This World Uncertain Is

Wesley had meant to be around to gloat at Spike's doubtlessly furious return, but it seemed that a combination of disturbed sleep patterns and the emotional roller-coaster he had been enduring throughout the day were more wearing than he had thought, and, with the intention of simply closing his eyes for a few moments while he waited, had ended up going to sleep on top of the bed, only halfway through dressing.

He woke up completely disorientated, his glance automatically flying to the clock, and reading 12:45, while his befuddled brain tried to work out whether he had, in fact, slept the clock round, whether it was evening, or what day it was. For one horrible moment, he could not remember whether he had even been out to visit Mrs Schrodinger, but the vague itch that was still affecting his skin in places reminded him that in fact he had done so.

He had obviously only been asleep for a little more than an hour - even if very deeply - because the pillow under his head was still slightly damp - apparently he hadn't even got as far as drying his hair before collapsing - and there was a faint glow of streetlamps, rather than daylight, making its way under the bedroom door.

Spike had obviously forgiven him for Mr Pak and the hose - either that or Mr Pak had been all-too generous and let Spike use his shower - because the vampire had very kindly pulled the quilt over him before apparently deciding to take advantage of the warmth Wesley offered and get some sleep himself.

It seemed that whatever sleep Spike was getting was fairly restful, since the half-expected death grip on Wesley's T-shirt was not present. Instead, he was rather loosely wrapped in what, under any other circumstances, he would have called a hug, and currently refused to allow his mind to even contemplate with such a definition. He told himself sternly that it was not something that he was permitted to like, and when Spike, obviously reacting to something in his breathing or heart rate that signified a change in his status, wrapped himself tighter and pressed his face into Wesley's neck, nuzzling into the pulse point, he simply thought very hard about ceiling tiles, and wondered, vaguely, if this was what he would have to face if he actually did go to hell.

He knew very little about what Spike's life had been like between his escape from the Initiative and his arrival here in LA, other than that he had, for one reason and another, decided to help Buffy in Sunnydale, which did not tell him a lot. He had deduced, however, mostly from the moments when Spike's tenuous grasp on reality let go completely, that it not been either easy or particularly helpful to the guilt and ensuing chaotic sorrow that he was being forced to live with now.

The only sources of even vague stability in his life had been provided by Drusilla and Angelus - and with or without the soul, memories of both those were tied up with abandonment and betrayal. And Wesley refused even to speculate about Buffy. In his mind, the girl whom he had so disastrously failed to provide guidance to was as much - if not more - of a threat to the things he strove towards than Faith had been. Faith, at least, had her reasons - twisted and dreadful though many of them had been, and it was Wesley and the world in general that had failed her. But Buffy - with all the love and guidance in the world, Buffy had an ability to make those around her want to give themselves over to her completely - and she had never been able to differentiate between herself and the fight that had taken over her life. Angel had been one casualty of the blurred lines, finally escaping from what had become his doom to make his own way in LA....and Wesley suspected, even if he would never say so aloud, that Spike had been another, falling into the unwitting trap that Buffy's bravery and shining, unquenchable fire laid for those in need of more than a simple fight.

If Buffy's love had caused Angel to lose his soul, Wesley was very close to certain that it was her lack of it which had led Spike to get his.

Unable to ignore his suspicions, therefore, he was absolutely determined not to permit any feelings of desire or want to interfere with the role he had set himself towards filling. He was there to provide a detached, undemanding haven...even, he reflected wryly, as Spike made small noises of comfort, rocking sleepily against him, if that was going to be the closest thing that he himself ever came to being cursed.

The train of thought he had been pursuing had been enough to take his mind off any possible response to Spike's movements, but when he shifted slightly, one hand sliding under Wes' shirt and sighing softly, Wesley was reduced to closing his eyes, gritting his teeth, and trying, unsuccessfully, to shift Spike off him a bit. The potential raging embarrassment if the vampire woke up now was becoming too awful even to contemplate.

As he tried to move Spike away, his efforts engendered a sleepy chuckle that meant he was doing almost precisely the wrong thing, and bringing his companion closer to the edge of wakefulness. Even as he stilled all attempts to move, Spike's hand drifted lower, and he mumbled,

"Know you love it...fight me....'s good..."

This was just too surreal for words. Wesley gave up all attempts to maintain the status quo, and said in his normal voice, "Yes, and whoever you currently think I am, that's nicely disturbing, and please stop.." He sighed, and moved Spike's hand away, just in time to feel the sudden alertness that meant the vampire was fully awake.

"Wha?" Spike blinked, and moved away entirely. "Something wrong?"

Of all the things he was never going to admit...Wesley bit the inside of his lip to prevent the rueful smile that was threatening to overcome him, and replied, lowering his voice, "No, nothing...it's fine. Go back to sleep..."

*

Spike had come to consciousness with two very distinct and conflicting ideas in his head. The first, centred around Wes. His heart rate was elevated and the look on his face a bit… perplexed?

"Wha?" Spike blinked, and moved away, scanning the room for whatever had caused it. "Something wrong?"

Wes answered, his voice low and quite calm, completely at odds with what Spike was reading from him, "No, nothing...it's fine. Go back to sleep..."

It was the second feeling, however, that had Spike leaving the bed and padding toward the bathroom with a "Right… good… I'll be right back then." tossed over his shoulder.

He closed and locked the door behind him and then leaned against it, his forehead against the cool wood of the door frame as he let his body relax. Well, most of his body. One particular portion was not cooperating in the slightest.

Got big ideas, don't you? Well, give 'em up. Man doesn't think about us that way at all. Lucky that he thinks about us as a friend. Bloody lucky.

Unfortunately, the self-talk was not helping in the slightest.

Giving a sigh, he turned on the shower and stripped out of his clothes, slipping under the warm water and letting it flow down over his cool skin. He let his hands wander over his body as his thoughts wandered back to the man in the other room.

Wes - the man who had taken him in when even his Sire did not want him. Who had held him steady and anchored him to the here and now, with warmth and kindness and not a small bit of humour. Wes had never made him feel like a burden, although he knew he must have been at times, nor made him feel like what he did wasn't good enough or less than he needed. Wes knew all about his past, about all the atrocities that he had committed, and still, somehow, although Spike knew Wes hadn't forgotten or overlooked them, managed to treat him like what he was - a souled person, searching for some kind of… absolution… forgiveness… redemption.

Tonight had been just one more example. Spike was perfectly happy being the muscle of the pair, but Wes didn't leave it at that. He had asked Spike's opinion… in front of the Schrodinger's, no less… and had even introduced Spike as his partner. It was not something that Spike would soon forget.

Nor would he forget how Wes had looked.

Spike moaned softly, his hands moving more purposefully now.

Wes had looked amazing… first businesslike as he explain to the Schrodinger's that their son was not, in fact, possessed, but merely being used as an incubator. Then, the steadiness of his hands as he treated the boy, his reassuring words to both child and parents and his amusing embarrassment when the Schrodingers pressed the money into his hands - making his departure politely but awkwardly, a slight blush tinting his cheeks under their bit of stubble.

And then their meeting with the Skilosh - 5 of the nasty buggers. Spike had, of course, jumped right into the middle of things, ready to fight with fists and fangs…. And Wes?

Spike bit his lip to hold in a loud groan at the memory.

Wes had calmly pulled out his Titan and started blowing their heads off, his face covered in such a look of purpose and… damn… dangerous intent, that Spike had almost stopped in the middle of the fight, just to watch him.

He was bloody beautiful. His eyes flashing as he fired - not a shot wasted. And that crooked smile as he looked at me afterwards.

Spike's body tensed…. spasmed… as he finally found release… Slumping forward, his head against the tiles as he steadied himself.

God, Wes…

Spike stepped shakily out of the shower, dried off and got dressed again… fumbling through the cabinets for Wes' medications and then returning to the bedroom to find Wes, his head covered with a pillow, but peeking out at him.

It was a rather, unusual pose, but Spike shrugged it off. "Missed a bit of Skilosh slime. It was driving me crazy."

That should certainly give an explanation for his second shower of the evening, "'S time for your meds anyway…"

And he sat the bottles down on the bedside table for Wes, retreating with speed to his own side of the bed.

*

The sounds of running water had not quite drowned out the other noises, and Wesley put the pillow over his face in defeat, groaning quietly. The same option was hardly open to him - for one, the bathroom was already in use, and he had no illusions as to whether there was any way at all, living with vampire senses, that he would be able to disguise either his arousal or indeed any means he might have usually sought to relieve it. Sometimes, of course, Spike's hyperawareness as to any change in his body or behaviour was a bonus - he usually knew when Wes had reached some limit or other as to eating, sleeping, or being stuck in the apartment. Mr Pak had mentioned something about wanting (finally) to clear the back out and have some kind of garden - something which Wesley had agreed with whole-heartedly when he learnt that he would be allowed to have a section all to his more arcane herbs - as long as he helped with the initial clearance and following maintenance. Still, it would help with the rent, and the way things were going, Wesley was starting to think that somewhere with an added bedroom that they could use as a study might be useful.

The muted shout from the bathroom sent all such pleasantly soothing thoughts running into their safely pastel corners of 'pointless', 'childish', 'wishful thinking' and 'pathetic', where they curled up at a safe distance and seemed perfectly prepared to watch him deal with the loud room marked 'Now what do I do?' all on his own. The next shout was slightly louder - someone's name? Wesley wondered, and was immediately glad he hadn't heard whose. Wesley sighed.

"Dear Lord, grant me patience....but hurry up!" He rolled onto his front, ignoring the slight pain that cause to his still-hard cock, and jammed the pillow over his ears. A final shout, even more muffled by hypoallergenic foam, was followed by silence save for the running water, and seemed to be at least part answer to his prayer. At least not having to listen to someone else do what he had been suffering from lack of opportunities to avail himself of had eased his - physical condition - slightly.

"God save us from all vampire dreams," he muttered, before peering out at Spike, who had emerged with a horribly familiar collection of bottles.

"'Bout time for these, yeah?"

Wesley sighed. Yet another reminder (as though he needed one) that while his life was probably destined to be nasty, brutish and short anyway, it had probably been shortened, and was almost certainly more fragile. Really, the disadvantage of sharing a house with a human whose decay he must almost be able to trace, day by day, was a most unpleasant thought. Yet again, Wesley wondered if, when Spike had returned to his usual self, he would be able to perceive any benefits to this arrangement at all. And then, of course, he would leave.

I'm borrowing trouble he told himself sternly It will happen, so why grieve for it before it happens? Kiss the joy as it flies, Pryce... He groaned and sat up, mumbling his thanks from a rather sandpapery throat, and looking across apologetically at Spike when he saw the vampire had picked up on it. The diving had done nothing to aid the healing process, and while most of the outward symptoms were healing, his throat could still become painful at times when he was least expecting it. "Thanks," he said, and smiled quite genuinely, taking the glass of water and the tablets that Spike gave to him one by one, as though not trusting it to be done properly unless he was convinced that each one had been swallowed.

Well, if mental cataloguing was what helped Wesley keep his mind firmly anchored to the present, who was he to say anything if Spike had begun to use numbers? He counted sentences and even words of his translations, and when Wesley asked him if he were considering numerology, got a blank expression in return that meant Spike was probably entirely unaware of what he was doing. But if it gave him a sense of some kind of balance - and right now, he seemed to need to want to try that balance out in human interaction - then Wesley was going to swallow each vari-coloured tablet in docile silence.

"Seems to be helping, yeah?" Spike asked this every time, looking hopefully at Wes as though the little tablets were going to suddenly impart vampire healing skills to him.

Wes smiled. "Apparently." For the life of him, he could not have repressed his next response, picking up the obligatory glass of milk and beginning to sip it with a glare that (he hoped) would have done Angelus himself proud - and which Spike, confirming all tales that his pseudo-sire had been unable to cow him at all, met straight back, but with more force. Wesley gave up on the argument that he was going to lose - again! - and continued " ..though I'm beginning to wonder if I rattle when I walk."

Spike stopped his half-serious glare, and snorted. "No, mate, you don't....trust me. It's more of a..." He waved his hands back and forth in what even a horrified Wesley recognised as a swishing motion. "The blood, ya know?"

Some of the milk got breathed in as Wesley asked, rather splutteringly - "I swish?"

Spike looked at him as though he had lost what remained of his sanity, before saying, "Nooo - not the way you move..." He rolled his eyes as though the answer should be obvious, "Just the blood. Can always hear the blood."

"Does that bother you?" Wesley was still reeling slightly from the idea that all sounds were enhanced for a vampire - and that no matter how hard he tried, there was no way he was going to make this any easier on his flatmate.

"Only when I want a mid-night snack." Spike sounded remarkably off handed about it, given what had happened before the went out to the Schrodingers. "Tune it out mostly, I do.... Just like the smells and the other sounds."
.
"Yes, of course" Wesley smiled slightly "I suppose I'd never considered before that blood was *audible*. But of course, if someone's pulse is, then it only makes sense that actual blood within the pulse would...hmmm..." He propped his head on his hand, thinking, before realising Spike was glaring at him from the other side of the bed. "What?" he asked cautiously.

But Spike, after treating him to a surprisingly sharp scrutiny for a moment, stopped glaring and narrowed his eyes at Wesley instead, obviously expecting the truth...and assuming, Wesley realised, that he was not going to like it. "Not gonna write me up are ya?" he asked abruptly. "Don't fancy being a "case study". "The Care and Feeding of a Souled Vampire" or some such...."

Wesley barely kept himself from flinching. He was, of course, keeping a journal - old habits died hard, after all - but they were strictly for his own reference, and contained very little that was personal. "No, I'm not going to write you up." He looked apologetically across at Spike, finishing the milk as an odd kind of penance, and putting the glass neatly back on the tray. "I'm just - interested. Old habits die hard, I suppose..." He sighed and lay back down, the pills starting to take their nightly effect of one never-ending round of nausea after another that he tried to keep controlled with deep breathing and the mantra - or perhaps bribe - of physical improvement,

He did not see whether his words had actually got through to the vampire, but they must have done, because the next moment Spike was back to apologising, patting Wes's leg in an awkward attempt to convey reassurance and acceptance. "No, mate... know you wouldn't. Just get edgy. Still don't feel like my skin fits right, yeah?"

Wesley sighed, as much as his supine position would let him. He could feel the muscles in his shoulders and back ache viciously every time he tried to get comfortable, and resigned himself to a long night ahead. "Yes, I know...I suppose I keep thinking that there should be a way to make this easier for you." He felt his mouth pull into it's oddly annoying half-smile, and wondered why Spike was staring at him, before looking resolutely back at the pattern on the quilt. "Unfortunately, the only way I know how to do that is research...and that's not particularly fair on the subject."

Spike, as always, was quick to interpret what Wes had meant. So far there had been nothing in any of the Codexes they had managed to acquire as to this even being a potential situation. And the way of eliminating possible complications was usually..."Well, Watchers stake Vamps... they don't help them." He nodded with acceptance of the norm "But, Wes? You have helped. Help every day."

Wesley felt awkward, but strangely pleased. "Yes, well..." he managed to mutter, his hand rubbing obsessively at the scar on his throat, "good."

Spike just nodded. "And I should let you get back to sleep..." He nodded and walked around to his side of the bed.... taking his usual spot and giving Wes lots of room.

Wesley was always left wondering why he bothered to do that, since it had not lasted yet, but, as always, he said nothing and turned out the light, leaving them back in darkness. Spike seemed to go out with the snap of the switch, probably, Wesley thought unfairly, due to the post-orgasm lassitude winning out over vampire physiology.

The growing battle against sickness, however, and the still unconquerable insomnia, left him still awake, if not quite attached to the outside world. He wondered why Spike tended to breathe when he was asleep, and wondered if his own increasingly odd reactions to the vampire's proximity were linked to his lack of sleep.

It was almost peaceful - until, of course, the inevitable nightmares began.

"No.... can't..... Angelus, no....."

*

The snowfall was heavy but uneven, casting objects first into obscurity and then into perfect clarity as they moved through it. Tiny ice crystal, dancing their ephemeral way through the twisted shadows of the forest.

Spike could smell the girl, taste her fear, hear the beating of her heart, the gasping of her breath as she stumbled before them, first darting first down one path, then another… pausing… and then off again, as he and Angelus took turns catching her up, taunting her in game face, then allowing her to move ahead again. They had often played this game, harrying their prey, sometimes for hours. The adrenaline, the fear, adding such a spice to the blood that the taste lingered for hours afterward, warming their too cold bodies.

They had reached a clearing and Angelus had waved Spike on… had him circling ahead to chase the girl back towards him… towards her death. Spike laughed as he jumped out at her from the shadows and she stumbled back… back into Angelus' waiting arms.

The tiny woman looked up at him from under her dishevelled mop of blonde hair, her eyes searching an escape… her eyes…

Buffy? No! No! This never happened. Never happened!

Spike watched, helplessly, as Angelus snapped the girls neck, a wild grin on his face.

"No.... can't..... Angelus, no....." He struggled to move… to do something…anything.

And then…. Warm hands on his back, soft breath and a soothing voice, "Ssh...you're dreaming..."

Spike choked and struggled....and then a sigh and the sudden relaxing of tensed muscles, "W.... Wes?"

"Mm. You all right?"

Instinctively moving closer into the comfort and warmth, he found his face pressed against a t-shirted chest, "Yeah.... yeah.... Sorry.…"

"And that'll be another drink you owe me. Really, please, don't apologize.…" the warm hands traced soothing circles over his back.

Spike sighed, his voice somewhat muffled against Wesley's chest, "Got to get tired of this. Fuck knows, I am."

The rumble of Wes' voice was as soothing as his hands, "Well, not being a completely callous bastard, I do wish it weren't happening, rather - and I can't imagine how fed up you are with the whole thing...but you know perfectly well I'm not tired of - Agh, just stop worrying about it. I don't think you wondering whether I'm about to decide I've had enough is conducive to making the dreams any better - and I can assure you, I'm not."

Spike huffed against Wes' chest... unable to think of a comeback to that assurance.

Long moments passed... And then, Spike's voice, still muffled, "Thanks, mate, for all of this."

" And I repeat - not a problem." Only a touch of exasperation tinted Wes' voice.

Settling back for sleep, Spike's hands unconsciously mirrored Wes' soothing motions, when suddenly… there was something off - a shift in Wesley's movements, a slight tinge of something different. "Sorry.... should move. Let you get back to sleep…"

He started to move away, but was stopped by Wes' voice, " Hm? No, you're fine…"

Bright blue eyes sought out bluish-grey in the dim light. Spike didn't really want to move... far from it. But if he was making Wes uncomfortable in any way - he owed him too much to disturb him.

"You sure, mate?" Spike's voice was quiet, restrained.

"Yes, of course...really."

Finally accepting that assurance, he leaned back against Wes, "Close yer eyes then. Need yer sleep.…"

There was a snort of amusement, falsely obedient. "Yes, Spike." And Wes closed his eyes, grinning slightly.

"No sass from you, youngster.... Sleep... Now…" Spike shifted to get more comfortable.

Another chuckle, "Yes. This is me...sleeping…"

Spike peeked open one eye and growled.... wondering just what Wes would do if he attempted the tried and true method of stopping another's mouth.

The younger man's eyes were closed, a look of abject innocence plastered over it.

Spike huffed and resettled, "Not buying that.... just so you know.…"

"Mm. Go to sleep." and there, a lip twitch of amusement.

" You first." And two snickers at the sheer joy of company that made you forget your woes and feel young enough to joke in the middle of the night.

*

Wesley awoke the following morning to find that the world was still shrouded in mist. He had raised the sashed window in the bathroom to let some of the steam out from his too-long shower - after all, a day off should begin with some form of luxury, even if he was undoubtedly going to end up absolutely filthy after helping Mr Pak start his garden (or maybe start Mr Pak's garden for him, he was still unclear on that score) - and watched the mist cling to the stones in the alleyway outside like sweat. The air tasted of pollution and iron, heavy, promising sun later; the whole world quiet enough that when some shrouded bird passed by - one of the pigeons, perhaps? - he could hear the creak of its wings.

He had awoken to find the bed empty - Spike was already up, for some strange reason, and in the kitchen by the sound of things, making what was (hopefully) coffee and some kind of breakfast edible to humans. Wesley suddenly realised how hungry he was, since he had not even attempted to make dinner last night, or even considered food since the Lilah-aborted attempt at tea some time in the afternoon. He considered shaving, touched the scar with a flinch, and decided against it, before getting dressed and coming out into the electrically lit study-living room that could have been any time of day or night. Spike was rather awkwardly holding a mug of coffee, standing in the kitchen doorway, and Wesley smelled bacon and toast.

"There's...cereal." Spike pointed at the table with his free hand, sounding oddly shy. Last night, after the snicker-fest had died down, he had begun to talk with unusual openness about his dream, but it had unfortunately coincided with Wesley quite genuinely staring to doze off, and not much of it had stuck other than an odd combination of snow, Angelus and Buffy. Well, possibly not so odd, but - disturbing, nonetheless, and Wesley wished he had been capable of paying more attention.

He aimed for rather more coherency than he was normally capable of before ingesting at least two cups of caffeine - anything, in fact, that would take the completely unexpected look of insecurity off Spike's face. "I'm sorry I fell asleep?" he proffered, before bits and pieces of exactly how bad the night had been started falling into place. Oh. Well, a dose of insecurity was probably well overdue, then. In Spike's situation, he would probably have been out of the flat and heading towards the nearest wide-open space...except, of course, that wasn't an option. "Coffee?" he asked, as pathetically as possible, hoping that his delaying tactics didn't seem as transparent as they sounded even to his own half asleep ears.

Apparently something in the few words he had managed was vaguely reassuring, because Spike went back to looking simply awkward as opposed to having the look of a man wondering where the nearest train station was. He pushed the coffee mug at Wesley, and mumbled,

"'S all right." Wesley didn't dare ask what was, and apparently that sufficed, because Spike's next question, bizarrely enough, was, "Did you have a good night?"

It was horribly like watching Angel trying to remember civilities towards Cordelia. Wesley bit the reciprocal, and automatic, question back, just in time. He'd been there for most of Spike's night, and the adjective he would have used was certainly not 'good'. Just as he was about to suggest that perhaps the day off was not a good plan after all, Spike said hurriedly,

"I asked Mr Pak if there was something you could do outside."

Wesley, for a moment, wondered if he had entered an alternate dimension. Once he had ascertained that, to the best of his knowledge, if it was one, it was exactly the same as the one he had left, he essayed, "Yes?" and drank a very large gulp of too-hot coffee, proving that in any state of being, hot things scalded tongues.

"You don't mind?" Spike looked positively relieved, and Wesley wondered, not for the first time, what he was actually talking about, and whether vampires could come with a decoder.

"No?" he ventured.

"About being outside?"

"...no? What?" Wesley drank off the rest of the coffee, and wondered if it was too early for a real drink.

"Thegardenwasmyidea."

Ah. Well, that made more sense than Mr Pak suddenly deciding that approximately forty years worth of neglect needed dealing with immediately and for no apparent reason. Wesley refilled his mug, sipped, and said, "Well, it was a good idea. Growing herbs is less expensive than buying them, after all. Why the worry?"

Spike shrugged, but a good deal of the whatever-the-hell-it-was-this-time tension went out of him, and he sat down on the sofa. " Just...dunno. Seemed like you needed more sun. But I din't want you to think I was managing you, or something."

Wesley sighed. Ah. Obligation. Naturally. "Spike...you don't always have to take care of me," he said.

Spike snorted. "You say that like I do. I never take care of you. You never...seem to want me to."

"You're not responsible for me," Wesley said, and it should have been a relief to say it, but as soon as the words were out, there was that feeling from the day before again, when he had stopped himself responding to the kiss on his neck, but closer to the surface this time: aching, nasty, voracious, hollow, the kind of hunger that came from real starvation, past where the need to eat was a pang and into just a long, gnawing nothingness that made you want to retch. "First you'll try to take care of me," he heard himself saying unsteadily, "then you'll feel responsible, then you won't feel like you're allowed to stop, and then you'll feel trapped and resentful and I'll have got - got used to having you here, and I won't know how to take care of myself anymore when you get fed up and -"

Spike wasn't looking worried any more - in fact, he was looking downright furious, which while it was a relief on some levels, was slightly frightening on others. "Where the fuck do you come up with this stuff, Wes?"

"We can talk about my childhood some other day," Wesley said, aiming for levity. "How's never sound to you?"

Spike stopped looking quite so annoyed, rubbed over the back of Wesley's wrist and said, "Okay, I'm not responsible for you. Okay?"

"Right," Wesley said, on a yawn. "More coffee?"

Spike glared at him. "Breakfast," he said firmly, and Wesley stared at him.

"Ah," he said vaguely, after realising some kind of response was apparently required. "Right."

*

Mr Pak's way of getting Wesley to 'help' was, apparently, to perch on the nearest pile of rubble and ask him questions while he worked. Wesley, coming to terms with just how out of condition he was, found himself struggling to form audible words, let alone responses that consisted of more than a grunt, and wondered if this was some strange form of torture indulged in by elderly landlords who knew a great deal more than they were supposed to. Which pretty much narrowed it down to Mr Pak, but still. Torture.

Wesley focused on the fact that it was warm, and actually sunny as opposed to just hot and cloudy, and that really, once he started to get under the rubble and begin clearing patches of earth, it all smelt rather good, and tried to answer by rote.

Shovel, lift, turn, carry half-ton of miscellaneous rubbish, mumble response, go back. Shovel, lift -

"You are very hard on him," Mr Pak said, and Wesley tried hard not to drop the shovel on his foot, because wouldn't that just complete what was supposed to be a good day, and was turning out to be exactly the opposite.

"On...?" he prompted, levering yet another load of years' rubbish onto his spade.

"On man you were before," Mr Pak said calmly, and this time Wesley did drop the shovel, all the breath going out of him as though he had been gut-punched.

"I, really, I don't -"

"Sorrow passes," Mr Pak said, getting off his pile of rubble, and patting Wesley on the shoulder. "You will see. You will find the joy of watchfulness again. And you are good tenant. I do not think you are leaving your house unguarded, yes-no?"

"Right..." Wesley couldn't think of a single appropriate response. Mr Pak chuckled.

"Buddha is not always right, my friend. Even if you keep your mind thatched, passion break through sometimes. Good for soul. Good for Wesley, yes?"

Wesley felt himself going red in ways that had nothing to do with the sun.

"Mr Pak..." he began, but the little man just smiled, and patted him on the shoulder again.

"We have tea now," he stated. "Good for workers."

It turned out to be rice wine, and somehow that, and Mr Pak's subsequent silence while Wesley came to terms with what, apparently, everyone seemed to be contented with but him, made the morning pass more quickly while he cleared the garden down to its should-be component of soil.

Mr Pak nodded approvingly. "Not all focus is codes," he said, and Wesley realised that he was sunburnt, dripping with sweat, felt as though he had run a marathon, and was more clearheaded than he had been in days. He was also, possibly, a little drunk.

"Do more at night from now on," Mr Pak instructed him, turning to go back in. "Company is healthy too. Now I have student, so you leave."

Wesley rolled his eyes at his landlord's disappearing back, and rubbed at his forehead with a filthy arm. "Thanks," he muttered, but it was not altogether sarcastic.

Then he smiled. Mr Pak had left a book on the heap of rubble Wesley had cleared. "Dhammapada," he said. "Well, I'll take Sanskrit over soap operas any day..."

*

Spike was waiting at the door when Wes returned, a glass of cool water in one hand… and a bottle of aloe vera in the other.

"Said you needed sun… Didn't mean you had to get it all at one time." He shook his head, but grinned at Wes just the same.

"Yes, well… I didn't exactly mean to do that either, but the worst of the clearing is done." Wes gave a weary sigh and quickly downed the glass of water.

"Cool shower and a bit of a rest then?" Spike refilled his glass and held it out for him.

"Well, I could definitely use the shower," Wes tugged his shirt away from his sweaty body as he accepted the glass.

"Nothing wrong with the smell of good healthy sweat, Wes." Spike stepped closer and took a deeper breath. "Ya smell like sunshine… and warm earth… and…………rice wine?"

"Mr. Pak's influence, I'm afraid," Wes chuckled. "His idea of afternoon tea."

"It would be." Spike joined in the joke,

"Well, off to the shower then," Wes moved towards the bedroom, tugging off his sweat sodden shirt as he went.

"Need me to come scrub your back, pet?" Spike's voice was low and warm, teasing.

"You…." Wes paused for a moment, looking back. Thoughts that Spike couldn't decipher, flittered across his face at breakneck speed. Then softly, "If you wish…."

Spike froze, completely gob smacked for a moment. "Well, yeah….'course I do…."

"Come on then," Wes voice was a bit rough, measured.

Spike stared at him for another moment, "Wes… are you sure --"

"Spike." Wes cut off any further words, "Please don't say anything. If you do I'll probably panic completely and run, screaming like a girl."

"Can't have that now, can we?" Spike whispered, stepping closer to Wes. "Wes… can I just….?"

Spike leaned in, his lips just barely brushing over Wesley's, his eyes widening suddenly, as Wes stepped into the kiss, making it deeper, stronger, more demanding…

They broke away a few moments later…. Both of them panting.

"Shower then?" Spike asked, his eyes still hot, gold sparkles dancing in and out of the blue.

"Yes, most definitely, now, I should think." And he stumbled toward the bathroom, Spike just behind him. Clothes were quickly being dispensed with, hampered only by long searching kisses in between. Then two lean muscled bodies, wrapped around each other under the cooling spray of the shower - touching, caressing and giving into suppressed longings.

*

Later, when the hot water had run out, they moved to the sofa, the first desperate hunger relaxed into a kind of peace. Wesley ran his fingers along Spike's spine, tracing over each separate vertebra gently, feeling a tension he had never before recognised as being present draining out of both of them. Spike curled around him, boneless and heavy, the borrowed heat evaporating from his skin beneath the air conditioning.

Wesley touched the nape of his neck, almost awed at this incredible, unspoken permission he had now, to touch, and touch, and not be afraid of stepping over some necessary barrier, breaking their self-imposed taboo that had kept the essential grounding of contact separate from the deeper need to say the things he would probably never find the words for in the universal language of a caress.

"C'n hear you thinking," Spike murmured against his throat, and Wesley smiled.

"Mm."

"What?"

Skin-hunger, Wesley thought, but only said., "Not sure…not words, anyway."

Spike laughed, low and quiet, and for an astounding instant, Wesley had a glimpse of what could be, of a partnership devoid of past bitterness and present aches, and could only smile, helplessly, thinking that if only he could cast some spell that would hold the moment intact, a place of forever that he could return to at any point, the world would have transcended into something altogether different - translated, transmuted, alchemy.

He knew that the essence of joy lay in the fact it passed, but he could not for the life of him want that, even as he knew it must, that he would never be able to remember this contentment of this now if he made it eternal.

"Are you -" he began, and found he had no idea of what he wanted to ask. Any words he could think of seemed to epitomise stupidity, his tongue turned thick and unwieldy, getting in the way of his teeth, clogging any path his thoughts might take with unnecessary speech.

But Spike only coiled more thoroughly around him, his lips slowly outlining the jagged edge of Wesley's scar, until he reached the tapering last centimetre below his ear, and nodded, his hair soft against Wesley's unshaven jaw. "Ssh," he said. "'M busy reading you, aren't I?"

And Wesley felt desire rush through him again, heady and dizzying, making him catch his breath in a small gasp, thinking of how those were the words he had been looking for earlier, as the hot water fell around them, and he tried to force his hands to memorise the curves and angles of skin and muscle and bone, the lack of a matching pulse even as his own thrummed in his veins.

Reading you

"Learnt anything?" he asked, feeling the involuntary flutter of his belly muscles, remembered heat warming his skin beyond the sunburn.

Spike looked up at him, and his smile was slow, knowing, reflecting the same odd contentment that was keeping Wesley immobile and sated, despite his reawakening body. "Not yet," he said, and Wesley did what he had stopped himself from doing so many mornings, when the blue eyes opened and looked up at him, and bent his head for a kiss - because he could.

It felt more like freedom than anything else in his life had done, and he knew that if such a thing were possible, he would have lost his soul.

He knew for a certainty that he was in grave danger of losing his heart.

*

The kiss was the sweetest that Spike could remember - soft and slow with no hesitation or holding back from either of them. It was acceptance given, reassurance taken and a gentle promise of things that were yet to come.

He dropped his head back to rest against Wes' chest, his hand drifting slowly over warm skin.

It was amazing, how one small act, a longed for intimacy could change how you saw yourself, as well as how you saw someone else.

Spike turned his head and placed a kiss against his resting spot. "…your slightest look easily will unclose me…though I have closed myself as fingers…"

"What's that?" Wes looked down at him, his features softer than Spike had ever seen them.

"Nothing, love… just muttering," Spike answered.

It was true though. Wes had moved as though he understood every hunger Spike had ever had. His loneliness, his regrets, and his longing for this all to be something more… something lasting. Wes had taken everyone of them and reflected them back with unspoken promises in the form of touch. And Spike had willingly accepted every one… and returned them just as willingly.

It was wonderful… and terrifying.

But he could not find it in him to regret one moment, one loss of his long held inviolability…it was all too… perfect.

Spike froze at that thought.

No, nothing was perfect… but… Spike paused and looked up at Wesley's relaxed face, watched how his steel-blue eyes were as soft as a caress again his skin and suddenly, things were perfect. For one singular moment in time. Fleeting and transitory… but there - wrapping around Spike warming and holding him… and then gone…

But somehow, even it's passing was not a thing to mourn… since, it seemed, Wes would allow him… them… to create a multitude of such moments - each as perfect as the last.

Spike smoothed his hand lower… teasing Wes' body back to alertness.

"Want you, love…" Spike whispered, soft and hoarse against Wes' skin. "Please?"

"Yes." the softly hissed answer. "But… the bed?"

Spike chuckled softly, "Yes… have just enough control to make it there…"

And he rose… drawing Wes after him.