continuance. It was not that he had expected that they would continue to share a bed - he could no longer be trusted, after all, and he didn't blame Spike in the slightest for not wanting to be too close to him - but with Xander still occupying the couch, Spike had evidently decided that even having to be in the same room as Wesley was a better idea than trying to get any sleep whatsoever in the living room. 
 
Xander, after all, was very much living on ordinary human time - Wesley emerged from his unsleeping attempts to convince the world he was actually getting some rest to find him very much awake and either watching television or doing something Wesley had left him written instructions about the night before, and returned from his trips out to find Xander already asleep. 
 
It was oddly reassuring - in a way that Spike's silent observation of him was decidedly not. Every moment that Wesley spent in the flat, he found himself wanting to say something, to explain himself - to ask for an understanding and forgiveness he was damn sure he didn't deserve. After all, he hadn't the excuse of lacking a soul - or even days of incomprehensible treatment - to push him to the point he had reached. He had simply failed them both, and would have to live with the results. 
 
It became easier to live in the university library, to doctor his outdated pass and pose as a doctorate student. Surprisingly, no-one questioned him, either the books he brought with him, the ones he ordered up from the stacks, or the long hours he stayed at whatever desk he could find. Perhaps it was because he had made no attempt to stake a claim on any particular area of the library - he was quite happy to work on the floor by one of the windows, if no table space was available - but really, he spent very little time trying to work out why they accepted him so easily, and was simply grateful for the quiet it provided. 
 
It was the exhaustion that seemed to permeate his every bone, aching and dragging at him, that was the hardest thing to maintain his defences against. Once or twice, he had come back from his research tired enough to believe he could sleep - but the sight of Spike, curled up in the corner, to all intents and purposes asleep himself, inevitably banished all ability he had to let himself fall even into a doze. More than anything, on those few occasions, he had wanted to crawl into the nest of blankets and pillows and books himself, to talk about what he was doing as he had been able to do in recent weeks, to get Spike's opinions and ideas and take some of the thrumming out of his brain... 
 
To stop being alone. To fall asleep knowing that there was someone in the world who gave a damn as to whether he was there or not, to feel Spike's fingers around his wrist, so that he was aware of his own continuing pulse... 
 
On those nights, he went back out, down to the emerging garden, and worked until he was drained even of thought, sitting by what was going to be a fountain, one day, leaning with his back against the cool stone, and wishing to God that it would all just stop. 

Xander, perhaps realising that the only chance he was ever going to have of getting a reasonable meal around the flat was to do the shopping himself, had demanded the key to the petty cash from Wesley on the second day after his arrival - and Wesley, shrugging, had given it to him. 
 
"Wes - seriously, there's nothing to do here but take phonecalls and look through books for whatever random fact you or Spike want. Is it always like this?" 
 
Wesley had shaken his head, thinking of the times he had taken cases on, knowing himself able to be effective, which he decidedly was not at the moment - he didn't even want to think of how quickly he would lose in any contest that required physical focus. He had managed to maintain his detachment, however, saying only, 
 
"No. Sometimes it isn't nearly as exciting," and very obviously considering that to be the end of the conversation. 
 
The thing was, Xander helped. Wesley no longer had to worry about keeping everything going while he tried to get the research part of things done...and he was sure that Spike was benefiting from having him around, as well, since while Wesley left and found him in the same place, the work was getting done. 
 
Of course, that meant that when he encountered Xander during times when they were both awake and coherent, he had to endure his theories on the provenance of Mr Pak, who, along with most of Wesley's kitchen appliances, had somehow got Xander convinced that he was a demon. 
 
With some difficulty, Wesley kept the impatience out of his voice, and wondered if he could escape the flat before Spike got up. "Xander, while I accept LA is, indeed, full of demons, let me reassure you on two points. The members of the community include neither the couch nor Mr Pak." 
 
Neither his obvious irritation nor his dismissal of the topic seemed to have any effect on Xander, who continued to try to prove his theory. "But the couch.... The couch is evil. Really... It bit me last night... and in a terribly sensitive spot, I might add." 
 
 
Wesley resisted the temptation to roll his eyes - barely. He reminded himself that Xander had made the very strong coffee he was drinking, and that it wouldn't be very grateful of him to yell 'Shut up!' in response. Still, sarcasm, surely, was allowed. "Right...perhaps you would feel better if you exorcised it? Feel free. Really. I always find that covering something in wax and holy water improves its comfort level." 
 
Xander huffed, then gave in - unwillingly. "Okay.... I do a gimme on the couch... but I still think Mr. Pak is a demon. A good demon... but...Is that even possible?" 

Wesley did roll his eyes at that. How long had Xander lived in Sunnydale? He had dated a former demon, for God's sake - he really couldn't still be this ignorant. "Yes, Xander," he said wearily, wondering how he got into these conversations, and feeling very, very old, "of course it's possible. But Mr Pak isn't one of them. He's just a very - and believe me, I emphasise the very - strange old man." 
 
Xander seemed utterly sincere, though. "Yeah... but he knows stuff, Wes. I was down in the store and just searching for the Weetabix... and he just walks right up and hands them to me without me saying a word. He knew I was looking for them... Don't you think that's kinda strange?" 
 
Wesley thought about Mr Pak's normal method of behaviour, and decided that it sounded pretty much the same as usual, really. Perhaps living here for two years had immunised him, but - compared to an unexpected delivery of blood, it was really rather mundane. "For Mr Pak? No." He frowned, wondering at why Xander, who as far as he could tell, lived on anything with a high sugar content, would be trying to find Weetabix. "Who eats Weetabix, anyway?" 
 
It was Xander's turn to frown now - but at him, his expression oddly disapproving. "Spike does.... Or did. I just thought... well... nothing.. never mind..." 
 
One day, Wesley told himself grimly, one day, this was going to stop hurting. It was going to be bearable, it was no longer going to feel like grief, it was just something he had to endure until it stopped being so damned painful. "No, that's -" For the life of him, he couldn't think of an intelligible reply, and he started to gather his things together, ready to make his escape. "Yes. Yes. I - well. I...need to go." 
 
Apparently, his response had not impressed Xander in the slightest. "Yeah.... of course... because that's all you ever do...." 
 
Not now! Wesley thought desperately, even as he heard his voice, dry and calmly detached, answer, "I can't see that my staying here to work will be of any value." 
 
Xander met him with equal sarcasm. "No... no... of course not. And the fact that you almost flinch whenever I say Spike's name , well, that's of no value either...." 
 
God, Wesley hated his ability to catch him on the raw every single time...hated this life, hated what he had to be, how he had to act - hated everything. "And I think, none of your business?" he snapped, picking up his bag, and left. 
 
Working in the library was almost impossible that day. It was an Open Day for prospective students, for one thing, and the fact that Wesley's thoughts were behaving remarkably like a hamster on a wheel was doing nothing whatsoever to aid his concentration. 
 
By eight in the evening, he had given it up as a bad job, and was on his way back, hoping, against all previous experience had taught him, that if he worked late in the garden, he would be able to get some sleep for once. 

* 

It was becoming a regular night time habit for Spike. The very moment the sun set he was out the door, tracking Wes. At first, it was from some sense of self punishment; he expected to be lead to that Morgan bint, eventually, and let that pain, once more burn him. But as the night's passed and that never happened, he grew more and more confused… and despondent. If Wes had preferred someone else… well, that would hurt, but Spike would deal with it. But if there were no one else, things were less complex… and very much more painful. That would mean that Wes simply did not want him - no matter who else was in the world. 
 
But still he followed Wes through the night… charming his way past the University's librarian some nights… or waiting outside, if his mental state was not stable enough for charm. 
 
Then, when Wes called it a night and headed back towards the apartment, Spike rushed ahead, slipped inside and into his "nest" before Wes returned. 
 
His days were more austere and more frustrating. He rose after Wes left… choked down some blood… and then worked on translations until his eyes and back ached and Xander finally stole his pen and gave him a very bad cup of tea. The boy had been amazingly civil to him… but, of course, they were still avoiding the whole Buffy subject. It made Spike wonder exactly how badly the other Scoobies had treated the boy… to make staying in residence with his old enemy a palatable choice. 
 
After working until he couldn't see straight, he'd try to sleep, but it was never restful - filled with ramblings and nightmares that Xander had often, thankfully, interrupted. It seemed the only decent sleep Spike got was after Wes came in and collapsed for the night… the warm, familiar scent of him, lulling the vampire into sleep, even from across the room. 
 
It was now day ten of their stand-off. Day ten of heartache and backache, bad tea and silence. Day ten of little sleep, little food, and avoidance so strong that the stench of it burned Spike's nostrils.  
 
Spike needed to make a decision, but it all hurt so damned much. 
 
So much that when Wes left the library early that evening Spike didn't even bother to rush to beat him home. Wasn't like Wes would even notice his absence. Hell, Wes could barely look at him, even when he was pretending to be asleep. If Spike purposely caught his eye, Wes flinched back like the gaze would burn him. It was almost as bad as a stake to his heart, every time he saw it. 
 
It was making his decision just that much easier. Just that much more imperative. 
 
That evening, Spike arrived home after Wes. He came into the building through the store front and was heading towards the stairs when Mr. Pak flagged him down. 
 
"Spike. We've done so much to the garden, your Wes and I." The elderly man grinned at him. "You should go look and enjoy it - Envision how it will be when we finish." 
 
"Yeah… I'll take a look. Need a smoke before I go up anyway." Spike didn't have the heart to tell Mr. Pak that envisioning would probably be the only way he'd see it completed. 
 
He went down the back steps and looked around, casually. In spite of what Mr. Pak had said, he knew that most of the physical labour had been done by Wes. He'd watched him every night, from the shadows. Wes was good at this - almost as good as he was with his books.  
 
The moon was bright and full and Spike reached the bottom of the steps, leaning down to pluck a bit of mint leaf out of one of the seedling trays. He crushed it between his fingers and breathed in the aroma.  
 
Yeah… that was what he'd smelled on Wes last night… that bright, sharp scent. Spike held the leaf close, as if memorizing it. 
 
Suddenly, there was a shift of movement off to his left, and a quick inhalation of breath. It was Wes. 
 
"Oh… Spike." Wes cleared his throat… and then he shifted as if the metal in his spine had just hardened into rebar. "I was just going." 
 
"No, Wes." Spike spoke softly. "I'm the one who's going." 
 
That got some reaction, at least. Spike wasn't sure what kind of reaction - good or bad - but it was better than the dead air and silence they'd been living with. 
 
"I just wanted to give you these." Spike pulled his keys out of his pocket and sat them down on the steps, not trusting himself to get any closer to Wes. "I'll have all my stuff ready and out by tomorrow evening when the sunsets." 
 
Spike rushed ahead, afraid that if he didn't, the words would get stuck and he'd never get them said. "I just want what's best for you, Wes. Know you don't love me. Know you couldn't. But I just can't live in between anymore. It hurts too fuckin' much. I can't do…this. I'd rather live with rats than a block of ice. Can't take the cold, Wes. Never could." 
 
He forced himself to look up at Wes… wanting at least one last look at the man with his face lit by moonlight. It was something he'd have to hold on to.  

* 

Wesley had been working, with Mr Pak's 'help', on getting the ornamental grating for the fountain pipes installed. It was beautifully wrought iron, mimicked by the little pieces of exquisite metalwork that kept appearing in odd corners, presumably belonging to Mr Pak's family, rather than purchased recently. The rent was nowhere near extortionate enough for the old man to be able to afford the things, even if the supermarket did do trade in things that the taxman would probably not know how, let alone where to bracket. 
 
He thought Mr Pak was trying to help in some way, making him look at the intricacy that went into even nail covers, telling him what each thing symbolised, making him focus on each minute change that he made. And ten days ago, Wesley would have cared, would have looked for the meaning in all the little details, would have looked up exactly what power was being channelled into what he was being steered no-so-subtly into creating. 
 
But he was past caring, now, his mind too tired and aching to make sense out of anything, even Mr Pak's incredibly unsubtle hints that he should talk. He didn't think he could talk, anyway - everything seemed not so much to have dried up as simply faded into a twilight non-existence, a pointless, dragging unhappiness that wasn't even worth putting words to.  
 
He just hurt, and he wasn't even sure how, only that everything seemed too great an effort to try to make sense of any more, too vast a chasm between what he did and how he felt to overcome with thought or speech. 
 
He picked up one of the little nail covers, and looked at it, letting one finger nail trace around the lines and swirls, turning it into the half-lit patches that the moon created amidst the almost-garden. It was nearly beautiful. Even he could appreciate that, but it was as though he was being told by someone who knew more, knew better, that this was how it was, and so he should think it. He didn't feel anything respond at all, not even a faint satisfaction at knowing how much of it he had helped to bring out of the forgotten debris. 
 
He had no idea how long he stood, turning the little thing over and over between his fingers, wondering what it meant, wondering if anything would ever mean anything again, when he became aware that someone else was in the garden. Spike. 
 
He was turning over a mint leaf in his hand much as Wesley had been playing with the nail-cover a moment before, but breathing in the aroma, holding it close to crush the scents into the night air, and Wesley caught his breath on a sudden, surprising twist of real pain, replacing the dead misery with the horrible, vivid grief of now that overcame him at the most surprising times. 
 
"Ya smell like sunshine… and warm earth… and…………rice wine?" 
 
He had to get away, before he made a complete and utter fool of himself - but Spike's next words stopped him cold, the icicle back and skewering through him in freezing agony. 
 
"I'm the one who's going."  

For the first time in days, Wesley looked straight at him, unable, now, to hide anything from his expression. Not the guilt, or the grief, or the love, or the utter loss that was crashing through him now in waves, dulling his hearing with a roar like surf, so that only a few words came through as Spike put the keys down. 
 
"...Rather live with rats...block of ice...cold, Wes. Never could." 
 
"No," Wesley whispered, as much to the garden and himself than anything, because there was nothing he could do, now, the gulf between himself and words to great to be overcome, and too late anyway, even if he could. "No, I see that....it's odd, isn't it? You're right, of course you are, and yet - I love you. In my own way....I do, but whether that. Whether. It's enough. Whether I....well. Yes. I know I'm - yes. As you say. Rats and all that. Good point...." 
 
Spike was staring at him, as though he were waiting for something else, but there wasn't anything, and besides, he might as well already be gone - what more could there be. How ironic, Wesley thought, that people should always be accusing me of leaving them, when I am the one who is left. 
 
Or maybe he had made as little sense aloud as his thoughts did when they ran around the hamster wheel of his mind, because Spike seemed to find it necessary to repeat himself. 
 
"Can't live in between anymore, Wes.... hurts too fuckin' much. Can't get any body to fuckin' well stay...ever...And when all of eternity stretches out in front of you.... it just feels...... Sorry... Sorry... not your worry... not your problem.... Don't mean for it to be...Can't be good enough... ever... so... should just..." He waved towards the entrance to the garden, but to him it was an exit - an escape? God, was it that unbearable for him to be near Wesley? - and there was something wrong about what he was saying, something utterly, fundamentally wrong, and Wesley couldn't make his mind work around it, like some terrible dream where his legs were glued to a road and the car wasn't stopping, he couldn't make anything work, and the sheer terror of that galvanised some last remaining coherency out of him, the urgency of it sounding harsh in his voice as he took an involuntary step forward. 
 
"Wait!" he said, knowing that even if he couldn't stop any of this, could never make up for what he had done, he had to at least make this one thing clear. "Wait, don't - it's not that. It was never that. If you feel...you have to leave, then - I don't blame you. But it's not you. You have to believe that. It's me..." 
 
Spike was for some reason furious at that, life blazing in him for the first time in what seemed like days. "How can it not be me? Drove you right out of your own apartment, Wes....you went to...."  
 
And just like that, the anger and the life were gone, replaced by a resigned dullness that was too close to how Wesley had been feeling since that night for comfort. " ... so that's it," he concluded, and Wesley had time to think - What? - before he continued, "That's where you want to be... and not with me... so... I have to let you. Bloody soul won't let me do it any other way... Got to do what's right for you..." 
 
And this didn't make any sense, except - except it did.  
 
All the perfumes of Arabia... 
 
Spike had known where he had been - what he had done. And he thought, as a result, that he knew - somewhere inside Wesley, thoughts and feelings and speech suddenly collided at once, the words spilling out as though they had been stored up, waiting for him to make the right connection. "Hold on, hold on, what? You think I want Lilah? That I want to be with her, and not - Exactly what do you think I was playing at, then, the day Xander came here? Oh, God...listen to me, listen. I was wrong. I should never have left that night. It wasn't - I was trying to get away from myself. Not you. I'd ruined the only good thing that had ever happened to me and I had to get away - and you warned me about Lilah, again and again, and I was too bloody wrapped up in myself to notice until I'd made the most stupid bloody mistake of my life. It's not my problem, don't you understand I know that? It never was. It was my choice - and I wrecked it. I never believed you would want the same things I did...do. Until that night you let me kiss you and we ended up in bed together - God, I thought I'd died and gone to heaven." He snorted, the sound oddly wet, and he realised he was crying - perhaps had been since he started talking, but it didn't matter any more, as long as he could get the words out. "Every time I think about that day, I still think it's...unreal. I can't believe you could have kept on wanting me...I know I was taking advantage of you, you were depending on me to keep you safe. And I...I abused that...I used you when you were vulnerable. But - you don't need me anymore...and I'm scared of losing you - and I don't want that to happen!" Christ, this was death, this was hell, but at least it was true, and it didn't matter, any more, how much it hurt, because it was real... "I don't want to lose you!"

*

 
After the silence of the last ten days, Spike was almost too shocked by the sheer volume of what Wes was pouring out to hear the meaning behind it. Then, suddenly, what Wes was saying was the most important thing in the world - the most important thing he'd heard in his life. 
 
Could it be possible that--? Was Wes actually saying--? 
 
It was too much to take in. Much easier to simply deal with the pieces, one at a time. He looked down, slowly gathering his thoughts. 
 
And when he finally did manage a reply, Spike's voice was soft, the sound of late night traffic passing the front of the store almost covering it, "Never took advantage of me, Wes... Even when I was.... wandering.... I knew what I wanted. Didn't you know? You were the only one, Wes... the only one who held me here... held me in reality when I was driven to escape it. Loved you for that... for even bothering. Know it must have been hard, but you never gave up on me." 
 
Bright blue eyes flashed upwards in the moonlight, locking on Wes, "And before you go getting it in your head that I... want you... out of some... misplaced sense of gratitude... That is abso-bloody-lutely wrong." 
 
Wes' answering voice was broken and wavering, "Didn't I tell you? I excel at getting things wrong…" 
 
Bloody Hell.… Spike grabbed Wes and pulled him into his arms... figuring it would be better to be told directly to bugger off, than to stand there feeling so.... lost and miserable. Better for both of them. "Getting things wrong... just means... you have to correct 'em, yeah? If... if you want to.... If... If you think it's worth it?" 
 
And could I sound any more pathetic? A harsh voice inside Spike tried to break out - tried to protect him from feeling quite so vulnerable. But then, another part of him, the part that was wrapped around Wes and not getting shoved away, silenced it. 
 
When Wesley replied, he sounded too out of all energy to do anything but hold on to Spike anyway, "Please." 
 
Spike held him tighter, relishing the warmth and rightness of having him there, "Can't say no to you, Wes... not about this... want it too much." 
 
"Not sure whether I think that's good or bad…" Wes mumbled against his shirt front. "God, I don't think I can think anymore at all, actually…" 
 
"Let me think for you then.…" Spike tried to summon up a half-hearted joke, "Not like I use my brain for a lot of my thinking... but in this case, I'll give it my best shot. Tell you what I want... ask what you want? That be all right?" 
 
"More than," the muffled reply.  

Spike led Wes over to the steps, sat down and settled the other man against him, comfortable and comforting, "Want you, Wes... in my arms.. next to me... and watching my back... all of it. What do you want?" 
 
Wesley's voice started quietly as he began to relax. "That actually sounds...as near as damn it to perfect. I want....I want you to call me on things. Before I do something irretrievable. For you to be happy." 
 
He gave an abrupt laugh, "I'm not very good at this, am I?" 
 
Spike leaned in, resting his chin on Wes' shoulder, "Doing fine, love...just fine." 
 
"Not going to be easy though…" Spike continued. "I'm stubborn and snarky and.…" He paused there, whispering against Wes' ear, "Think you can keep me in line? I need it…" 
 
"I think I can try…" Wes gave a small smile, "…and I don't think I expected easy. Or actually want it…" 
 
Spike nuzzled Wes' neck briefly, breathing in that wonderful much-loved scent, "Gonna be a hub-bub, ya know... Watcher and a Vamp…" He chuckled, "Peaches isn't going to like this…" 
 
"Probably not...I can't imagine Xander's going to be too ecstatic, either." Wes frowned and then shrugged, "I don't think I care terribly, come to think of it…" 
 
"Bugger Xander!" Spike blurted out. 
 
Wes turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised in amusement. 
 
"No… I mean…" Spike huffed, "Actually, bugger the whole of Sunnydale and my poof of a Sire.... Kid's had it rough, really. Never thought I'd say this about Xander-bleedin'-Harris... but... they treated him like shit." 
 
"That much I'd gathered...unfortunately, I've had my head far too firmly stuck up my own arse the last week to do much more than offer him a bed. What's been going on?" 
 
Spike frowned. He didn't really want to talk about Xander right now... he wanted to be sure that things between them were alright and would stay alright... but... "Kid had his eye put out... could have easily been both of them... then they send him off on some fool's errand that didn't work out... So they treated him like he was now useless.... Why he's here, really... Wanted to do something to help. Went to Angel, who pretty much fobbed him off with a, 'We'll look into it.' Bleedin' Poof." 
 
"Did he now? Hmmm." Wes shook his head, "I don't know about you, but I think Angel's superiority complex could do with a little home-grown psychology.…" 
 
"Needs his arse kicked." 
 
"Yes, he does...hard." 
 
"Better yet, just shoot him in the arse... where his brain is most of the time anyway." Spike chuckled and then whispered against Wes' ear, "Love to watch when you get all tough. So fuckin' hot.... " 
 
Wes looked surprised, "Since when do I 'get tough'? Not that I'm quibbling about the result, but…" 
 
"When you fight... When you argue with one of our snitches... When you tell off the soddin' newspaper boy for tossing the bloody news in a puddle..." Spike was quick to name off just a few. "Your jaw gets all tight and your eyes.... flash. 'S beautiful.…" 
 
"You like it when I'm bad-tempered?" Wes laughed, deciding that this kind of bizarre compliment is one he can deal with. "Good job, really…" 
 
"Hello? Vampire.…" Spike chuckled against Wes' neck. "Like when you get your blood up…" 
 
"You work at sounding disturbing, don't you?" Wes, continued, trying to be casual. "I suppose it's a good thing I love that, then…" 
 
Spike's voice was suddenly steady and serious. No laughter left in it - as if this was the most important thing he'd ever said, "Love you, Wes." 
 
"And I you." Wes turned around completely, all pride gone, clinging to Spike, as if to a lifeline. "God, I'm so fucking sorry." 
 
"Missed you, Wes... missed you so much…" Spike clutched at Wes just as tightly. 
 
"Me too…" the words were a tight little ache. 
 
Then Spike echoed the words he'd said to Wes days before... when he first asked permission to move closer, "Wes... can I just?" 
 
"Not just. Everything." Wes met him half way, melting into the kiss, melting into Spike. 

* 

Wesley had never thought very much about his body . It was there, it usually did most of what he required of it, as long as he took reasonable care, and unless he was in some kind of pain, he generally tended to ignore it. 
 
He would have put his reaction to a simple kiss down to the insane sense-deprivation he had been forcing himself towards over the last few days, except it had been like that from the first time Spike had touched him with any intention other than a need of grounding or sometimes in a random gesture of friendship, an overload of sensation that turned him into a collection of nerve endings and not much else, as though everything even vaguely near to where Spike was touching him were comprised of live wires had become electric, a succession of sparks and blue light, dissolving his bones. 
 
He had never been more aware of where he was, of how he felt, nor less in control, as he let Spike break the kiss with a reluctance he imagined was palpable, but oh - breathing, yes...and he was not the only one affected, judging from the soft moan Spike gave, before they were kissing again, the dark behind Wesley's eyes like thick black velvet, a blindfold of desire. 
 
And his body, it seemed, could find a coherence that he knew he had already lost, pressing closer in a silent acquiescence to the demand for more that could have been coming from either or both of them. 
 
Spike hissed softly against his mouth, and yes, apparently he was the one doing the thinking, because his next words were "Upstairs - now." 
 
Wesley nodded, but that meant movement, meant using all this new awareness of where and who he was to do something he really didn't want to, and his legs seemed to have more sense than him, because he didn't move, however hard he willed himself to do so. 
 
Spike kissed him again, long and lingering, whether in encouragement or reward for his intransigence was impossible to tell. "Right..." he said, as though in agreement to something Wesley had said, when he was damn sure he couldn't remember speaking, "here is good too...." 
 
And yes, yes it was, it was beyond good, but - they were in a half-finished garden, and very definitely outside, and there were supposed to be rules about that sort of thing...Wesley sighed, ruefully. "And possibly foolish..." he volunteered unwillingly. 
 
"Told you I don't usually do my thinking with my brain...." Spike pointed out, and kissed him again.  
 
There was something wrong with the idea of moving, beyond the obvious, and Wesley tried to remember what it was, before saying with a desperation that had nothing to do with the need that clamoured through him - "Spike...Xander's on the couch..." 
 
Spike's moan sounded equally desperate as he pressed against him. "Oh, bloody hell..."  
 
Wesley decided, quite abruptly, that good sense could go and hang itself slowly and painfully, along with rules about outside and everything else that wasn't immediate. "Here is fine..." he said dreamily, thinking, now? and please? and a sort of confusion of hope that neither of them would start thinking properly or being sensible about anything in the next few minutes. 
 
That didn't look as though it was going to be an issue, as Spike started unbuttoning Wesley's shirt, following his fingers upwards with his mouth blazing a trail of kisses and licks, his mumble of "God, yes..." interpretable as anything from agreement to commentary, and quite honestly, Wesley didn't care which it was, as long as it didn't mean stopping. He shivered, and slid his hands up beneath Spike's t-shirt, his fingers tracing over cool skin, thinking, as he had before, skin-hunger and, this time, caring only whether he could satisfy it, not what it might mean. 
 
With all the things he had tried so hard to forget, it seemed that the one thing Wesley actually had succeeded in blocking from his mind was how much Spike talked - unless that hadn't been true before, and Wesley really didn't care in any case, the words as soothing to his exhausted mind as the touches were arousing to his body. Everything Spike did to him was punctuated with speech, the unneeded air blowing cool across his skin, sending shivers across each individual inch of his skin.  

"Missed you Wes...missed this...So bloody hot..." Spike trailed his tongue down to Wesley's navel, making him draw in a too-deep breath that only served to dizzy him further, the almost-warm, wet flesh circling and dipping inside the small hollow, as Wesley arched into the caresses almost involuntarily, his conscious mind still one step behind what he knew he wanted, his hands stroking rapidly, shakily, over any part of Spike's neck and shoulders he could reach, listening to the pounding of his heart in his ears as much as to the continuing words "...taste so good..." 
 
He pulled the zip on Wesley's jeans down, barely pausing as he freed Wesley's by now uncomfortable hard cock, and ignoring the odd sound Wesley made, amusement mingling with his arousal as Spike murmured, "Beautiful." 
 
Wesley clenched his hands tight on Spike's shoulders, amusement dissolving into urgency as Spike, acting as though infinity were a working hypothesis, ran his tongue lazily over the head of Wesley's cock, his own insistence seemingly vanished. "Want this to last," he said, running his tongue from base to crown and repeating the process as Wesley moaned low in his throat. "Want to taste you for hours..." He chuckled then, as Wesley made a small noise of protest, and laughed rather breathlessly. 
 
"You want me dead?" was all Wesley could think of to say, wondering if it were actually a possibility. "Spike...we really shouldn't be outside..." 
 
Spike barely slowed, his eyes drifting to half-mast, but reminded him "Xander...couch..." 
 
Wesley cursed helplessly, his breath quickening as Spike covered him completely, his mouth gaining heat that Wesley knew he must be leeching from his own feverish skin, taking Wesley in deep and rough, the added friction unbearable. Wesley was only just aware of the fact that his hands were tightening, his fingers probably driving through muscle to bone, the fluttering of the muscles in his belly of more importance, feeling the pressure coil at the base of his spine, and his hips begin to thrust forward instinctively. 
 
"Can't last..." he managed, "...sorry..." 
 
Spike, impossibly, only took him deeper, and Wesley sighed, long and quiet, feeling his entire body relax to an impossible level, dimly aware of Spike cleaning him with little kitten licks, before working his way back up to Wesley's neck, nuzzling into the pulse there. 
 
"Love you," he murmured, and Wesley knew that he should respond, but both his brain and his body seemed to be on the same level of complete lassitude, and all he could do was to mutter something that he knew was unintelligible even to Spike's superior hearing. He felt as though all his bones had been liquefied, and the most he was able to accomplish was to bring one hand up, making an enormous effort to focus enough to touch Spike's face, and hope that this would somehow communicate a part of all he was feeling. 
 
He seemed to have communicated something, at least, because Spike was laughing softly, saying something about upstairs and bed. Wesley wondered, for a moment, if he should try and get himself more together, offer to reciprocate, but the most he could manage was a faint sound of agreement, as Spike stood up and rearranged their clothes into something approaching decency, helping Wes to his feet as though this was entirely normal.  
 
"Come on then...not far..." 
 
Half asleep, Wesley wondered if he looked so bad that the bloody obvious had to be pointed out to him, and with the almost-irritability that only the half-asleep could truly manage, he responded, "I know..." before finding that his eyes were already closed, and the black velvet of before was no longer filled with desire, but with a siren's call to oblivion. 
 
He frowned, a little, when he felt Spike pick him up, laughter still running through him at the cusp of audibility, but it was easier to decide that none of it mattered, and let his head rest in the curve of Spike's shoulder, letting exhaustion pull him down through the waves of comfort and relief into sleep. 

* 

He's light as a breath…  

It was a poetical thought, although the truth of it was not so poetical. Spike knew that he, himself, had not been sleeping well, nor eating as he should, throughout their estrangement, but he was a vampire…he would go on whether he took care of himself or not. Wes, however, was human, and on the thin side to begin with. 
 
Spike let that thought rest for the moment as he got Wes the rest of the way up the stairs, knocking on the door insistently until Xander tugged it open from the inside. 
 
"Spike?" Xander blinked owlishly in the brighter light of the hallway, "Something wrong with Wes?" 
 
"Nah... his brain's just leaked out all over the concrete and I've got to get him to bed so he can grow a new one.…" He shoved past Xander and on into the bedroom. 
 
"'K…" Xander answered groggily, as if that made perfect sense, then stumbled back to the couch and his interrupted sleep. 
 
* 
 
Spike awoke the next day wrapped tightly around Wes... and right where he wanted to be. Wes was still asleep, warm and relaxed. Spike traced patterns over Wes's bare chest, then nuzzled into his neck, his mouth against the pulse point there. He reveled in the warm thrum, the feeling of Wesley's life under his lips, strong and steady. 
 
Nibbling up to Wesley's ear, he whispered softly, "Love you, Wes.... So much.…" 
 
There was a grunt, a blink and then a mumble of something that was, just possibly, a response. 
 
Spike chuckled, softly, "And I love how you mumble in Meriadon when you're waking up.…" 
 
"I do?" Wes frowned, waking up a bit more. "I am awake...aren't I?" 
 
Spike rubbed up against him suggestively as an answer. "Getting there.…" 
 
"So it seems…" Wes chuckled, and kissed him. "Hm...definitely awake…" 
 
"Awake and here." And there was something in Spike's voice that said he was still marvelling at that thought. Marvelling that the misery of the last 10 days was over. Not only over… but somehow, amazingly, set to rights. 
 
"I live here, remember?" And it was obvious that Wes meant more than the apartment, because while his voice might have been teasing, his eyes were serious. 
 
"Yes... right here…" Spike pulled Wes closer, his touch welcoming him home, teasing and tempting.  
 
Wesley's eyes crinkled in a mixture of amusement and desire, giving back touch for touch unstintingly, completely different to the almost-passivity of the previous night. 
 
"Oh, god... yeah, Wes.…" Spike moaned, encouragingly, "More..…" 
 
By now, Wes was half-way to laughing, kissing Spike while his hands moved over him. "More what? This? This?"  
 
One hand slipped between them, long fingers stroking, as Wes questioned in an amused voice, "This?" 
 
"Yes.... more... Everything…" Spike groaned, his patience quickly evaporating, "Please…"  
 
And then there were hands, warm hands, roaming over his chest, teasing and flickering, and lips tasting, arousing, burning. 
 
Spike moaned, rocking his hips against Wes... rubbing them together, velvet skin with steel beneath... "So bloody warm.... So good." 
 
Cool skin, grinding slow, and hips snapping upwards to meet their match. Wes's hair was damp with sweat, and his soft moan of: "Yours…" was oddly clear, though whether he was referring to himself or the warmth was open for debate. 
 
"Yours too, love.... long as you want.…" Spike chose the latter interpretation to reply to, between long strokes and Wesley's shuddering breaths, proving as much as anything that he had made the right choice in his response, "…long as you'll have me....Love you, Wes…" 
 
"And I you…" One day, Spike thought with a small, still-working part of his mind, Wesley might not have problems saying that, but right now it was probably too mixed up with things he didn't want to think about yet, acting as a guard on his tongue as efficiently as his previous silence had done. And then, thinking of anything but where he was and what he was doing became too difficult, words impossible, as he shuddered from head to toe, seeing Wesley with his eyes clamped shut, his mouth opening in a soundless cry. Spike closed his own eyes, and dots of colour and light flashed beneath his eyelids for a brief moment 

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

"That was... bloody... Brilliant…" 
 
Gasping in cool air, urgency fading but still moving against the aftershocks, Wes kissed his shoulder wordlessly. 
 
"Wish I could bite you…" Spike's soft words were wistful, laced with regret. "You'd taste so good right now... all that lust and desire floating in the mix…"  
 
"I'll find a way of getting that damn thing out...and then you can tell me," Wesley's words were a bare whisper, but tinged with determination.

Spike froze for a moment... then levered himself up and looked right into Wes' eyes, "Would I lose you, if it was gone? Nothing would be worth that... Keep it in until doomsday if it meant that." 
 
"If it meant losing you...I wouldn't be trying to find a way." Wes's answer was honest at least, a trace of the man who had threatened to shoot Gunn glinting through as he continued, "That - that thing - in your head is an affront, and it has nothing to do with - with how I feel." 
 
Relaxing once again, Spike nuzzled back into the warm body next to him, "Wes.... I just…" For once, he was at a loss for words. "I want it out," he said simply at last, and from there it was easy.  "Scares me how much. I... I worry that something will happen... something I can't protect you from. I can protect you from demons... but a 10 year old with a water balloon could get right past me.…" 
 
"I--" Wes stopped, unable to think of a single way to tell Spike that he wanted him to be able to protect himself without it coming out wrong and causing maximum offence. He aimed for levity then, rather than tact, knowing that Spike tended to take his rather brutal humour for its underlying meaning, rather than the tone in which it was delivered. "Well, if you're going to be kicking my arse when I stuff my head up it, it would be nice to give you the opportunity to do it for real, after all." 
 
"And I want you to be able to kick mine right back... without feeling guilty about it." Spike chuckled softly in reply. 
 
"Oh...give me time…, " was Wes's soft reply, then a sudden laugh, "Spike - do you realize I've cancelled every single bloody case offered to us? That Xander thinks every piece of kitchen equipment we own is possessed? And for some strange reason, Mr. Pak thinks we should meet his student for tea - and I haven't done anything about any of it?" 
 
"Harris is a strange bloke…" Spike looked at Wes for a moment, "But... I've gotta say... not as bad as I remember him being... 'Specially to me considering the fact that... Well. He has reason." 
 
"Yes, he does. For all of it. And that reminds me....I'd say a certain phonecall is long overdue - wouldn't you?" 
 
"Phone call?" Spike looked blankly innocent, and saw Wes quirk his mouth in recognition of the ploy, before he smiled grimly. 

"I need to speak to Angel." 
 
Spike grimaced at that. "Gawd, Wes.... please... I beg you... never mention that name when we're in bed together. Puts me right off." 
 
"Yes, it wasn't going to make my list of aphrodisiacs, either…" 
 
"Or Lilah…" This request was much softer, but even more heartfelt. 
 
"Absolutely. Christ, yes." 
 
Spike relaxed then and snuggled against Wes's chest, "Thanks, love…" he sighed, and shifted, preparatory to moving away.  "Should get you cleaned up... Gonna be all stuck together soon... Should feed you too... and take care of some business, I suppose." The lack of enthusiasm for any of these ideas was apparent in Spike's tone. 
 
"And to none of that do I even want to even vaguely agree…" 
 
Spike chuckled his agreement, "Me either.... Just want to be here... with you.... " 
 
There was a loud crash, a thud and the sound of Xander cursing... somewhere in the other part of the apartment, "And to shoot Harris... That would be good too." 

* 

Somewhere in the other room, Xander was cursing with a fluency that, under most circumstances, Wesley would have appreciated. This was not among them, however, and he groaned with wholehearted irritation. 
 
"Oh, God, gladly…do I want to know what that was?" 
 
Spike raised his head and sniffed. "Coffee pot," he said after a moment, "says it hates him." 
For one glorious moment, Wesley's mind focused on what it deemed to be the important part of that statement, and he brightened considerably. "He made coffee…?" he began hopefully, before the rest of the sentence and its context joined the optimism, as he remembered the crash. "Oh," he ended mournfully, realising that coffee was not only probably not going to materialise this morning, but probably not at all in the next few days until he bit the bullet and bought a new pot. From the look on his face, Spike had come to the same conclusion. 
 
"Could have been a cup.…" Spike suggested, proving that hope did, indeed, spring eternal. Wesley just thumped his head, hard, on the headboard. 
 
"Oh, God," he muttered to the ceiling. "Remind me, would you, that I am definitely asking Mr Pak about the bigger apartment…?" 
 
Spike nodded in somewhat desperate looking agreement, obviously wishing he could follow up on his ideal scenario and shoot Xander anyway. "Yeah.... want to be able to shag you without him knocking on the door to find out why you're screaming." There was a small, slightly horrified pause, during which Wesley tried, and failed, not to imagine exactly that happening. "Come on.. you know he would." Spike seemed to have taken his silence for disagreement rather than stunned horror, and pressed his point. "Probably think I'm killing you or something..." 
 
Wesley just groaned at the whole concept. "Oh please....no," he said, before adding plaintively, "Can we put that on the list?" 
 
Spike snorted, and Wesley realised that he had been pegged as the optimist now. "Well, yeah.... but Xander has a way of creeping in, y'know? He's just that kinda bloke…" 
 
Wesley stared ostentatiously at the door, half-joking, half in genuine concern. "A thought to increase all insomnia…" he said in only half-feigned alarm, before adding quickly, "ah...not that I would know." 
 
His half-arsed attempt at deflection was met with the scorn it deserved - and a surprising amount of tolerance for his idiotic behaviour recently. "I know you've not been sleeping, love. Been watching you, haven't I?" 
 
Wesley winced. "Right…" he said vaguely, wishing he'd never said anything. It seemed that he was doomed to enter awards for stupidity every time he opened his mouth at the moment. 
 
Surprisingly, Spike apologised, before returning to silence. Expecting a lecture on sensible behaviour, Wesley was taken aback, and it took him a moment to focus his thoughts before he realised that no elaboration on the quiet "Sorry," was forthcoming.  
 
"Hm?" he asked, bewildered. "What for?"  
 
"Whatever I did... I know part of it was me. Not stupid. Not sure quite what... but.... No... never mind. Don't want to go back to that. Just tell you I'm sorry... You tell me you're sorry... and we'll shove it under the rug and move ahead, yeah?" 
 
Right, so apparently that really hadn't been made clear. Wesley's curses might have been quieter than Xander's, but what they lacked in vocalisation, they made up for in variation of languages and construction, safely within the confines of his head. "Oh no you bloody well don't…" he said, tightening his arms, and resolving to make this clear if it was the last thing he did. "What happened was my fault. Completely, entirely, and utterly. I should have known better - hell, you warned me how many times? - and I was still stupid enough to think I was in control." He paused briefly, and added with slow emphasis, "None of what happened that night was your fault." 

"Wes…" Spike was obviously trying to think of something to say that would take some of the responsibility away from him, determined to find some way of making what had happened less unconscionably stupid and damaging. Whatever he saw in Wesley's expression, however, made him visibly reconsider, and he added instead, "You weren't in the best frame of mind that night, y'know?" 
 
Wesley sighed, determined not to take the out and remain honest. "I still had a choice. And each time I had even a slightly different path to take - I took the wrong one."  
 
Spike paused, hesitated for a moment, then continued, not looking at him, "Wes... only fair to tell you... This chip comes out... and she does one more thing... I'll kill her." 
 
Wesley carefully didn't say that he was amazed Spike was planning on that much restraint, opting instead for a more non-committal hum of agreement. "I know. I'm not under any illusions." He shrugged. "And believe me, you'll have to move very fast to have your chance." 
 
Spike laid his head back down, idly running his tongue over one of Wes's nipples, apparently deciding that the window of time allocated for discussion was over. "Just so we're clear, love."  
 
"Spike…" Wesley's breath was hitching a little, making his voice rise at the end in a slightly questioning tone that was not what he had intended. He gritted his teeth, and added, "Much though I want to tell you to keep doing that, quite possibly for the remainder of my natural life...You were right. We need to get up." 
 
He could just imagine the slow smile that could be very clearly heard in Spike's voice as he replied, "Just give me a minute or two more and we will be…"  
 
Anything Wesley might have been prepared to concede to that vanished into the ether at the sound of another crash. He sighed heavily. "Oh....hell." 
 
Spike, losing patience, yelled in the vague direction of the door, "Oi! Harris! Give it a rest, yeah?!" 
 
There was the sound of something breaking into very small pieces, and Xander's irritated voice, "It's not my fault.... It hates me..…" 
 
"An implement of astoundingly good taste.…" muttered Wesley, giving up, and Spike snorted. 
 
"Yeah... well, I can see he's got you all distracted. Come on... into the shower with you.…" he got up, and began dragging Wes towards the bathroom. 

Wesley, forcibly coming into full functionality without the aid of coffee, was inclined to be cross. "I swear to God," he said, hoping that Xander didn't come in to explain what had happened, as he was in no mood to deal with the inevitable yells that would result from seeing both himself and Spike naked, "I am still too young and technically irresponsible to have a younger brother living with me.…" 
 
"Hey.…" Spike managed to sound both alarmed and amused at the same time, proving that it wasn't an entirely alien thought to him, either, "we are not bloody adopting Harris.... in any way, shape or form.…" 
 
Wesley grinned, his mood lifting. "Too late, Spike....too late.…" 
 
There was a groan, and Spike said, with great sincerity, "Oh.... bloody hell…" his voice trailed off into mildly horrified contemplation, and Wesley laughed out loud for the first time in days. 
 
"Oh God," he managed, trailing off into snorts, "we're doomed…" 
 
Spike glared at him wordlessly for a moment, before grabbing Wes, tossing him over his shoulder and beginning to carry him off to the bathroom. "You are so lucky I'm still chipped..…" 
 
With spurious and entirely false meekness from upside down as he tried to stop laughing, Wesley said dutifully, "Yes, Spike…" 
 
His attitude elicited another growl. "Oh, right... what the hell. Not getting any right now anyway... I'll take the chance." Before Wes could say anything about whatever was being planned probably being a bad idea, he was bitten, right on the arse, and promptly dropped unceremoniously onto the floor.  
 
"Augh... Damn…"  
 
"Yes," Wesley agreed from the floor, looking up at a chagrined Spike, who had the heel of one hand dug into his eye, and was looking a rather pathetic mixture of miserable and in pain. 
 
"What?" he got in response, and then a sigh. "Yeah... sorry, love..…" 
 
Wesley shook his head, unsure which one of them his negation was aimed at, before getting up and pulling Spike into his arms "Idiot," he said gently. "Lunatic." He punctuated the words with soft kisses to the top of Spike's head, wondering when words that should have been insults had become his best means of showing affection. 
 
Spike lowered his hand and peered up at Wes slowly, and the look of uncertainty on his face would have had Wesley promising anything, as long as it went away - even if his next words had not asked for something that he could give without question. "Call me anything, Wes... as long as you include...yours?" 
 
Sometimes, Wesley wondered how he still had breath, it had been taken away from him so many times recently, but he recovered himself, his voice only shaking slightly as he replied, "I can do that…my idiot," he tried to smile, but was afraid his seriousness was showing through both his light words and his expression, "and my lunatic…" He gave up on all attempts at humour, and kissed Spike instead, trying to convey what he really felt through his hands and mouth, before getting up the courage to say, very quietly, "and yours." 
 
"Mine.…" Spike agreed, and he drew Wesley in for a very long deep kiss, to which the other man responded wholeheartedly, one hand cradling the back of Spike's head. 
 
From the other room, there was a succession of increasingly loud thumps, an "Oof!" of annoyance, and then, very clearly, "Ow, damn it!" 
 
Spike broke away, glaring. "Kill him, love... just for me?"  
 
"Oh, gladly.…" Wesley was definitely annoyed now. "What the hell is he doing, anyway...?" 
 
"Don't know.... don't care…" Spike was sulking. "Shower... now.…" And he walked away with his hands over his ears. 
 
Wesley rolled his eyes to the ceiling, and wondered when this had become his life. "Please, God," he said with enormous sincerity, "if nothing else in this life, let me go deaf.…" And he followed Spike into the bathroom.