More days and nights.  But this was a timeless corner of some obscure hell dimension where the person you loved held you captive and let you slowly die.

While Xander could still think he had the inkling that this might be a protective action, Spike protecting him from…whatever it was going on in that crazy demon brain.  While he could still think he spent hours reasoning with the vampire, pointless hours it turned out, because Spike wasn’t listening, wasn’t able to comprehend.  He had Xander safely trapped in barely enough space to stretch his cramping limbs, and Xander wasn’t going anywhere.

Each attempt at liberation had been met with ferocious snarling and the very real threat of violence; the few times Xander had tried to force his way past had led to him being hurled back into the wall and he wasn’t able to cope with any more bone-deep bruises or cracked ribs.  So he stopped fighting and tried to accept.  As he began to stink and itch from pissing himself, as he began to grow dizzy from lack of water and food.  He’d made Spike into this.  Broken him with love.  He had to accept.

By the time Xander wept with justifiable self-pity there were no tears because he was so dehydrated.  Xander could feel himself shrinking, shrivelling up, as close to turning to dust as he’d seen Spike come.  If he pinched his skin it stayed pinched: that was bad, he remembered.  While he could still think.

There was pain that repeatedly crept through the nothing, he wasn’t fortunate enough for that to be one of the senses to dull.  Pain from where Spike, in his demented wisdom, had decided to clean Xander, digging and scraping at his stomach, making a hole so the filth could escape.  Xander had fought, naturally, but by the fourth or fifth time he was too weak to defend himself.  Now he was damaged, and surely infected.  He was hot.  There was pain.

He’d offered Spike his wrist, his neck, hoping that the demon would offer him the relief of a swift end because of hunger, but Spike simply watched in that horribly blank, non-comprehending way and let Xander suffer and himself starve.

The phone had taunted him with the promise of help for the first couple of days, until Spike figured out how to rip the connector out of the wall, then there was just the ringing from downstairs that made Spike growl and hiss, but he wouldn’t leave Xander to go and deal with the irritation.

There were hallucinations that Xander reached out for, only to find his hands on Spike and his body being shoved back into the corner.  Patrick was there, Jake, Willow.  Then Angel visited, and he brought Buffy.  Dawn.  William.  They were there, they weren’t there, they appeared and faded.  His mother, arms open, young and kind and loving before the youth, kindness and love were crushed from her.  Didn’t someone come to fetch you when you died?  Someone who loved you and had gone before?  Xander tried to find his way into his mother’s arms; Spike’s heavy-handed response broke through the fantasy and Xander was back in pain and too dry to swallow and burning up and filthy and too dry to cry.

If Xander could still think, he wouldn’t have been impressed that this was how he was going to die.  The mental calendar of his life and death had ‘shagged to death by Spike in my dotage’ pencilled in that particular square.  This way didn’t bear thinking about.  Which was fortunate.

…

Xander floated in and out of consciousness, and it was a strain knowing what was real and what was a dream.  The heat was real.  The colours couldn’t be.  The occasional sharp digs to make him move were really real.  The fireworks were getting painful: real then, but…  How and why would require thought he wasn’t capable of.  Growl.  Spike.  Real.  Beth offering him a long, cool drink.  Fuck.  Fantasy.  Fuck.  Noise.  Fantasy.  Noise.  Dream.  Dream?  Noise.

Dream.  He’d had this one before.  Angel charging in like the cavalry and saving him.  As if Angel would, Angel hated him, that was real.  The cavalry was a dream.  But Angel had stopped hating him.  So…?  Cavalry?  Noise.  Dream?

Forcing his eyes open, Xander barely managed to focus on the scrap between a game-faced Grandpa and the mad thing that used to be Spike before his lover broke him.  Didn’t want to see this, dream or not; Xander closed his eyes and tried to get back to the fantasy of the long, cool drink, didn’t want to see his starvation- weakened vampire trying to fight off the toughest thug on the demonic block.

Scary.  Shouting.  Real.  Demands for obedience.  Smack of fists on flesh and, no, too familiar, too real, he hated that sound.  Shouting, snarling, lions, like lions.  Dream?

It faded, it all faded, and Xander thought maybe he could open his eyes again.  Watch Spike watching him for a few.  He loved Spike.

No Spike.

No Spike.

That took some understanding, and Xander didn’t.  Couldn’t.  He knew he needed to get up, but that wasn’t as easy as it sounded, his body used to being bent and scrunched.  The time it took to crawl up the wall and straighten out was immeasurable and painful, joints screaming and ribs aching, but eventually Xander lay against the solid surface, dizzy and hurting, thankfully vertical.

No Spike.

As Xander took a first, wobbling step in pursuit of his missing vampire the apparition reappeared.  The cavalry.  Dream.  Xander had dreamt the no Spike and the standing and now he was staring at this latest hallucination and prepared for it to disintegrate into nothing and leave him alone with Spike, who would be there when this wasn’t.

Xander waited.

Angel waited.

The entirely real vampire watched Xander trying to figure this out, determined not to rush in and add more distress to the massive quota he was already dealing with.  He could see exactly how wrecked Xander was, and it was all he could do not to dash over and take care of him, but there was a fragility in those sunken eyes that told him how easy it would be to break this famously unbreakable man.  He allowed Xander his own time.

Xander was starting to suspect this was real.  If this was real, that was Angel.  If that was Angel, he was safe.  He needed to know.  All it would take to find out was a little courage.  If he was right, saved; if he was wrong, he became acquainted with the wall again at speed and he wasn’t sure his ribs could cope with that.  But.  If this was real.

“Xander,” Angel said, because he couldn’t help it.  “Come on, Xander, figure it out.”  Quietly.  Hoping.

It was quite plain by now that Xander could not believe that he was there but was trying to push through that reasoning; Angel took an impulsive step forward, trying to help, trying not to be threatening.  Xander seemed to focus with that movement and was now seeing Angel, listening to the endless soft murmurings of encouragement.  Hands, clutched against his bloody t-shirt and damaged rib cage, clenched, unclenched, clenched repeatedly; he blinked quickly, every third or fourth a long blink when he squeezed his eyes shut.  Angel couldn’t begin to imagine what was going on inside Xander’s head, but he tried what he’d been learning with his childe: he slowly brought up his hands, opening his arms to the walking wounded.

Xander took a step.  And another.  Several.  At arm’s length, one clenched hand rose and unclenched long enough to examine this hallucination with a fingertip.  He tried to speak but nothing emerged other than a coarse breath.  He tried again as he looked into Angel’s face, scared to hope.

“Real?”

“Real,” Angel confirmed.

Xander, speechless once more, blinking, clenching, edged forward and took forever to put his arms around the broad shoulders, shuddering, inhaling sharply as arms closed around him, a sore noise that came directly from his injured ribs.  For a few seconds Angel thought that Xander would collapse, but the human gave and took back his own weight.

“Please,” he croaked.  “Please help us.”

Carefully sitting Xander on the bed, feeling every wince with him, Angel hurried into the bathroom for a glass of water, returning and sitting alongside and preventing Xander from making himself sick by drinking too fast.  Several glasses later they were distracted by the roar of one very angry vampire regaining consciousness.  Xander dropped the glass and clutched at Angel’s sleeve.

“He’s secured,” Angel reassured.

“Secured?” Xander asked, still hoarse but sounding better than he had.

“Nothing he can break out of.  I came prepared.”

“Don’t hurt him.”

“Xander…  I’ll have to do whatever it takes.  If you want your Spike back…?”

The question was left pointlessly open.  Another roar.

“Check him.”

With a nod Angel left.

Xander picked up the glass, grunting with the pain, inside or outside, ribs or wound, he could no longer tell.  Shakily standing, he took the glass into the bathroom, filled it repeatedly and drank.  Avoiding the mirror, he turned on the shower and tried not to topple over as he removed his clothes.  Once under the hot water he leant against the wall for support and let the heavy flow pound the disgusting sourness from his fevered skin.

“Xander?”  There was a knock on the bathroom door.  “Xander, you okay in there?”

“Yeah,” Xander replied, trying to raise a voice that simply would not raise.

“I’m leaving some clothes for you here.”  The voice was closer, Angel inside the room.

“Thanks.”

“You’re hurt?”

Humiliated, embarrassed, ashamed.  That kind of pause.

“Yeah.  Spike…”

“Don’t try to speak.  I’ll…  Will you let me tend to you, Xander?”

New pause.  Touched, warmed, overwhelmed.

“Please.”

“I’ll be back when you’re ready for me.”

Xander risked a glance at the wound on his stomach, looking away fast.  This would undoubtedly scar.  Spike would never forgive himself and there’d be a whole new round of self-loathing and dishonesty while he pretended to move on and forget.  Thankfully, thinking and washing proved to be too much of an effort together and one action had to go; Xander washed himself clumsily, almost passing out several times as his sluggish circulation fought to cope with his movements.

Eventually done, or at least done enough, he sat on the closed toilet seat and dried himself haphazardly before pulling on the sweatpants that Angel had left for him.  Stood, instantly keeled over.

“Xander?” from beyond the door as Xander lay there staring at the spiralling room.

“Might need…”

Xander tried to right himself and darkness came crashing in.

…

With a sigh, Angel settled himself on the bed beside Xander, satisfied that the condition of his almost-childe would improve now.  He’d managed to get more water into the semi-conscious man and only partially drowned him, a quick phone call had led to a delivery of antibiotics, and the wound had been scrupulously cleaned: Angel could still taste the flavour of Xander on his tongue.

No way to get solid food into Xander yet without choking him, so Angel had paid a visit to Spike, draining a cupful of his blood and feeding that to Xander, watching with fascination his automatic response to the liquid: the flush that coloured Xander’s pale face, the full-body tremor, the arousal.  Hard to find anything in Spike’s life over recent years to envy, but Angel envied him now, envied him this.

Xander restlessly threw out an arm, searching for Spike in his sleep; Angel caught the hand and stroked it, brought it to his face and smelt the skin, able to recognize the distinctive Spike scent mixed with Xander’s own.  Xander muttered something indiscernible, pulled Angel’s hand to him and began to settle.  Shuffling closer, Angel cautiously draped the arm attached to the appropriated hand over Xander, avoiding the wound, getting them comfortable and revving up to a full purr.

At the periphery of his hearing was Spike’s answering purr, a touching, plaintive sound under the circumstances.  He felt Spike’s loneliness acutely but there was no way he would risk bringing him back into this room.  Spike.  A brief respite and Angel would, however unhappily, go to his grand-childe and begin knocking some sense into him.

…

Xander woke at the sensation on his body, it took a couple of bleary attempts before he could tilt his head to see the source, feeling some surprise when he found the mouth belonged to a shock of dark hair rather than the usual shock of blond.  No emotional reaction but he shuddered at the physical.

“Stop,” he whispered.

Angel’s head came up.

“Finished.  You should heal well.  I’m not saying there won’t be a scar…”

“I sent you to hell,” Xander said abruptly, acknowledging the only connection he seemed able to make.

That left Angel flummoxed for a moment, but he managed a smile rather than a frown.

“I probably deserved it.”

“You went to hell.”

Angel sat up and placed his hand on Xander’s forehead; it was scalding to his heatless hand.  He fetched a cold flannel from the bathroom and draped it over Xander’s brow.  Next came glass after glass of water, most of which was swallowed, the remainder slopping over hot flesh and serving a cooling purpose where it fell.

“You have a fever, Xander.  But you’ll be fine.”

“I sent you to hell.”

“It doesn’t matter.  I came back.”

Xander’s hand weakly rose and took a hold of Angel’s arm.

“Grandpa,” he whispered.

Fighting the temptation to roll his eyes at the name, Angel put his hand over Xander’s, leeching the heat from it.

“Go back to sleep.  In a few hours the fever will break and you’ll feel better.”

“Where’s…where’s…”

“Sleep, Xander.”

Angel began to draw meaningless patterns on Xander’s skin, deflecting his thoughts from the whereabouts of Spike, certainly not wanting to have to explain about uncontrolled demons, the cruelty necessary for their subjugation, or mojoed shackles.

“William,” Xander finally concluded drifting out of consciousness.

Angel fell still for a moment, not knowing why he should be so shocked that Xander would be asking for William rather than Spike.  Then again, looking at the state of him, could he be expected to want more of that Spike?  He went back to his stroking, attempting to analyse the growing impression that something (beyond the obvious) was not quite right.

…

Balancing his time between the two, Angel watched: Xander’s fever came and went along with the infection, the body healed, the mind wandered, kept wandering until Angel was no longer sure if this was Xander at all; Spike was still entirely the demon, furious at being kept from his mate, with a seemingly endless supply of energy with which to batter Angel whenever the opportunity arose.

“This is a bloody madhouse,” Angel said to himself several times an hour, as he shouted at or beat Spike as the younger vampire thrashed and roared, or as he tried to divert Xander’s forlorn demands or constant, senseless questions about the only thing he seemed to want: William.

…

Xander looked hopefully to the door as Angel entered.  His disappointment was evident: the momentary flicker of anticipation left his eyes, and he turned back to the semi-shuttered window.

“Do you want to come downstairs?  I’ve phoned out for pizza for you, you need to eat.”

“Is William here?”

“He may be downstairs.”

“Is there any word?”

“The word, Xander, is pizza.  And you’ll come down to eat if I have to throw you over my shoulder.”

“If William arrives…”

“He’ll find us.”

“I didn’t tell him.  Maybe he’s lost.”

“He’ll find his way back, he’s very resourceful.”

“You think?”

Angel hadn’t the slightest clue what Xander wanted him to think, he was blindly groping his way through every meaningless interaction; he knew however what was stuck in the forefront of his mind.

“I think Spike needs you.”  And there it was again: the expression informing Angel that Xander didn’t know who the hell he was talking about.  “Spike needs you.  Spike is your lover, your mate, and he needs you.”

A few more seconds of confusion and Xander turned back to the window.

“William will come,” he said to himself, not noticing when Angel left.

…

Angel leant back against the door and slid down until he was sitting on his heels.  Exhausted.  Unshackled Spike was glaring at him and growling softly, weaving on the spot in his frustration, and Angel knew that although there was nothing overtly aggressive about him at that very moment, it wouldn’t be long before he built to another attack and the battle would commence once more.  At present Spike had the mentality of an overly-devoted and more-than-slightly deranged minion rather than a Master, and he was undoubtedly Xander’s minion because there was no way for Angel to control him.

“Is it that simple?” Angel asked, his words met by another, harsher growl.  “I treat you like a fledgling and subdue you in the most basic way?”

The weaving stopped and Angel saw Spike’s muscles tense; up in a fraction of a second, he was ready for the onslaught, using Spike’s momentum to slam him up against the nearest wall.  Taking advantage of the younger vampire’s brief disorientation, Angel pounced and sank his fangs into Spike’s neck, grappling him close and clinging to him despite Spike’s frenzied attempts to free himself.

Gradually the flailing calmed, Spike becoming weaker as the blood was pulled from his system; when Angel realised he was supporting Spike completely he withdrew and gently lowered his grand-childe to the floor, quickly slashing his own wrist and pressing it to Spike’s mouth, hoping this would shock some sense into Spike, or renew their connection, anything to give him a chance to communicate more reasonably.  Hostility abandoned in favour of self-preservation, Spike suckled and purred, eyes closed and head tilting into the touch as Angel stroked his hair.

“William.  William, if you’re in there I need you.  William.  If you won’t come back for me, Xander needs you.  William, Xander needs you.”

Angel freed his wrist with little trouble, purposefully keeping Spike underfed and weak, and he sat against the wall and pulled Spike into his lap, waiting until he wriggled into a comfortable position then offering a reciprocal purr.  As he cradled the skinny body he finally admitted to himself how frightened he was at the prospect of losing this family, his true family; he’d accepted his love for his childe, knew it was at last unconditional, and Xander, joined to him and his line by blood, was also cared for unconditionally.

“William, I know you hate me, I don’t blame you for that, but you have to put Spike and Xander first.  William.  William.   I’m not asking you to come and face me, but I need you to bring Spike out of retreat, and I want you to be what you’ve always been to him.  William.  Spike needs you.  Xander needs you.”

Hours passed, Angel caressing the now inert form, whispering to William, much as he remembered Drusilla’s soft coaxing over a century before.  Eventually Spike stirred; Angel was ready to fight or talk or…keep on doing exactly what he was doing.

“Xander?” was, somewhat expectedly, the first groggy word.

“No.  Angel.”

Spike pushed away from Angel, just far enough to see his face.  The worry about facing William should he appear became irrelevant: this was definitely Spike.  Who blinked a few times, and Angel could see the thought behind the bemusement, knew that Spike was about to ask…

“What happened?”

…but didn’t expect him to slump back into the embrace of his sire.

“You…got lost,” Angel told him.

“I don’t remember.”

“I think you will.”

“Do I want to?” Spike asked dubiously.

“I doubt it.”

Spike stiffened.

“Xander?”

He was out of Angel’s lap and heading for the door in a fraction of a second.  Angel followed as quickly and grabbed an elbow, pulling Spike back.

“Xander isn’t himself.”

“What did I do?” Spike asked, hushed with fear.

“I don’t think it’s as simple as that.”

“I need to see him.”

“When you’re presentable.”  Spike glanced down at his grubby, naked body, healing rapidly but still showing the physical trauma of the last few days.  He nodded, turned and headed for the shower.  “Spike.”

“What?”

“How are you feeling?”

Spike stopped and thought.

“D’know.  Bit too much William in the mix, maybe.”

And now he felt.  Felt.  The sensation, or rather the lack of, hit him like a ton of bricks.  His hand crept to his stomach and remained there for a few long minutes.  He finally looked to Angel, appearing quite awed by his untainted state, clear blue eyes glittering with tears of relief.

“Clean.  I feel clean.”  He took a sharp breath.  “That’s Xander.  Xander…”  Amazement gave way to consternation.  “I hurt him?”

“Not intentionally.”

“But I hurt him.  Damaged him.”  Angel nodded.  Spike gave a miserable sigh.  “He was already…”  Sad.   So sad.  Too much to be put into words.  “You said he wasn’t himself.”

“I’m not sure if that’s to do with you.  He had a fever and has been confused since he emerged from it.”

“In what way confused?”

Angel hesitated, resigned himself to more trauma or tears.

“He doesn’t appear to know you.  He just asks for William.”

“Who he’s safe with,” Spike said grimly.

“It seems more than that.  Or different to that.”

Spike dropped his face into his hands for a moment, disguising his reaction from Angel, but his dejected body language spoke volumes.  Deep sigh, head up.

“I have to see him.”

Angel’s agreement was indicated by him going off to find clothes for Spike.  Spike got into the shower, washing automatically as he tried to remember the past…however long he’d been out of control.  He could recall asking Xander to help him, to clean him, and even now it was a source of astonishment that Xander – his deceptively sensitive Xander – had gone through with such a hideous task.  When he concentrated he could sense Xander within him, the blood and the come that Xander had worked into his body, more powerful than the blood he had taken from Angel.  It was an elusive scent, an almost-tasted flavour.  Xander was there inside him and he was clean.  Possessed and clean.  Claimed.  It was enough to make him hard, and although that was understandable, Spike wasn’t terribly impressed by the timing.

He thought back to the cleansing and tried to imagine what had happened since.  He’d persuaded William to retreat as far as possible, and…  In his distress, followed him?  Could that happen?  It was frightening to consider what might be left in control of this body in the absence of any intellect at all.  Pure instinct.  Demon instinct.

“What did I do to you?” he whispered to Xander, picturing his human, deliberately picturing his human still loving him despite this further lapse.  He wound his arms around himself, tried to imagine Xander there with him, but even with the heat of the water he was cold, and Xander was never cold, would never let him be cold.  How could any part of him hurt the man who made him warm?  Right on cue came the fear: of loss, of rejection, of being unworthy.  “Make it better, Xander.  Please make it better.”

No Xander, but William was with him, reassuring and comforting, unintentionally throwing out their equilibrium even further; Spike turned aggressively on him, smothering his influence and attempting to force a better balance.  Spike struggled with his inner self, struggled to finish his shower, struggled to find his way out and dry.

When Angel returned with his clothes he could see the chaos, the shifts in iris colour, game face almost appearing then fading, back and forth as Spike fought to re-establish some degree of inner harmony.

“Spike?”

The game face appeared and stayed.  Golden eyes fixed on Angel.

“Dress yourself,” Angel told Spike in calming tones, hoping that the cycle of violence wasn’t about to begin again.

“Xander,” was the vague response.

“Dress yourself.”

“Sire.”

“If you dress yourself you’ll get to see Xander,” Angel bribed.

Flicker in the gold, definite softening of posture.

“Xander?”

Keeping a wary eye on Angel, Spike accepted the clothes that were thrown to him.  He seemed awkward as he started to dress, as if he’d forgotten how this worked.

“William,” Angel called softly, and that was all it took.

The human face came to the fore and, with a shudder, Spike was back together.

…

“Does he hate me?” Spike asked as they stood outside the master bedroom door.

“No.”

“That’s something, I suppose.”

“But…”  Spike looked at Angel quizzically.  “Remember.  It’s William he wants.”

“William.”  A glimpse of some indescribable emotion came and went.  “Don’t blame him.  I’ll deal with it.”

“Kindly.”

“Of course kindly,” Spike snapped.  “I don’t deliberately hurt him.”

Before Angel could say another word, Spike summoned his courage and eased the door open, peeking into the room and feeling his heart jump at the sight of his partner.  Slowly, soundlessly, he moved forward, staring at Xander until the human felt the attention and turned.  His eyes grew huge as he regarded the vampire.

“William?”  Spike held out his hands and Xander snatched at them, squeezed them bone-creakingly hard.  “William?”

Spike let Xander believe that for a few minutes while he studied this unkempt, bearded man, accepting the burn of longing, the desire that was roused by his mere presence.

“Hello, Xander.”

Freeing a hand he touched his lover’s face, scratched at the bristled chin.

“William?”

The hope in Xander’s voice was fading.  If he knew, there was no point in pretending.

“I’m Spike,” was softly corrected.

“Not William?”

“No.  But I can try to be him for you,” Spike pledged, regardless of what he actually believed he was or wasn’t capable of.  “If that’s what – who you need.”

Xander was already returning to the window.

“I’ll watch for him.   He’ll be here.”

“That’s all I’ve heard for days,” Angel told a despondent Spike as he crossed to his side.

“You’ve been looking after him?  Feeding him?  Keeping him clean?”

“He can be persuaded to eat if it’s brought here; he won’t leave the window except for the bathroom, and I had to show him where that was.”

“What food’s he had?”

“Anything that can be delivered.”

“Go and make a call then.  I’ll get him clean.”

Angel left and Spike had a think about how he should deal with this.  Short answer: he hadn’t a clue.  All he could do was be himself and hope that Xander would, in time, regain his right mind and want Spike instead of William.  Returning to Xander, Spike wrapped his arms around his waist, pressing in close to his back.  It was a special kind of heat, Xander heat, and Spike leant into it appreciatively.  Nothing else could warm him like this.

“Xander, love, we have to get you nice and clean, make sure you stay healthy,” Spike purred, rubbing his face into the lank hair.  “Come and share a nice shower with your Spike.  I’ll make it worth your while.”

“I have to stay here.  William might come.”

Spike’s hands slid over Xander’s non-responsive body.

“Join me in the shower and I guarantee we all will.”

“He isn’t good with tides.”

“That so?  Lucky the shower isn’t tidal then.”

Xander resisted Spike’s gentle attempts to edge him toward the bathroom, twisting to fix a glassy stare on the vampire and trying to figure it all out.

“William?”

“Not entirely.”

“Oh.  Then…I’ll wait for William.”

“Why William, eh, Xan?  Why not your Spike?”  Xander went back to staring out of the window.  Spike snuggled.  “Why is that?  Because William isn’t a nasty, bad man who keeps hurting you?  Well, I’m not going to hurt you any more, you can start to trust me again.  Come back to me, love.”  Xander gasped as Spike’s lengthening fangs scraped over his neck.  “Like that, don’t you?  Spike, not William.  You belong to Spike.”

“Not William?” Xander asked weakly.

“Not William.  Shower, love, let’s see if we can get you hard and in me.”

With an anxious cry Xander tore away, hugging the wall and staring at Spike with alarm.

“No.”

Spike took a step away, wanting to appear harmless.

“Okay, love.  Just get you clean then.  Clean…for William.”

Xander considered that, obviously suspicious but willing to be swayed if it was for William.  Who Spike was trying not to hate with reborn ferocity.

…

A week later and Spike’s attempts to woo Xander away from William were going…  Well was probably an exaggeration, but Xander accepted that this man was kind and thoughtful and his friend.  He didn’t even dispute what he was told about their relationship despite finding it impossible to believe that he would have betrayed his William.

He accepted enough to allow Spike into his bed at night, letting the vampire hold and comfort him with purrs as he miserably longed for his absent William.

Although their senses were dulled in this location, both vampires knew that other influences were at work here; they spoke of it in passing, unable to focus on the problem or recall having the same conversation a dozen times in forty-eight hours.

“Call Patrick,” Spike finally, defeatedly, told Angel.  “We have to call Patrick.”

“Wait a little longer.  If Xander doesn’t come around…”

“Xander’s lost.  I can’t do more.”

Angel fixed a sharp look on Spike, a look that spelt out the unspoken.  Spike thought.  Fretted.  Thought.  Panicked.  Thought.  Agreed.

…

Xander was where Xander always was nowadays.  In their bedroom, gazing out of the window.  Spike gently brought him to the bed and sat him down, meeting the troubled expression with an affectionate smile.

“Who am I, love?”

Xander drew breath to speak, hesitated as he fought to get this right.

“Spike?” he enquired cautiously.

“Your Spike.  Want to talk to me?  Tell me what’s happening in that crazy head?”

“Tell you?”  Xander looked dazed by the concept: he’d tried to explain before and it had been impossible.  “I can…try.”

“That’d be good.”

Xander nodded, almost pleased at Spike’s approval.

“I…  I see…”

“Dead people?” escaped automatically from Spike, Xander’s oft-repeated joke, but it meant nothing to the man now.  “Sorry.  You see…?”

“Feel.  I feel.”  Not right, and Xander tried again.  “Sense.  I know.”

“What do you know, love?”

“The wind is warm but it was cold before, it was cutting.  Cutting me.  I can see the sea.  There’s the smell of…  It isn’t grass, I don’t know.  And earth, that’s…  The wind is warm now and I can see the sea.”  Xander’s eyelids drooped and he was lost to it.  “Sun’s high.  It’s time.  Where’s…  Waiting and waiting and the wind is warm and I see…  I’ll wait, I can wait.”

“Where are you, Xander?”

“It isn’t grass.”  Xander’s hands clenched.  “Rough.  Nothing new.  Sun’s high.”

“Are you waiting for William?”

“If he doesn’t…  I’ll wait.  Sun’s dipping.  Clouds.  The wind was warm and now it’s cold.  Cutting.  And he’s not…  I’ll wait.  Until I see.  Wait.”

Silent now, Xander rocked himself, slowly, almost imperceptibly.  Twenty minutes passed.  Spike did some waiting of his own.

“I’m lost,” Xander eventually said as the rocking stopped.  His eyes were forced open, and Spike witnessed the effort it took.  “Find me.”

“Can I?  Can I be the one you need?  Will you settle for me?”

“Find me,” was repeated, Xander finally looking at Spike.  “Help me.”

“Tell me what you want.”

“I want…”  Xander’s voice shook, began to break.  “I want…”

“What do you want?”

“Repossession.”

“What does that mean?”

Xander’s breath caught.  Painfully.

“I don’t know.”

“It’s all right, love,” Spike assured.  “We’ll figure it out.”

“I’m lost.  I want to come home.  Bring me home,” Xander pleaded; he offered Spike his forearm, and Spike felt an adrenalin rush as it became clear that Xander understood what he was, had managed to claw that much knowledge from the mental abyss.  Spike held Xander’s hand, lovingly kissed his wrist.

“Are you sure?”

“Bring me home.”

“I love you, Xander.  I love you so much.”

Teeth elongated into fangs, eyes sparkled with gold, and Xander moaned as, without hesitation, Spike bit into his flesh, trusting Xander’s judgement, even in his present state, knowing that this was what Angel had considered appropriate: Spike claiming his own.

Focus.  It was a focus.  Xander felt and focused.  Grounded.  Felt.  The bite.  Bite.  Orgasm.

Spike didn’t drink, just remained with fangs buried in Xander’s wrist, giving him the focus he needed.

Bringing him home.

Repossession 83       Repossession Index       Repossession Notes

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