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Spike set the kettle on the stove and flicked on the burner with a practiced twist of his wrist. Putting the kettle on was becoming second nature to him; making tea was apparently an integral part of the daily routine they'd fallen into since Wesley had come home from Wolfram & Hart's medical wing after Vail's attack. As far as Spike knew, the tea didn't have any medicinal benefits, but he found himself making quite a lot of it, nonetheless. It reminded him a bit of the last year with his mother, but he rarely let himself think about it. The endings would be very different, after all.
Usually the day started slowly, with them sleeping as late as Wesley's body required. Spike would go fetch a cup of tea for him and then climb back into bed to laze about beside him in the quiet warmth for a while longer. Sometime in the late morning, Spike would make a simple meal, and then the nurses from Wolfram & Hart would arrive to take charge of their patient and to deliver food and blood. After the nurses spent a few hours poking and prodding and making Wesley do his exercises, they'd leave. Wesley almost always needed a nap to recover from their torture. Some days, he managed a shower after his nap before having his afternoon cup of tea and resting until it was time for dinner... unless he had other visitors, in which case Spike had to fill up the kettle yet again. The two of them would read or watch television for a while after Spike kicked the guests out and made or ordered dinner, and then they'd finally head to bed to sleep before starting all over again the next morning.
It wasn't an exciting routine, but it didn't overly tax Wesley's healing body and kept him on the road to recovery, so Spike wasn't about to complain; he was just grateful that Wesley was there at all to have a routine. He had almost died there in Spike's arms, and it had been touch and go for a few horrible days after. A boring routine with Wesley was just fine for right now.
Spike was beginning to get sick of the smell of Earl Grey, though. The bergamot did funny things to his sinuses.
He was reaching into the cabinet for the tin of loose tea when he heard a groan from the bedroom. His internal debate about whether he wanted to try to convince Wesley to play video games with him or whether he should be nice and let him read on his own for an hour or two came to an abrupt halt, and in a flash he was across the apartment and skidding to a halt next to the bed.
"What's wrong?" he asked, searching Wesley's profile to get an idea of how much pain he was in. Even with the magical sutures still in place he could have strained something or torn something or...
"I'm fine," Wesley told him, although the tightness in his voice made it clear that he was hurting.
Spike had got quite good at reading Wesley's levels of pain over the past couple of weeks since the attack - far better than he would have liked, given that it meant that Wesley had been in pain for most of that time - and he relaxed a bit as he realized that Wesley didn't seem be in danger of needing extra medication or an immediate trip to the doctor.
Still, Wesley was sitting on the edge of the bed with his forearms braced on his legs and his head bent, and his breathing was labored. He had gotten dressed in sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt, but his damp hair was not yet combed. Something was definitely not right.
"What happened, love?" Spike asked. "Was standing in the shower too much for you? Need to rest for a bit? You've got time for a little lie down before dinner."
"I'm fine," Wesley said again, this time more sharply.
"I hate to point out the obvious, but..."
Wesley raised his head to look at him. "I dropped a sock." He gestured with one hand, indicating the black sock dangling from his long fingers. "I dropped a sock and bent to retrieve it. What you heard and rushed to save me from was the extremely perilous process of getting back up again."
Ignoring the increasingly familiar acidity in Wesley's tone, Spike said, "Should've called me to get it for you. There's no need to hurt yourself."
"It was just a sock."
"Doesn't matter. I'd've got it for you. You're not ready to be bending like that."
"And yet somehow I still managed." Wesley tossed the sock onto the bedspread beside its mate and braced his hands on the mattress to stand.
"Here, pet," Spike said as he instinctively moved to slip his arm around Wesley's waist.
Wesley glared at Spike's arm and pushed himself upward without it. "I can do it. I'm not an invalid."
Spike didn't touch him, but he stayed close in case Wesley needed assistance. He didn't like the lines around Wesley's mouth; they meant that he was in more pain than he was letting on. "Never said you were."
"It was implied," Wesley replied.
"Think I'd know if I were implying something."
The look Wesley flashed him made it clear that he was not amused. "And you can stop hovering."
Spike sighed and tried to make peace. No point in fighting, not now. "I just want to help."
"I don't need it."
"I know, love, but I - "
"Has it occurred to you that I might not want your help?" Wesley snapped with surprising vehemence, straightening his spine with a speed that had to hurt. "I'm a grown man and am fully capable of taking care of myself. I don't need you to help me. I don't want you to. I don't want you to do anything for me."
His chest tight, Spike stared at Wesley, unable to formulate any sort of response to his outburst. His first instinct was to commiserate about the situation and offer a bit of comfort, but since Wesley had so bluntly rejected that sort of thing Spike could only stand there, unable to draw in air to say anything at all. Wesley returned the stare, his eyes dark with his temper, but as Wesley's face softened with the beginnings of regret Spike took a step back. "Right," he said.
"Spike, I - "
Spike didn't stay to find out what Wesley was going to say. Spinning on his heel and walking back to the kitchen, he emptied the nearly boiling kettle into the sink and watched the steaming water spiral down the drain.
"Can take care of himself, can he? Can make his own sodding tea, then," Spike muttered and began to pace around the kitchen.
The outburst shouldn't have been a surprise. He knew that Wesley hated his forced confinement. He knew that Wesley was frustrated by the limitations of his healing body and was tired of being weak and in pain. He knew that he was the only safe person for Wesley to rail against, since he couldn't bring himself to be rude to the nurses and therapists who visited him.
None of the reasons mattered a bloody bit right then.
They'd fallen into a rhythm that Spike thought worked for them both, giving Wesley his space when he wanted it but letting Spike take care of all the things he couldn't or shouldn't do.
Except that Wesley didn't want him to. Wesley didn't want his help, didn't want to need him. He wanted to be entirely independent. Spike should have been able to understand, but all he could focus on was the bitter knowledge that at least some part of Wesley didn't want him to be there at all.
The all-too-familiar rejection of his attention and concern burned like a brand in his chest, and Spike slammed his fist against the counter not nearly as hard as he would have liked. The dishes on it rattled with the impact.
Wesley was standing just beyond the doorway to the bedroom when Spike went into the living room, and Spike hesitated for just a moment as he crossed the threshold. He normally would have ushered Wesley to a seat with a reminder to keep off of his feet, but he bit back the urge and instead grabbed his boots and sat down to put them on.
"You're leaving?" Wesley asked, watching him without moving.
"Thought I'd give you a couple hours without me fussing over you." Spike would have liked to believe that the relief in Wesley's eyes was due to the fact that he was planning on returning, but he knew better; Wesley was happy about being left alone. His nostrils flaring and jaw clenching, Spike looked down as he shoved his foot into his boot.
"Spike, I didn't - "
"Yeah, you did," Spike said shortly. "You meant every word."
"I'm - " Wesley tried again.
"Don't." Spike punctuated the word with the stomp as he seated his foot in the other boot. "You meant it. Don't apologize."
Wesley drew in a slow breath and said, "All right. But I didn't mean to hurt you."
"I know," Spike said, raising his head and meeting Wesley's eyes. "But I'm fine."
Wesley's expression remained worried. "You aren't."
"No." Spike stood up and looked around for his coat. "And now you've got a little taste of what it's like being on my side of things. Apart from the whole bleeding to death bit, but then I can't do that, can I?" His duster was a puddle of black next to the couch, and he stalked over to pick it up.
"Spike..."
"Don't worry about it."
"You don't have to go," Wesley said, frowning and taking a few hesitant steps toward him.
"Think we both could use some time on our own," Spike replied. Wesley did, anyway, which was enough. "I'll go find a game of cards or something. You can have some dinner without me coddling you. Don't wait up." He slid into his coat.
"Do you have my phone?"
Spike patted his pockets and found the mobile phone he'd been carrying on his few trips out for blood and food. "Phone. Keys. Bit of dosh. I'm all set."
Wesley walked slowly to him, and Spike didn't back away. "Please be careful."
"You, too," Spike said. A part of him wanted to reach out and touch Wesley, but he wasn't about to be rejected again for showing simple concern. "There's some of that soup in the fridge for when you get hungry."
"Thank you," Wesley said. He tilted his head, his eyes focused as though he were trying to say something he wanted to be sure Spike would understand. "You've been taking excellent care of me."
As much as Spike would have swelled with pride if he'd heard those words half an hour before, they only made him want to get out as quickly as possible and away from the lie that Wesley wanted his help at all. "Yeah," he said flatly, scanning the room to be sure that Wesley's medications were in their usual places. "And now I'm taking care of you by giving you your peace."
Turning in a swirl of leather and unhappiness, he didn't wait for Wesley's reply before he left the apartment.
The sun was low enough that he could slip out of the building without more than a faint sizzle and a few tendrils of smoke, and when he was safely in the shade down the street he pulled out Wesley's mobile phone.
He punched in number one on the speed dial with a little sneer and said when the other end picked up, "Fancy a drink?"
*
It was the same booth in the same bar in which Spike had gotten so drunk a few weeks prior, although this time there were two glasses on the table along with the bottle of whiskey.
Spike slowly nursed his first glass of liquor and tipped the bottle to fill the other when a figure dressed all in black slid into the seat opposite him.
"Thanks," Angel said, downing half of his drink in one swallow.
"Plenty more where that came from, mate," Spike told him.
Angel sighed and drank the rest. "I hope so. You have no idea how much I needed that."
"Rough day at the office, dear?" Spike didn't look up from the table as he took another long sip of whiskey.
"Yeah, all right, you don't care." Angel set down his empty glass. "Why did you call me?"
Spike filled Angel's glass again and after a second's thought his own as well. "Didn't think I should drink alone, and everyone else would ask annoying questions."
"Thanks a lo- Wait, you don't think I ask annoying questions?"
"No, you do, but I can tell you to sod off."
Angel didn't answer, but he was glaring at him when Spike looked up. "If I wanted abuse, I could've stayed at the office."
"'Least my abuse comes with a drink," Spike said.
"Yeah." Angel leaned back against the battered leather booth cushion. He studied Spike for a long moment, who studied him right back. "How's Wes?" he finally asked. "He's doing better, I guess, since you're not with him."
Spike nodded. "Yeah." Contemplating how much he really wanted to say, he slowly spun his glass around before taking another drink. "He hasn't taken to being hurt, though. Doesn't like the limitations."
"He never did. You should've seen him stand up to me after he was shot," Angel said with a fond smile. "He was in a wheelchair, but he still got up and told me off. Didn't matter that it hurt him." His smile faded.
Spike could almost picture it. "Guess it was my turn today."
"He told you off?" Angel looked entirely too pleased at the idea.
"He's just tired of being fussed over," Spike said. The alcohol must have been working more quickly than he expected, because he didn't actually feel the need to punch the smug smile from Angel's face. He still wouldn't have minded if someone else had done it, but he didn't need to do it with his own hands. "Can't blame him, I suppose. Wouldn't like it, myself."
"You didn't, if I remember correctly."
Spike nodded and sighed, thinking back to days of wheelchairs and puppies. After a second, he took another long drink. "Yeah."
"He shouldn't blame you for fussing, though," Angel replied. "He's hurt. You never did like seeing people you loved hurt."
"Not unless they wanted to be." Their eyes locked in a moment of understanding before Spike looked away. "But it's worse with him." He grimaced. "I'm worse."
"Because it was so serious?" Angel asked.
Spike nodded.
"He's healing," Angel reminded him.
"Slowly. So bloody slowly. Literally bloody, at the beginning." He flashed on a memory of bandages being changed by one of the nurses, the sodden padding crimson with fresh blood. His stomach churned.
"Patience never was your strong suit," Angel commented, pouring more whiskey into both of their glasses.
Spike's head snapped up. "It's not about that. It's not about me waiting. It's not about me at all. It's about how much more real it is. You, me, Buffy, we'd be well over it by now. Him, he needs a rest after taking a shower. He nearly died, Angel."
"I was there," was the quiet reply.
Spike acknowledged him with a small bob of his head. "Then you can see why this is different. He's strong, he's a survivor, but he's still human."
"You knew that when you got involved with him."
"Yeah, but I didn't think I'd lose him so quickly."
"You haven't lost him," Angel said, "unless he actually kicked you out for good today."
"No. Sorry, mate," Spike said with a half-hearted attempt at a smirk. "But... it's different now."
Angel looked across the room almost like he was searching for guidance from one of the other bar patrons before asking, "I know I'm going to regret this, but... different how?"
"Before, I saw his scars and thought of him as a survivor; now I see them and remember how easily he's hurt. I can't stop thinking about it." He glared up at Angel from beneath his lashes. "And if you start poking fun at me for talking about feelings I'll shove this bottle so far up your ass you'll be farting glass for weeks."
Angel lifted his hands from the table in a sign of peace. "Did I say anything?"
"You were thinking it."
"I wasn't. I was just thinking it's probably a pretty normal response." He blinked. "Did I just call you normal? That's got to be a first."
"Sod off," Spike said with a lazy two-fingered salute. "The thing is, you and me, we're going to live forever, unless we do something stupid." He ignored Angel's cough and kept going. "Most of the time, if we aren't dust at the end of the day we'll be right as rain by tomorrow or the day after. Which means we know even better how fucking fragile humans are in comparison."
"We've killed enough of them," Angel agreed.
"Yeah, but they didn't matter." When Angel's brows began to draw together in a nascent glare, Spike rolled his eyes and said, "Yeah, innocent lives, tormented soul, eternal hellfire and damnation, and so on ad bleeding infinitum. I know. Can we get back to the point here?"
"Be my guest." Angel took another swallow of his drink.
"Look, I've seen people I love be hurt or die, but nothing like this. Nothing where I could hear their heartbeats fading with every second. Nothing where their life's blood was pouring over my hands and I couldn't keep it in." His eyes unfocused, and his voice became soft. "I don't want to think of him that way, but I can't stop." He waited for the mocking he knew was going to come, but he couldn't seem to stop talking now that he'd started.
"I know," Angel said equally quietly, much to Spike's surprise.
"I don't know what to do about it."
"Neither do I. It's a fact of life. Theirs, anyway. Why do you think I didn't have any friends for a hundred years?"
The opening was too good to resist. "Because you've got the social skills of a brain-damaged orangutan?" At Angel's glower, Spike sighed and topped off his own glass. "Right, right, deep existential angst, whatever."
"My point is that I know getting close to humans can be hard for us for a lot of reasons." Angel lifted his eyebrows as he watched Spike. "It was definitely easier to stay away from them entirely."
"I'm not walking away from him," Spike told him flatly.
"I didn't think you would," Angel replied, his face returning to its usual broody planes, "but I'm glad to hear it, anyway. More or less."
Slumping further in his seat, Spike tried to ignore the approval in Angel's eyes and the flare of unbidden pleasure it gave him. "I couldn't even if I wanted to. I could barely walk out that door tonight, knowing he's going to be hurting because he'll forget his pills and probably his dinner as well."
"So he'll hurt a little," Angel said, though he didn't sound happy about it. "He's past the dangerous part; it'll just bother him. He needs to take care of himself."
"No, he doesn't. That's why I'm there."
Angel rolled his eyes. "Don't tell me you don't get the whole proving it to himself thing. Even I get that."
Spike favored him with a smirk. "Good for you. Yeah, I get it. But he picked up the sodding sock. Why can't I get him his dinner? How much does he have to prove?"
"Maybe part of what he wants is to prove to you that he's not weak."
Frowning, Spike swallowed the rest of his whiskey and considered that idea. "When did you suddenly get all insightful?" he asked.
"I don't know. Somewhere around the second glass of this?" Angel suggested, raising his own drink to his lips.
"For you or for me?"
Angel shrugged. "Maybe both?"
"Fair enough." Spike tipped his head, still contemplating what Angel had said. "But he's not weak."
"No, he isn't," Angel said, "but he is human. We aren't."
"And you think part of what's got him upset is him knowing one of us'd be long healed."
"I don't know. Maybe. He knows the difference. He's not stupid."
"Far from it," Spike agreed. "But it's not his fault."
"Yeah, but this is Wes. You even hint you're disappointed about something and he's ready to fall on his sword."
"Or pull it out before the wound's healed." Spike frowned and tried to make sense of the metaphor. "You know what I mean."
Angel nodded and filled their glasses with the last of the whiskey.
Spike slugged back his drink in one long gulp. "So I'm supposed to let him hurt himself so he thinks I won't be too disappointed in him healing like a mortal, even though I don't care that he is."
"Well, actually, you do care."
"No, I don't."
"Yeah, you do."
Spike glared. "I don't," he said more firmly.
"You do."
"No, I bloody well do not," Spike snarled, half-standing and leaning over the table toward Angel. The world was a bit wobbly, but he ignored it as he continued. "So get your head out of your - "
Angel raised himself in a more stable mirror of Spike's position and said in a tone that brooked no argument, "Sit down, Spike."
Much to both of their surprise, if Angel's widening eyes were any indication, Spike obeyed and slid back down onto the padded bench. The fight drained out of him as quickly as it had filled him with fire. "I don't care that he's human," he said with a sullen frown at his empty glass.
"You said you did." Sitting again, Angel held up one hand to forestall the argument on the tip of Spike's tongue. "You said it's different with him because you saw how easily hurt he is and now you can't forget it. Right?"
Spike tried to find fault in what Angel had said, but he couldn't. "Yeah."
"And since you haven't gotten any better at disguising your feelings, he probably knows how upset you are."
"Am I supposed to be happy? Of course I'm upset; he was this close to dead!" Spike held his thumb and forefinger a hair's breadth apart.
"I know," Angel said gently. "But he probably feels responsible."
"That's bollocks!"
"That's Wes."
Spike couldn't argue with that. "What am I supposed to do? Ignore him being in pain? That's not going to happen."
"I know relationships aren't exactly my strong suit," Angel said with something of a stern look to hold off Spike's commentary, "but maybe you could ease up a little."
"How can I sit back and watch him hurt when I can keep him from it?" Spike asked, looking helplessly up at Angel. "I have to help him."
Angel studied Spike's face. "Even if he doesn't want it?"
Dropping his gaze to the table, Spike considered again how much he was willing to share with Angel. "It's been weeks, and I still have nightmares of him most nights," he said finally. "Him bleeding to death in my arms and me not being able to do a sodding thing about it. Vail sticking that knife in again and again and me being too slow to stop him."
"Yeah, I can understand that." It sounded like Angel had some haunting stories of his own there to be investigated and perhaps exploited, but Spike left them for another time. No need to spoil the moment when Angel was actually trying to help him.
"I don't know if I can pretend I don't see him wincing when he breathes too deep." He rubbed a hand over his face. "And, fuck, I must be more drunk than I think I am to be telling you this."
"Probably," Angel said with amiable compassion.
"Oh, hell." Spike let his head fall back until it was resting against the leather cushion behind him. He wasn't sure he could fake not caring about Wesley's every move, but if that what was he had to do he'd try. He might go mad holding himself back, but he'd do his best, anyway.
"I know it isn't easy for you. You've always been this way."
"What way?"
Angel screwed up his face like he was having difficulty thinking of how to answer. "Maybe I'd better not answer that. This is an expensive suit."
"I don't even know why I rang you," Spike told him, pushing his glass to the center of the table.
"Because I know how you feel," Angel replied seriously.
"Yeah." The word was all but a sigh. "But I'm the one who has to pretend I don't feel it."
"No, you just have to keep yourself from smothering him. Give him some room to breathe. He's never responded well to people fussing over him."
"I'm not sure I can stop," Spike admitted.
"I know."
Spike saw only kindness and understanding in Angel's expression, which disturbed him in a way that he didn't want to think about. "Don't look at me like that."
Angel blinked. "Like what?"
"Like - " Spike waved his hand toward Angel's face. " - that. Like you're sympathetic. It's... unnatural, is what it is."
"Sorry," Angel said with a faint grin. "Should I tell you you're overreacting and he's fine?"
"No, because I bloody well know he isn't." He wasn't going to touch the idea that he was overreacting, since he very probably was. Most humans were used to the basic facts of their fragile mortality; he should be, too. He'd certainly counted on that fragility to get him his dinner for long enough.
"Look, if this is really bothering you, you should talk to Wes, not me," Angel said. He paused. "That holds true about almost everything, actually."
Spike sighed and shook his head. "He wouldn't understand."
"He's not some innocent kid, Spike; he's lost people, too."
"I know," Spike said, "but you said it yourself - if he thinks I'm disappointed that's all he's going to hear. He won't hear that I hate having to think about how he could be gone in an instant and I can't stop it; he'll hear I want him to be Superman."
"So what are you going to do?" Angel asked.
"I don't know. Take care of him when he's not looking. Stop treating him so much like one of Dru's china dolls." Spike rubbed at a spot on the table's surface. "Try not to think about how one day he won't bounce back from what life throws at him."
"That's true for everyone, Spike. Even us."
"Yeah. But I'm not letting it happen to him without a fight."
"Good." Angel smiled and slid out of the booth. "I probably won't ever say this to you again, but I'm glad he has you to look after him right now."
"Even though he isn't?" The alcohol had dulled the pain of that rejection enough that Spike could grin up at him.
"Yeah. Come on. I have to get back to work, and I want to make sure you get back to the apartment in one piece."
"I'm fine," Spike protested, but he let Angel tug him by the sleeve out of the booth. The world tilted under his feet for a moment, but once he was upright he felt pretty stable.
"I'm sure you are," Angel said, "but Wes'd never forgive me if I didn't. You know how scary he can be. Let's go."
*
Spike didn't actually feel all that much better as he fitted his key into the lock, but the ache in his chest had been numbed enough that he could push it aside a bit. He opened the front door and was surprised to find that not only were the lights on in the living room but that Wesley was sitting on the couch reading a book. It was far past when he usually would have been in bed, and Spike felt a flash of guilt that Wesley might have overtired himself waiting up for him.
Then he remembered that Wesley had made it clear that he was in charge of taking care of himself as he saw fit, and Spike squared his shoulders as he shut the door again and threw the locks.
"Welcome back," Wesley said, setting his book on his lap.
Spike nodded at the book. "Don't let me stop you." He tossed his coat on a nearby chair.
"You aren't. I was at the end of the chapter."
"Go on to the next one if that's what you want."
"Spike - " Wesley seemed at a loss as to how to continue, which wasn't exactly encouraging.
"Look, I'll stay out of your hair." Despite his words, Spike couldn't make himself leave. He automatically checked to see if Wesley had a glass of water and a pen and paper on the coffee table so that he could take notes if he wanted to. He did, and Spike found he was a bit disappointed about it.
"You're not in my hair," Wesley told him. "Spike - " He held out a hand. "Come here, please." The 'please' was a little soft, like he was nervous, and it decided Spike's next action. No matter what he was feeling, he couldn't not give into him.
He went over to stand next to the side of the couch and took Wesley's hand for a moment. It was warm but didn't feel feverishly so, and Wesley's eyes looked tired but more worried than anything else.
Wesley just barely smiled up at him, but some of the tightness around his eyes faded. "Thank you. How was your evening?"
"Fine. Yours?"
Wesley's smile became more forced, and Spike's own heart immediately sank to his stomach at the sight. Yeah, ass-over-teakettle for him, aren't I? What's the point in acting like I'm not?
"Fine, thank you." Wesley's hands moved like he was going to open his book again, and Spike knew with sudden clarity - or as much clarity as he could have with the world whirling lazily around him - that he shouldn't let that happen. Not if he wanted to patch things up and get on with the night.
"Called Angel," he said, which he knew would get Wesley's attention.
It did. Wesley looked him over from head to toes, a frown forming. "You did? Are you hurt?"
"Just drunk. And thanks ever so for the vote of confidence. I can hold my own against the poof."
The corner of Wesley's mouth tightened like he was trying not to smile. "Fine, then. Is he hurt?"
Spike shook his head. "Also drunk. Well, probably not drunk. Didn't have as much as me. But you'd be proud. No hitting at all." He held up his hands to show that they weren't bruised or bleeding.
"How very mature of you both," Wesley said dryly. "I'm sure I don't need to ask about kicking, either."
"'Course not. It's more manly using your fists than your feet. Though there's something about a good kick, knock a bloke's teeth right out..." He got lost for a second in a happy memory of blood splattering from some other vampire's mouth, an arc of gleaming near-black droplets gleaming in the moonlight.
Wesley's voice interrupted his thoughts. "I believe we're getting off track. You went drinking with Angel tonight?"
"Yeah."
"And you didn't hurt each other."
Spike was going to amend that statement only to do with physical hurt, since he'd got in a few good verbal jabs, but when he looked at the conversation as a whole it had actually been surprisingly cordial. He knew he'd wonder about that in the morning. "Nah. Just commiserated, really."
"Oh?" The word was as bland as Wesley could have possibly made it.
"Yeah." Spike cleared off a couple of books and sat on the coffee table next to Wesley. It was easier not being on his feet, not that he'd admit it out loud. "He's got more experience than me with this sort of thing. Though he's always bollixed it up. I'm trying not to do that."
"What do you think you're bollixing up?" Wesley asked softly.
"This. Us."
Wesley shook his head and sat forward. "You aren't," he insisted. "That's what I was trying to tell you before you - "
"Hush, let me talk, pet," Spike said, gently guiding him back against the cushions before he remembered that Wesley might not actually like to be touched. He pulled back as soon as Wesley was settled. "Let me just get this out, all right?"
"All right."
Now that Wesley was quiet, though, Spike had no idea where to begin. He wanted to talk about what he and Angel had said, but he really didn't want to bring Angel into it more than he had to. Besides, there'd been a lot there that Wesley didn't need to know.
He decided to start simply. "I'm a vampire," he said.
"I know, love," Wesley replied with a hint of a smile. "I had noticed."
"I'm not human."
Wesley went from amused to protective in an instant. "Spike, in every way that matters, you are - "
Spike cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Listen." He waited until Wesley nodded before filling his lungs and making himself continue. "When we're out helping people when I see blood I don't get squeamish or disgusted. I get hungry."
"That's only - "
"Natural," Spike cut him off again. "Right. Vampire's basic instinct toward blood. It's what I eat. Why wouldn't I like it? Your stomach'd rumble, too, if you saw a tasty steak. Nothing wrong with that unless I do something about it."
"Which you won't," Wesley said with a greater sense of sureness about that fact than Spike had some days.
"Which I won't," Spike repeated. "It's only the first second or two, anyhow, before I see what's going on. Not like I'm drooling on accident victims." He vaguely remembered doing something like that a few years back, but he'd grown.
"Of course you aren't. You're helping them, and you do a good job." There was Wesley speaking with two meanings again, Spike was sure of it, but he let it go. He was in no state to work out anything complicated.
"With you, though," he said slowly, "when it's your blood, I don't get hungry. I get sick. When you're hurting, there isn't any part of me that enjoys it. Not for a second. Not one part, not when it's you."
"Because you love me."
Spike swallowed and said softly, "Yeah."
"And this is... a problem?"
"Yeah." When Wesley stiffened, Spike hurried to say, "No. Loving you's not a problem. But I've got a lot to learn, pet."
"About me?" Wesley asked.
"About how not to bollix things up."
Wesley's frown deepened. "You aren't."
"I am," Spike said. He sighed. "Part of me right now wants to stick you in a vault and stand guard at the door."
"A vault?" The question was tinged with a morsel of humor, at least.
"A nice one. But you don't need that."
"No," Wesley replied, reaching out to touch Spike's knee. "I don't. But I like that you want to protect me." His mouth twitched again, and his eyes held a spark of amusement. "For the most part. I'm not certain about the vault."
"A nice one," Spike repeated. "With books and telly and whatever else you want."
Wesley squeezed Spike's knee. "That's very thoughtful of you."
"No it isn't," Spike said with a sigh. "That's the thing. It's not what you want, is it? You don't need it. No vault, no guard. None of it. Might be tempted, but I won't do it. Promise."
"I think that's for the best."
"But I'm still going to rip the head off anybody who tries to hurt you. You've got to give me that." If Wesley wouldn't let him, Spike wasn't sure what he'd do. He didn't know if he could learn not to want to protect him.
Much to Spike's relief, Wesley smiled at him and smoothed his hand back and forth across Spike's thigh. "Of course I will. I'd do the same for you, if I could."
Spike relaxed a little from the touch; he couldn't help it. "Better off sticking with your guns. Less to clean off your clothes after." He twined Wesley's elegant fingers together with his own.
"Oh, yes. Think of the dry cleaning bills."
"Pet... " Spike just looked at him. He was glad for the lighter tone, but he didn't know what else to say, didn't know whether he'd got his point across or just made a bigger mess of things.
"It's all right, Spike," Wesley told him. "Whatever you're thinking, it's all right. I'm not unhappy that you want to protect me. I apparently do need it from time to time, after all." He gestured vaguely at his shirt where it hid his stitches.
Spike shook his head. He didn't want Wesley being upset with himself, either. "No more than the rest of us. Comes with the job, right?"
Wesley hesitated for only a second before opening his mouth, but it was long enough for Spike to catch it, since he was watching his face closely. "Of course."
"Wes, you're not the only one who has close calls. Remember how we met, me popping out of that bleeding crystal? I should've been dust, would've stayed a ghost, but for you."
"That was different," Wesley said, glancing down at his hands. "That was in the line of duty, as it were. You saved the world."
"So did you."
"I was walking down the street," Wesley reminded him dryly.
"That doesn't matter," Spike said, since he didn't want to think about the specifics again. "The point is, pet, you don't need me driving you 'round the bend because of it. I'm sorry."
"You aren't driving me around the bend, Spike. If anything, it's the situation."
"Yeah, I know. Not easy for either of us, is it."
Wesley's mouth flattened, and he said quietly, "I didn't mean for this to hurt you, too."
Spike tried to stay calm. It didn't work. "What the hell kind of stupid thing is that to say?" he demanded. "Did you fall and hit your head when I was out? I bloody well love you, you git. If you're hurt, I'm hurt. That's how it works."
"Yes, but - " Wesley's eyes were wide and startled. "I don't want you to be upset."
"Upset? Upset? First few days I was worried out of my skull for you. Terrified. Damn near got kicked out of Wolfram & Hart twice for driving the doctors mad making sure they were watching you every second." Spike suddenly realized that he'd gone way off course from the conversation he was supposed to be having. He cleared his throat and lowered his voice. "I got over it." Mostly. "I know you're all right. But it made me see how much I'd do for you... and how little I can."
"You do many things for me. Many wonderful things, large and small." Wesley smoothed his thumb along the back of Spike's hand. "Including, I might add, ripping the head off of the demon who hurt me."
Spike looked up at him again. "Not fast enough."
Wesley looked right back. "I'm still here," he said. "That's enough. Isn't it?" His sharp focus made it obvious even to Spike that it was a very important question.
"That's everything." He raised Wesley's hand to his mouth and kissed it firmly. He inhaled, drawing in the smell of Wesley's skin and the lingering traces of ink, soup, and a pesky hint of bergamot. "Everything," he repeated, kissing Wesley's hand again.
"Then we'll sort out the rest as we go on," Wesley said, the light in his eyes turning bright and making Spike feel warm inside.
Spike nodded. "Right." He had to shut his eyes for a moment as the world lurched sharply to the left with his relief. "Bugger it. Used to be able to hold my liquor better than this. I'm getting soft."
"Not soft; still royally drunk, I think. Want some tea, love? It might help clear your head a bit. I'll make a pot. A nightcap, such as it is, before bed."
Bed sounded wonderful, especially with Wesley by his side. Spike didn't want tea, but he did want something. "Let me make it for you. Not because you can't; because I want to." He waited with some anxiety for the answer. If Wesley said no, Spike would have to back off even further. He wasn't sure he could.
When the answer came it was the right one, though: a simple and unburdened "Yes."
Spike didn't even mind that Wesley wanted Earl Grey.