Spike swam into consciousness slowly, stretching himself carefully in The Nest. He'd started thinking of it like that sometime Saturday - long about the third visit from a 'just was in the neighborhood' co-worker. From what Xander said, they all lived in the neighborhood, so what you actually had were people - a lot of people - who were worried about Xander. *Alex*.

It made Spike smile a little, thinking about it. A far cry from the Sunnyhell of old and the Scooby gang, whose self-absorption knew no bounds. Spike yawned and contemplated getting up, but not for long. It just felt so good here, snugged in and warm. *And weak. Don't forget the legs that barely get you across the room.*

He dismissed that inner voice, and pushed himself up on one elbow. He could hear Xander outside on the patio, talking. A moment later the door in the dining room was sliding open and Xander came in.

"No, I left a message, what I'd really like is an answer...no...look, can you just...hello? Hello? Damn it!"

Xander stomped around the end of the dividing wall, the cordless phone in his hand, looking pissed off. His hair was dripping onto his shoulders and he had a towel around his waist and Spike could smell chlorine. Xander'd been swimming between calls.

"Morning, pet. Or - is it afternoon?"

Xander snorted, dropping the phone onto the couch end table and unwrapping his towel, using it to scrub at his hair. "Still morning, but you wouldn't know it from how many people have hung up on me already. You'd be amazed how touchy magic shop owners get when a stranger calls asking about a supplier for human blood."

He gave his shoulders a quick rubdown then tossed the towel at one of the bar stools at the counter as he wandered into the kitchen, calling back to Spike. "O neg or O pos? Sunnyside up or...no, that doesn't work." Xander opened the refrigerator, surveying the contents before yanking out the milk and cereal for his own breakfast. *Still cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs after all these years. Thank you, Saturday Morning Television.*

"Either'll do."

"Eenie meenie minie..." Xander shook his head, just grabbing the bag on top and preparing Spike's blood alongside his cereal. "You know places to get blood in LA, right? Because we really are down to the last few, and I think stealing it from Alicia is only something my heart can stand once in this lifetime."

"Sure we can come up with something," Spike answered absently, blinking into the empty spot where Xander had been standing. *Guess he...went native in Africa. Never was that casual in the basement.* Xander didn't have the dark tan his day-shift counterparts did, but he was tan. Tan all over, because Xander apparently swam in the nude, and also, apparently didn't mind Spike knowing. Spike didn't have a problem with it himself, truth be told, but his experience with Harris in the past hadn't been one of casual, comfortable nudity.

*Startin' to rub off on him,* Spike thought with a small smirk. Abruptly he changed his mind and decided he wanted to get up. He gathered himself together and slowly pushed himself upright, tugging the folds of the silk sheet around him. The cheap pine of the barstools was rough and unpleasant and he'd need the sheet for padding. He went carefully into the kitchen, a little floaty from the pills, and folded the majority of the sheet onto the stool and eased himself up onto it, making sure the sheet was under his feet as well when he put them on the bottom rung.

"I hope so, because it's that or pig blood, and I really don't want to feed you pig blood. Pause to marvel at the amazing evolution of Alexander Harris." Xander peeked back over his shoulder to find Spike staring at him with a nonplussed expression on his face. "I ate a lot of unpleasant stuff in Africa, Spike," he said, and hoped Spike would get the rest. If pig blood was to Spike anything like some of the canned horrors Xander had fed himself on in Africa were to him, the stuff would never again grace his refrigerator.

Unlike orange juice. *Ah, sunny orange juice. How I missed you on the Dark Continent.* Xander traded milk for a carton of orange juice and bumped the door closed with a hip, scribbling it onto his shopping list beneath Spike's B..

Xander was stretching up into a cabinet for a glass and Spike idly studied him.

Whittled down from his former Sunnydale heaviness by hard work and Africa - he'd gotten dysentery too many times to count, he'd said - he had the long, sinewy muscles of someone who'd spent a lot of time walking, running, and lifting. A set of parallel scars showed on his right shoulder-blade where he'd gotten caught in some razor-wire in a refugee camp in Senegal.

Another scar, long, twisty and slightly raised, ran from the outside of his left thigh to the back of his knee, courtesy of a rampaging wildebeest.

And, when he turned around, grinning, purple-starred glass in one hand, Spike's blood in the other, Spike could see the ugly, puckered wound of a gun-shot right below his rib-cage. Gift of a soldier, somewhere in Mozambique.

*Been around, he has. And look at him - grin like Christmas morning.* Spike couldn't help but grin back.

Xander laughed, looking into the silverware drawer and plucking out a blue straw. "Matches your eyes," he said, dropping it into Spike's warmed blood and pushing it across the counter. Leaving his cereal on the countertop, Xander circled around and bent to retrieve the towel that'd slithered off its intended stool, draping two layers of it carefully over the cheap pine because there were places where a wise man just didn't risk getting splinters. "So," he said, settling in. "LA. Blood. Contacts. Got any? Because I've called every place from here to Oxnard, and I've got jack."

"Got a couple people - well, not people people..." Spike sucked up some blood, thinking. "Might even be able to find us a contact up here, you know?" He cradled his warm mug in his hands. *Still hasn't noticed his bollocks to the wind. Because...* Spike took a sharp breath, realization dawning. *He trusts me. Trusts me enough to...do that. God.* Then something Xander had said finally registered and he turned an incredulous grin on Xander. "Matches my eyes, pet? Think you're takin' your duties as a harem boy too seriously."

Xander grinned around a mouthful of cereal, washing it down with orange juice and a grimace. *Okay. One of these days I will remember not to wash the milky chocolate down with the orange juice. I've gotta get a coffee maker.* "It's your eyes or your toga, and I'm running out of red straws for that one." He felt a small knot of tension ease as Spike didn't seem to be bothered by Xander's after swim habits, and dug into his cereal anew. *Jesus. I'm either going to have to put that load in the dryer today or buy a new wardrobe.*

Spike grinned around his straw and slurped up some blood. "Can't be anything worse then pig's blood, mate. S'like...like..." Spike couldn't think of any human food that he'd ever eaten that compared to pigs blood when you were used to the hot vitality of human blood from the jugular of a squirming, terrified victim.

*Good times...* he thought, sighing, and then perked up.

"How about cuttin' us a slice of that cake then?"

"Which one? The chocolate cake with white frosting from Mariel, or the...pink cake from Deb?" Which had turned out to be surprisingly good once a guy got past the pinkness. They still hadn't been able to agree on a flavor for it.

He pushed his bowl aside, leaning across the counter to snag a couple of plates and forks, grabbing a knife on the way. "Oh, and don't forget the sheet coffee cake Angela's grandmother made for us." It was getting hard not to laugh, because some time after mid-day on Saturday, the wives had started to come over more often than the husbands. He was starting to think it had something to do with Spike's stylin' toga.

"There's coffee cake?" Spike perked even more, because coffee cake when done by a deft hand - and somebody's grandmother had to be deft - was sheer heaven.

"Coffee cake it is," Xander said, peeling back a layer of cling film. Spike watched him, admiring the bunch and play of muscles in Xander's abdomen as he leaned over the counter again, going for a paper towel. *Thank god he's not some beer-gut breeder. At least I've got something nice to look at while I recuperate. Speaking of recuperating...* Spike slurped up some more blood, wondering how to broach the subject. He'd come to a conclusion some time in the night about his 'cure', or lack thereof. He was pretty sure, unless a sodding miracle happened in the next few days that he'd have to do something drastic. He was at a plateau, but he could feel it eroding underneath him. He slept more, felt weaker, and was taking eight of the little white pills now.

He wasn't getting better, and he was pretty sure the only person who could help him was in L.A. He was pretty sure he needed to call Wes.

"Xan...need to talk to you for a minute..." he said slowly, and saw a brief flash of uncertainty in that bright, laughing brown eye.

*Not even got the patch on, and I didn't even notice. And neither did he. Maybe this'll be okay.*

Xander cut and retrieved the cake slowly, trying not to feel the punch-in-the-gut feeling those words still brought out in him, fiddling with the paper towels and forks before setting it at Spike's elbow.

"Pet?"

Xander flashed Spike an apologetic grimace, rubbing at the hollow feeling just below his ribs. "Historically speaking, those words are not the prelude to a happy conversation, Spike." He lifted another slice of the cake onto his own plate and stuffed a bite into his mouth. A chewing mouth gathered no feet.

"Not like I'm given' you back your pin, Harris. You git," Spike teased, and smirked when Xander blushed. "I was just - thinkin' that maybe... Maybe I'm gonna have to call Wes on this." He braced himself, although for what, precisely, he wasn't sure. Just...something. *Know he's not too keen on the L.A. crew, but...I'm out of ideas.*

"What about Angel?"

"No Angel. Just Wes."

Tension left Xander with a whoosh of breath. "Spike." He reached out, fingers stopping just short of brushing Spike's thigh, catching the silk instead. "If Wes can find a cure for you, I will personally drive to his door and camp out there until he agrees to do it."

"Probably won't have to do that." Spike felt the hairs along his thigh raise up, reacting to the heat of Xander's hand, hovering so close. "Me and Wes...we kind of... Well, we got along there at the end, you know? He was... He'd lost...someone and..." Spike wasn't sure what to say - wasn't sure Xander wanted to hear the whole sorry mess of Fred and Wes and Illyria. Wasn't sure he wanted to tell it.

"'Sides, Wes knows when to keep his mouth shut. Angel's gotten an even bigger stick up his arse since the big 'blaze of glory' that wasn't. He'd probably just stake me to put me out of my misery."

"How 'bout staking Angel to put him out of our misery?" Xander muttered, giving his cake a poke before glancing over at Spike, looking just a little guilty and nodding again. "Okay. We call Wes. But..." He trailed off, frowning.

"But what?"

"Why'd you wait all weekend to suggest him? I mean, if things are good between the two of you." The question came out, to Xander's relief, honestly confused without a whiff of whine.

"Oh, I just..." Spike hesitated, pulling his straw out of the cup and using it to dribble blood over the last couple bites of coffee cake. *Didn't want to admit to being that sick. Didn't want to admit to being at my wit's end...* He glanced over at Xander who looked - expectant, and not pissed off, or upset. *Do I lie? Or do I...spook him? Well, that's assuming he'll be spooked.* His gaze wandered down for just a moment, to the bullet-scar and the top of a naked thigh, and he made up his mind.

"He's kind of my last resort, Xander," he said quietly.

Xander could almost feel Spike's gaze, tracking from one scar to another, and when he spoke, hearing it was almost a relief. God, he was sick of pretending things were all right when they weren't. He nodded. "I kinda figured." When Spike looked up at him, he went on. "You...really don't look good."

"Thought I was pretty enough to be in your harem." Spike spoke with a small smile but he knew Xander was right. He knew...from the shocked looks on Xander's friends' faces when they first caught sight of him, and no amount of flourish with a red silk sheet or 150 years of experience charming the willing and unwilling into his bed could hide the fact that he looked... *A right mess. They probably think I'm one of those sorry bastards with the AIDS... Fuckin' hell. Sorry, Xan...didn't mean to get you into this mess...*

Spike's small smile where a smirk should be hurt to watch, so Xander shrugged, waving what he hoped was a regal enough looking hand. "I'm a carpenter, Spike. My belief in fixer-uppers extends to my harem." He debated silently with himself for a moment whether or not to say the rest, then gave in, because pleasant or not, it was pretty true. "And if there's one thing I learned in my years as a Scooby, it's that it's pretty hard to kill a vampire with anything but decapitation or a stake."

*And even then, it's not gonna be easy.*

"First I'm the girl, now I'm some...some neglected Victorian that just needs some goateed carpenter's TLC?"

"As if even Bob Vila could resist you, you sexy fool."

Spike stared in astonishment at Xander for one long moment and then they both lost it, laughing hysterically until Spike was clutching at the countertop to keep himself from falling off his stool and Xander was wheezing like an asthmatic.

"Bloody...buggering...fuck!" Spike gasped, wincing a little at the sizzle of pain up his chest. "You're the living end, mate."

"The fine quality of my humor has only improved with age," Xander intoned solemnly, gathering up empty plate, bowl, and glass and circling the counter to put them in the dish washer, rinsing out Spike's empty mug as well before leaning his elbows on the counter, and his chin on one hand. "So we call Wes, heal you up, and then come back here to resume this crazy fun filled thing called life."

And after that, if Spike was planning to leave, Xander really didn't want to know.

*Come back here. Come back here. Was that...an invitation? Huh. Why does he want to come back here? Got the whole world to wander...* "If we're lucky. If Wes can help. If - if... Too many bloody 'if's! Vampire's don't get sick! It's bloody impossible." Spike sighed, looking at Xander who was looking back solemnly. "Or, I thought it was impossible."

Xander tipped his head. "Angel never told you about being poisoned by Faith, did he?" The look of surprise on Spike's face was all the confirmation Xander needed. "When Faith was still in Sunnydale working for the mayor, she shot Angel with a poisoned arrow, this stuff called Killer of the Dead. Made him weak. Made him feverish, with all this weird," Xander indicated the red crazing on Angel's chest over the same place on his own, "veining or something. Looked like a gunshot scar gone nuts. He was worse off than you are now."

Spike stared at Xander, feeling a bubble of hope rise in his chest. "Yeah? Knew I liked that chit... So - how'd they cure him? Hair-shirt and a rosary?"

"Blood of a slayer." Xander flicked a glance at Spike through his hair. "He drained Buffy."

Spike was literally speechless, a whole gamut of remarks rising up and then being discarded. He settled for a disgusted snort. "Bet that added ten years penance and a whole slew of Hail Mary's. Miserable bastard. Oh!" He grinned and Xander lifted both eyebrows in anticipation, the lid of his missing eye moving slightly. "Does that mean I get to drain Kennedy?"

"God, please. Even if it's not the same poison, drain her with my blessings." Xander dropped his head into his arms, smiling. "It's probably not, though. He had this weird red stuff. Not black. And it moved fast. A day after he was hit, he was worse off than you were in the church. And he'd been feeding."

"Wouldn't mind a trip to Brazil," Spike said vaguely, remembering being there with Dru, and how Dru had wanted to climb up to the top of the big Jesus statue - look into his eyes, she said, and see if there was a soul in there. A twitchy, unpleasantly hot feeling was coming over him, and suddenly every nerve ending seemed to wake up and scream - to burn.

"Fuckin' pills're wearin' off -" he said, pushing himself clumsily off the stool. The next thing he knew he was on his arse on the floor, the silk puddled over one thigh and his whole body feeling very much like it did when he had started to burn under - *Under here. Right under here, under this fucking town that should have gone straight to hell.*

Xander saw the twitch first, made it to Spike's side as he collapsed, swearing under his breath. "Come on. Back to The Nest. More pills. More booze. I call Wesley." Because talking was always so much easier than thinking. The silk tickled his legs as he carried Spike back to the living room, walking awkwardly with the effort to avoid too much contact on Spike's over-sensitive skin.

*Bloody hell. This is getting -* "Ridiculous, mate, it's..." Spike felt the first warning cramps in his back and legs as the fever - never far away - decided to kick back in. "Fuck. Aspirin too," he gritted, jaw clenched tight, and Xander nodded, his hair brushing Spike's face as he carefully lowered him back into The Nest.

"Didn't even g-get to enjoy bein' carried by my naked ha-harem boy," Spike joked, but his voice trembled and Xander lightly touched his cheek, eye dark and stormy.

"Shh." Because if there was one thing Xander recognized, it was babble to distract someone from seeing how bad off you really were. Which was about the worst time to stop and talk. He left Spike in the pillows on top of his silk, stoked the fire, and snatched up the pills, pouring the last handful into Spike's palm, cupping his hand from beneath until he took them, if shakily.

*Gotta get more of those in LA too. Fuck, I don't want to need them.* Xander thought, walking to the bathroom for the aspirin, and maybe a cool wash cloth.

And he didn't need to think about the funny tingle Spike's words started in his belly, because naked? He had no secrets and now was not the time to be thinking about naked harem boy games with Spike.

Not that any time was -

Xander stilled, one hand raised to the bathroom cabinet. *Okay. So not the time to be going there.*

On the way back, he considered stopping to pull on a pair of sweatpants, but resisted the urge. Because about the last thing he wanted to do just then was start hiding from Spike.

Spike resisted the urge to curl into a ball, knowing that it would hurt more if he did but hating the way his legs jerked and trembled as the fever ramped up faster than should be possible. He watched Xander stride back from the bathroom, the aspirin bottle in one hand and a washcloth in the other. He looked - off, somehow, but he knelt down and opened the aspirin up - dumped out six and reached for the half-empty bottle of Jack sitting near the edge of The Nest. Spike managed to get the aspirin into his mouth and then took a couple of big swallows of the whiskey.

Xander took the bottle back and seemed about to say something, and Spike reached out and touched his knee, trying for a smile.

"Thanks, Xander."

Xander let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and focused on capping the bottle instead. "Just wait until I have a cold or something, and you can pay me back with interest. Me in piles of soaked Kleenex? Not pretty." He settled himself cross-legged at the edge of The Nest, cradling the phone. "Do you remember Wesley's number? Or do I get started pissing off Directory Assistance asking for every Wyndam-Pryce in the Greater Los Angeles area?"

"Got his number in my c-coat," Spike said, and sighed gratefully as Xander tugged a blanket up higher around his shoulders before getting up and going to the coat tree by the door. He carried it back over and laid it gently over his knees and then looked at Spike. Spike looked back - blinked - then realized what Xander was doing.

"Inside right breast pocket, pet. You don't need to a-ask."

The coat lay heavy across Xander's knees; felt like the weight of everything it'd seen was stitched into the seams, and it felt alive as only well-worn leather could. Xander realized that this weekend...was the first time he'd ever actually touched the coat. When it wasn't on Spike.

"W-what's so funny?"

"I think your pet coat likes me," Xander said, then laughed at himself for how inane that sounded coming out, slipping his hand into the right breast pocket and coming up with a small leather address book. He blinked. "Nice."

"Fred gave me that," Spike said without thinking, and then bit his lip. He really did not want to talk about Fred right now. He hoped Xander wouldn't ask. "My coat likes those that treat it with the respect it deserves. S'why it's been with me all this time."

A hard spasm of shivers wracked him and he closed his eyes. Only thing he could do, until the pills kicked in. Wait it out - suffer it, like some sort of martyr. *Fuck that. Not even Catholic. Don't wanna be a saint, for fuck's sake.* "Think I put Wes under 'E'. Ex-Watcher."

Xander grinned even as he flipped through the little book, leaving the coat across his legs, one hand unconsciously smoothing the leather. *I didn't expect it to be this soft.* "You file like Cordy."

"Find what I'm looking for, don't I?"

"Right there, under E. I guess you do." When he started to dial though, he hesitated. "Do you want to talk to him? I mean...the last time I saw him, we were both pretty...different."

*At least he was as much of an asshole to me as I was to him.*

One shaky finger stroked the skin between Xander's brows. "What's got you thinking, pet?"

"Just changes." Xander caught Spike's wrist as it tremored, eased it down to rest on the coat over his lap. "I'd probably like him better now."

"You probably would." Spike thought for a moment and then nodded, making up his mind. "You dial it for me, yeah? And I'll talk. Might go easier." Xander nodded, concentrating on the phone and dialing for a moment, and then handing the slim instrument over when it began to ring.

"Wyndam-Pryce, good morning," Wes said, and Spike took a huge breath and almost choked.

"Wes? Wes, mate it's -"

"Good - god, Ss- No! Uh - Seven is incorrect. Angel, let me just take this call and I'll be right with you."

There was a murmured reply, and then the sounds of a door - another door - opening and closing, and then Wes's voice again, slightly breathless.

"Spike? Is that - is that really you?"

"Yeah, s'me. Listen Wes, I need -"

"Where are you? Where in hell have you been? You've managed to annoy Angel without even being here. Quite a feat."

Spike could hear the dry humor in the other man's voice and he chuckled softly. "Always do my best when it comes to annoying the poof, Wes... Listen, I really - really need your help."

There was a long moment of silence, and then a sigh. "Do I actually get any sort of explanation? Or am I expected to fly blind?"

"I... Damn-it, Percy..." Spike sighed, watching Xander make 'what's going on?' faces. He reached over and whapped him on the knee, making his own face back.

"I'm...sick."

Another long silence, and Spike squirmed uncomfortably, the phone actually heavy, his arm shaking from the position he was holding it in. *Christ. Can't even do this...*

"Sick? Vampire's don't get sick, Spike."

"Angel did. Xander said that -"

"Xander said? You mean - Alexander Harris? Are you with him? Where are you? Spike -"

"Look, Wes, I can't - I can't hold up the phone, okay? I'm - I'm gonna let you talk to Xander for a minute 'til I can... 'Til I get my second wind, yeah? Hang on."

Spike passed the phone to Xander with relief, ignoring the panicked look that crossed the man's face.

'Talk to him!' he mouthed, and Xander mouthed back 'No!'

"Xan, please? Just - tell him where we are an' stuff until I can - until the pills kick in, yeah?"

Xander slumped, looking defeated, and eyed the phone with trepidation.

"You so owe me, blondie," Xander said, but Spike looked so exhausted in the pillows, he couldn't feel anything but the worry. "Hey, Wes...ley," Xander added, wincing. How formal was he supposed to be with Ex-Watcher British Guy anyway? He found Spike's hand where it lay on the leather of the duster and wrapped his fingers around it, thumb sweeping a gentle arc across the palm. "Shit, let me start again. Spike's still here. He's sick."

"Ale-...Xander, where is 'here'?"

At Wesley's irritated tone, one part of Xander winced, another snapped, and he took a deep calming breath, feeling the comforting slide of the leather pouch around his neck with the motion. *I am mature, grown up Xander version 3.0.* "Couple of hours from LA," And then, because he might have been mature but he wasn't a saint, he added: "And this is about Spike. I'm almost out of blood for him. Human. Not the shit Angel made him drink."

"Why is he with you? Xander, please, humor me."

Feeling the knot of tension building in his shoulders, Xander let go of Spike's hand to rest his fingers back on the duster, clenching and un-clenching them on the coat until he felt Spike's light touch on the back, and turned his hand over again to let Spike's lay against his palm. "Because I found him in really bad shape, and I'm-" He looked up at Spike, unsure if Spike wouldn't want Wesley to know he's being taken care of.

"Go on, pet. He'll have to know if he's to help."

"I'm taking care of him," Xander finished. "But I don't know what's wrong with him. And neither does he."

"You found him... Xander, I really am going to need the full story if I'm to help at all." Xander closed his eyes for a moment and Spike curled his fingers around Xander's hand, silently urging him on.

"Okay...I'm - we're in Sunnydale. I've been living here, helping to rebuild...it's this whole...thing, okay? And - Spike - was here, just... Well, what he was doing here is his own business..."

Xander looked at Spike for confirmation and Spike raised a faint grin, nodding. Xander felt vaguely queasy telling Wesley where they were, irrational as it might have been. "Some of the buildings here went down whole in the collapse last year. I found him delirious in a church and pulled him out, took him home. And look, we really don't want to involve Angel, or the Council, or -"

"Xander."

Xander stopped.

"I promise you that what you tell me will be held in complete confidence. And this will be easier on both of us, and on Spike, if you simply describe to me Spike's condition when you found him." He sighed. "I assure you I'm no more comfortable speaking to you at this moment than you are speaking to me. Go on."

Xander blinked. *Okay. Wesley has changed.* "Feverish. And you know how weird that is on a vampire. Delirious, like I said. He's got these three black slashes across his upper body that hurt him like a bastard. All of him hurts. When I found him, he couldn't handle the weight of his boots or coat."

"Did he get a look at the demon?"

"Uh. Spidery?" Xander looked to Spike for confirmation, receiving a nod, and nodded himself. "Spidery."

"Chitinous," Spike supplied helpfully.

"Chitinous, Spike says. Which is not a word that means anything to me, so I hope it means something to you."

Wesley laughed, and Xander found that the laugh made him sound like a different person completely. "Yes, it means something to me. And...how long has he been sick?"

"Ummm...a while. I mean, He's only been here a few days but..." Spike's wrist twitched under Xander's unconsciously stroking fingers, so he stilled. "And he's weak, Wes. Really weak."

"When - was he hurt?" Wesley asked slowly, and Xander heard the sudden tension in his voice.

"It happened in L.A. When all that - stuff - happened."

"But those were healed - Wesley stopped abruptly, and Xander heard a knock in the background. "Angel, if it cannot wait... Excuse me a moment." Xander listened to the click of the 'hold' button, gut tightening.

"What?" Spike asked.

"How sensitive is Angel's hearing?"

Spike snorted. "Trust Wesley to know. You're in no danger of being overheard with him, pet."

"He's that paranoid?"

Spike shrugged. "He knows Angel."

"And now you make me doubt his sanity."

Spike considered that, grinning a little. "Well, he did kinda lose it there for a while. Stabbed Gunn, shot some poor sod of an intern in the leg -" Xander's eye was getting wider and wider and Spike had to laugh. *Fuckin' pills finally kickin' in. Thank Christ.*

"Here - lemme have the phone, I can do it now," he added, holding out a hand that still shook like an old man's. *At least it doesn't hurt so much now, though. Thank god for chemicals.*

"Isn't Gunn a good guy?" Xander managed to ask in the whirl of mental-conflict between the Wesley he knew and the Wesley on the other end of the phone.

Spike smirked, taking the phone from him and bringing it to his ear. "He got better."

"Oh. Great."

"Yes, I'm back now, Xan- Spike? What are the two of you snickering about?"

"Your imitation of Billy the Kidd, Wes. Listen, you've got the basics, yeah? Think you can help me or not?"

"Billy the -? Spike, it's hardly necessary to tell Xander about that, and yes, I think I can help. But I would ideally need to see you in person."

A 'no' rose automatically to Spike's lips but he checked it, lying there watching at Xander's hand flex slowly around his. "Are you...sure, Wes? I mean, you've got that great big brain, why do you need to see me?"

'See you?' Xander mouthed, with what looked like alarm, and Spike nodded slowly.

"I want to be sure I get my diagnosis right, Spike. I would feel very uncomfortable doing this strictly over the phone. Listen, I have to get back to - to things, why don't you...two...think about it and call me back around...three? I'll be in my office then."

Spike thought that over for a minute - felt himself drifting off almost, the pills making everything sharp-edged and too bright and he'd closed his eyes.

"Yeah, that's - that's a good idea. Ta, Wes."

"Goodbye."

Wes disconnected and Spike let the phone slip from his hand - felt Xander take it and heard him turn it off.

"So what's the plan, Stan?" Xander asked.

"Call him back at three, and - he wants us to go down there. Meet him." Spike forced his eyes open and looked up at Xander. "Might be the only way, pet."

Xander nodded, laying his hand over Spike's again, then turning the phone on, dialing before he could change his mind and give in to the protective instinct to...shut everyone who wasn't Sunnydale out. And how weird was it that the Scoobs weren't Sunnydale anymore? Not to him.

"Who're you calling now?"

Xander's lips twisted into something like a rueful smile. "Carl. I'm going to call in my vacation days. See if Julio's coming up in time to take over my crew for a week."

"Mmmm... Holiday. Should go to the beach. Dru loved the beach..." Spike murmured, closing his eyes again and just drifting. "She was always tryin' to find a mermaid or a - selkie."

The pills really were working now, and Spike felt like he was floating up to the ceiling, tethered to the earth only by Xander's light grip on his hand.

It felt...nice.

"Did she ever find one?"

"Nah. Found some pretty shells. Had a headdress made of 'em for her once. Looked like a selkie herself." Spike's words trailed off vaguely, and Xander bent his head over Spike's arm, running his fingers from shoulder to wrist. It'd felt...nice having it done to him when he was in the midst of one of the five million bouts of dysentery he'd gone through in Africa. Cooled down the fever. Soothed the aches. Sort of hypnotic.

But nice.

With his other hand, he brought up Carl's number on the speed dial and waited.

Spike was aware, in a peripheral sort of way, of voices. Rather hushed ones, talking back and forth nearby. Like church, sort of, and he twisted a little, wondering why he was on his back.

"Angelus, leave off the chatter for god's sake and come on, the girls are waiting!" he called, impatient as always of Angelus' annoying habit of chatting up, then shocking every priest he came across. And then draining dry, of course.

"Just have your dinner and be done," he added, and groped for his coat. Where was it? He was so cold. *Damn drafty churches - it's a wonder we all didn't catch pneumonia and die.*

Xander returned to find Spike shivering, groping blindly for the edges of the sheet that had drifted away as he slept. "Hey."

"'Gelus?"

"Wow, even out of it, you really know how to insult a guy, Spike." Xander rested his hand on Spike's forehead, feeling the heat pouring off of him. He smoothed the skin between Spike's eyebrows with a thumb until Spike opened his eyes and squinted.

"Xan?"

"Yeah. It's me. Time to go. Carl helped me load everything into the truck for the trip to LA."

Spike struggled to sit up until Xander slid an arm under his shoulders, helping him, letting him rest bonelessly against his chest, smelling more of spice and wood smoke now than cigarettes and leather. He held pills, and water - with a green straw this time.

"What 'everything'?" Spike asked, still too sleep-muddled and groggy to do more than obediently take pills and water as Xander held them to his lips.

"Pillows. Lots of them. And some soft traveling clothes. You've got a nest in the back of the truck now and he couldn't find any soft shirts, but if you don't mind going used, this one's pretty soft, and still warm." Xander undraped the ancient flannel shirt from his arm. It'd seen him half way across Africa until it got too hot to wear it anymore.

Spike blinked a couple of times, forcing his vision to focus until he could see the faded, once-red shirt that Xander was holding out. He gathered it up and in an unconscious movement lifted it to his face and took a deep sniff. *Xander, smells like...sweet-salt-spice, like apple dumplings and...that peppery scent...Africa, that's Africa...* He nodded, shifting a little and struggling with the shirt.

"Don't mind, pet. Nice and soft," he said, trying to find the collar so he could slip it on.

"Here." Xander took the edges of the shirt, unbuttoning it and holding it for Spike to slip his arms into, drawing it up to his shoulders. "You should probably wear it open, keep it off the slashes. Carl picked up sweat pants for you too. The really new, soft -" Xander realized that Spike was looking at him with an utterly blank expression. "Uh. Have you ever worn sweat pants before?"

The arch of Spike's eyebrows was especially eloquent.

Xander groaned. "Right. Stupid me forgetting about vampires who have no circulation and go walking around in skin tight jeans all the time."

*William the Bloody in...athletic gear. Sodding lovely.* Spike took pity on Xander's crestfallen expression and did not say what he was thinking aloud.

"If they're as soft as this shirt, mate, they'll be lovely. Don't think I could stand the jeans now, anyway." He patted lightly at Xander's arm and smiled at him, and then smiled more when Xander immediately perked up. *What makes him care what I think, anyway? Strange...sweet boy...*

"And I don't wanna explain to the California Highway Patrol why there's a guy in my back seat naked from the waist down and stoned out of his mind." Xander unfolded the sweatpants - black, in deference to Spike's tastes - and about four sizes too large.

It was getting both easier and harder to slide an arm around Spike's ribs to steady him. Easier as Xander learned where not to touch, but harder, much harder, to feel how little Spike was able to help, how quickly Spike's strength was draining away from him. "Never thought I'd miss having you strong enough to toss me out of your way like a sack of rags." He propped Spike up with pillows, scooting down to his feet to help him dress.

"Rags, rags...rags and jags and one in a velvet gown..." Spike watched as Xander carefully threaded his feet through the bottoms of the sweatpants and then just as carefully pulled the loose, fleecy-soft material up his legs.

"What's that, blondie?" Xander asked, pulling the drawstring tight enough to keep the sweats on his hips, but not so tight that they cut into his skin.

"The beggars, love - but then, you never minded beggars, did you? Had some home for a lovely supper some nights, and then..."

Spike stopped when Xander looked up at him and the single, wary eye and dark, patched socket jolted his memory. "Sorry, pet. Got...confused for a minute."

"Got crazy for a minute, you mean," Xander answered, and shifted forward until he could slip his arms under Spike, testing the softness of the material. "Okay?"

"Okay." Spike's laid his hand against Xander's chest, patting lightly through the shirt. "Just, make it quick, yeah?"

"It's getting worse?"

"'S not getting better," Spike said after a moment.

"Do you -" Xander's eye fell on the empty bottle of Jack and he gave Spike a rueful smile. "I'll pick up another bottle on the way out of town."

"Ta ever so," Spike murmured, teeth gritted. Xander stood smoothly and started walking, carrying him as carefully as he could, but his weight pressed flesh to bone and Xander's jean-button kept scraping his hip. The air felt frigid once they'd moved away from the fireplace and Spike started to shiver. Xander stepped slowly down into the garage and over to his truck, which stood with the doors open and the front seat folded down.

Just like he'd said, there was another Nest in the back and Xander stood there for a moment, obviously wondering how he was going to get Spike in.

"Just - just get me close, Xander and I can - climb up, yeah?"

"We'll try," Xander said, sounding uncertain of the plan, but he maneuvered them both until Spike could reach out and get his elbows onto the edge and start a slow, painful craw into the padded space. He kept his mouth clamped shut but a tiny whimper of pain escaped him nonetheless.

"Oh, fuck. Sorry, damn-it - let me -"

"No, it's - I'm... I'm fine," Spike gasped and flopped down, pulling his legs slowly inside. "Did - did you call Wes? Is it past three yet?" he asked, that memory suddenly surfacing and making him panic, a little, because for the first time in a long time, he had no idea whatsoever what time of day it was.

Xander saw the first flickers of panic in Spike's eyes and leaned into the back seat until he could tangle his fingers with Spike's, just holding them. "Yeah. I called back a few hours ago. It's almost eight now. Said he's got a couple of leads but needs to see you. He thinks he knows what kind of demon it was. A... Jesus, it was something that sounded like 'constant rat abuse'," Xander admitted, tucking the pillows and blankets up around Spike so that he couldn't roll into anything hard or painful and setting the front seats upright again.

Spike chuckled, if weakly. "Pet, if I knew what the demon's name was, I would've told Wes, yeah?"

"Yeah, well, the point is that he thinks he knows what it was, and if it was, he said he'll know after he checks you out." Xander finally risked a look at Spike only to be met with wide, uncertain eyes. "I gave him the motel address, but he said it could take him a couple of days to get to us. Angel's suspicious."

"Meddling git. Wes'll figure a way - he's sneaky, really. Found out about the mind-wipe, didn't he? Got his memories back. Got Connor's." Spike watched Xander pat at his pockets, mumbling a mental checklist, and then reach for the keys and start the truck. The rumble seemed louder than before, echoing in the confined space of the garage and Spike resisted the urge to cover his ears.

"That's about what he said only he was more English about it."

"I'm English!"

"Spike, you're in a category all your own."

Spike snorted, and Xander thought he heard him mutter something that sounded like "Even called the wanker a 'meddling git'. You don't get much more fucking English than 'git'."

"Spike?" Xander asked, waiting for the garage door to open, then backing out onto the blunt driveway of his house, just like the blunt driveway of every other house in site.

"Yeah, pet."

"What do you mean mind wipe?"

"Oh...that." Spike paused for a moment to try and clear his head. The rumble of the truck was like the deep turbine groan of the ship he and Dru had crossed to America on, and he kept getting little flashes of that trip, and Dru at the bow, leaning into the stiff breeze, watching with fascination the curling wave of white-capped water that surged and hung just under the iron prow.

Intent on seeing a mermaid, and being childishly pleased to see a leaping, gleaming porpoise.

"See, Angel had a son with Darla -"

"Uh. Huh." Xander flipped the headlights on, keeping the truck at a crawl through the subdivision's twists and turns. "Dead Darla? Sire Darla?"

"That'd be the one."

"Neat trick. Even for Angel. So what happened. Did some god decide Angel was a special little vamp or something?"

Spike snorted a sour laugh. "Wolfram and bloody Hart, again. Brought the Bitch back from the dead, got my Dru to turn her, and then she and Peaches ended up shaggin' and that was that. Had a boy - Connor. He got all -" Spike waved his hand, trying to think about what, exactly, had happened to Connor, but Wes had told him over a few pints and he hadn't really been paying that much attention, anyway.

"Dunno what happened to him, really, 'cept he's in college now, 'stead of bein' three like he should be. Grew up in a demon dimension. Came back. Have to ask Wes, yeah?" The pills had him on the edge of collapse - floating in a strange, jumpy void of sensation and dim light. Flickers of Dru - of Sunnydale past - of his time in L.A. kept intruding over the image of Xander's head and shoulder, and his arm stretching down to the gear shift.

"Gimme a smoke pet, please?" he mumbled, feeling like he wanted one, but utterly clueless as to where they might be.

"How about some blood instead?" Xander leaned over, keeping his eye on the road and fished out one of the mugs in his cup holder, the one with the black straw sticking out. He passed it back to Spike, glancing reflexively in the rear view mirror at him before remembering with a jolt. *Jesus, that shouldn't still get me every time.* "So what does that have to do with a mind wipe?"

He took the turn out of the complex carefully, and the land opened up around them. A few streets of new green. First year's unrolled lawn sod, scraggly trees, and then...desert. The street was named Oasis Boulevard. *Oasis, my ass. It looks more like a bad hallucination.*

Spike braced the cup against the back of the seat and sucked up a mouthful of blood. It tasted...slightly off. Or odd. Something. He grimaced and stopped drinking. "Oh, it... I dunno, somethin' about Connor havin' a real life and..." The beam of an on-coming car dazzled across the roof of the truck and Spike squinted, flinching. God his head hurt. And the rumble-roar of the engine was numbing - deafening - making his teeth ache.

"Let's just get some sleep, yeah? C'mon, poppet, you lay down with me and sing me that song, the one 'bout the crows you like so much and we'll just rest a bit..." He felt his hand slipping off the cup, and the cup tipping, but he didn't have the strength to catch it, and barely noticed the warm blood dripping onto his hand.

Listening to Spike was becoming more and more like flipping through stations on the radio, and Xander tightened his grip on the steering wheel, taking the turn onto Shady Green, *Hah! Maybe in thirty years.* and into the darkest part of the brightly lit supermarket lot.

Shutting off the engine, he leaned back against the seat. *Still possible to drive anywhere in Sunnydale in under five minutes.* Even if this area had been outside city limits once. Maybe once the new construction was finished it'd be a real small city, not a sinister postage stamp. Then again, maybe it'd just become a sinister commemorative stamp.

"Spike?" Xander unbuckled his seatbelt, twisting against the leather to look back at his passenger and swore, snatching up the car mug, and dropping it into the holder. He grabbed the last of his napkins from some anonymous fast food meal and sopped up the dribbles over Spike's hand and the pillows with them. "Shit, I'm sorry."

A vague mumble was his only answer, and Xander gently eased Spike's hand out of the wet spot, cleaning the blood from his fingers and settling his hand closer to him. "Guess this'll be easier if you sleep through it, huh?" He smoothed a hand over Spike's hair, combing it away from his face, and wondering if he should offer to buy gel. Or a haircut. Or something.

Spike felt something rough dragging over and over his hand and he tried to pull away but it was as if all the muscles in his arm had simply been turned off. "Stop it, Dru," he said, but it was only a mumble even to his ears, and he doubted she'd heard. It stopped after a moment though, and then he felt something touching his hair - something stroking back through it and it felt good, felt nice, like his mother's hand when he'd been... *Sick. Still sick? God, never going to be better, never going to...* "Never bloody ends, never, ever ends, god..."

"You sound like me when I had chicken pox. I was fourteen, so it was pretty bad. I couldn't touch anything without it hurting and itching, and it felt like it'd never end. But it did." Xander's hand stilled when Spike spoke, then started again as he answered with a small smile, stroking his hair the way he'd had nobody to do when he was sick. It would have felt...good. "And I cannot wait until you're well enough to call me a sentimental tosser and tell me that vamps don't get chicken pox, so sod off and get you your booze. Which I am going to do," Xander said, but without moving anything other than his hand in Spike's hair, rhythmic and gentle until Spike's twitching and mumbling quieted and he went utterly still. "Yeah. Any minute now, I am going to leave this car, get you your booze and get on the road to L.A..."

*Any minute now. God, he looks so frail asleep.*