"Jesus" Xander said, the word coming out a whisper through a suddenly bone dry throat. "Spike?"

That cold tingle of Sunnydale-brand creeps crawled up Xander's spine.

That was it. The Hellmouth was still up to its tricks. It had to be. That was the only explanation Xander could come up with for what his eye was telling him.

Spike, stretched out under ragged blankets and whole. Non-smoky, non-crispy, non-dusty, but paler than pale.

And moving.

Then something clicked over in Xander's head and the rusty, disused survival instincts, compliments of twenty two years on the Hellmouth, ground back into motion and he shoved the 'why's down into the back of his mind, and grasped for the 'what now's.

"Spike," Xander repeated quietly, remembering how fast and how mad Spike could wake up when startled, and cursed when his walkie squawked to life with Dave's voice.

 

"Spike?" someone was saying, and Spike scrabbled weakly at the quilts - at the air, trying for some leverage so he could sit up. But nothing. His bones felt like glass, too rigid and too hollow to support him and his skin burned with every rasp of worn cotton across it.

But the scent... So familiar. Something he knew, if only he could get his brain going and think. There was sharp burst of noise - painfully loud - and he flinched and then flinched again at the pain in his head.

"Alex? What's going on down there?"

"Shouldn't have had that last..." drink, he was going to say, but his mouth tasted like rusted iron and earth, not like whiskey, and he blinked, bewildered, staring up at the motes of dust that where drifting in the faded beams of underwater light. Someone was talking near him.

Xander yanked the walkie talkie off his belt, turning down the volume before Dave could hear Spike as more than a mutter and before Dave could make Spike flinch like that again. "Yeah. It's fine. Hang on." He turned the volume off completely, wondering why his hands weren't shaking.

"Are we swimming?" Spike asked the voice, utterly confused. "I don't want to..."

Xander wondered why his hands should be shaking and took a cautious step closer to Spike. "Okay. One of us is crazy. And I'm really hoping it's not me."

 

Crazy? It was Dru that was crazy. Well, and him, too but... Not anymore. He was better.

"It's you, then," Spike muttered and managed, finally, to roll over. Get on his side and look at...whoever it was.

Dark hair, dark eyes...eye...what? Wait. Spike raised a shaking hand and rubbed at his own eyes, but that made them feel as if he were grinding sand into them so he stopped with a small hiss of pain.

"Just - what do you -?  I'm just...resting, here... Just let me rest, yeah?"

Spike was aware that sounded pathetic but his head was really pounding now, and he just wanted to sink back down into the cool dimness. If only that maddeningly familiar scent would stop plucking at him.

 

Xander watched Spike's limbs twitch, muscles strain under thin skin with those prominent black veins.  It was...wrong.  Which settled it. Illusory Spike, or dream Spike if Xander was feeling honest with himself, was never that. . . worn down.

Whatever it was that kept stupid humans needing to do stupid things made Xander reach out to those dusty curls, even though the voice in the back of his head told him it was really stupid to check a vampire for fever.

He let his palm rest lightly against Spike's forehead all the same. "Jesus." Okay, vocabulary. Any time you want to come back is good with the Xan-man.  Because Spike - vampire Spike -  dead Spike...was burning up. And not in the blaze of glory, saving the world way. "What happened to you?"

 

Something on his forehead, light and warm, and Spike shivered all over. The voice again, talking - asking him something.

"...happened to you?"

"Saved the world, din' I?  Wen' out like that candle, burnin' at both...ends..." He reached up, fingertips brushing across worn flannel and then skin and he gripped the hand that still rested lightly on his forehead. Strong hand, a little bigger than his own - rough and hard. Working man's hand.

"I - know you, mate?" he asked finally, peering up at the indistinct face above him that was surmounted by a bright yellow hat of some kind. Like that man who'd that little monkey in the books that had made Dru giggle. "You got a monkey 'round here, then?"

 

"O-kay. And I'm the crazy one?" Xander found himself smiling despite the absolute weird of the situation and watched Spike's hand shift and grip his arm. Like an over-heated snake. That's what it felt like.

What was weirder was when he found himself answering. "No monkey. I've got a stuffed parrot named Andrew, though." He paused before the rest, because this question shouldn't be the kind he needed to really think about in order to answer. "Yeah, you know me."

 

Spike squinted again, his eyes dazzling and tearing even in the dim, undersea light of the church. Too much dust in the air, maybe. Frustrated, he tugged on the arm still in his grip.

"Can't see you," he said, aware of a petulant edge to his voice but damnit his head hurt, and the black - void where the person's left eye should be was making him feel - unsettled. The person - *A man - it's a man...* yielded to his weak pull and leaned in closer.

*Jesus! What the fuck -?* "Harris? That - is that you?  I - didn't say anything, 'bout her. Didn't - tell her. Bit's safe, Harris -"

There was a sudden sift of earth and pebbles - a rattling chink of metal from overhead, and a voice:

"Alex! You okay?"

 

*Bit?* "Yeah. It's me, Spike. And Dawn's in France. Safe in France." He kept his hand against Spike's skin as if to anchor them both, feeling Spike's flinch this time when Dave shouted again.

"Harris, I'm coming down!"

Reminding himself why it would be a bad idea to fire Dave for actually doing his job and spotting him, Xander turned his walkie talkie back on, holding it to his mouth so that he wouldn't have to shout. "You don't have to, Dave. The guy's alive, but he's confused."

"Shit! How long's he been down there?"

"Long enough to get pretty badly -" Xander hesitated, feeling the unnatural heat radiating into his palm and wrist from Spike's touch, like the fire that burned him from the inside out was still in there somehow. "Pretty badly dehydrated. Just get the crane and basket over here, okay?"

 

*France? Why would the Niblet be in France? Harmony was the one who wanted to go to France, the silly cow. Turn that froofy actor into a vamp for real.*

 

"Harris -" Spike started, but Xander was talking, holding something up to his mouth - a radio or something - telling someone something about a...basket? Spike started to feel panic surge up in him. Nothing made any sense and he didn't want to be in a basket like some kind of...of pet.  Someone was answering Xander, static-rough voice coming out of the air.

"Okay. You want me to send the paramedics over?"

"Nah. But get a cart. I want to take him over to the trailer. Get a drink in him." Xander turned off his walkie talkie again. "Do you know where you are, Spike?" Somehow, Xander had a feeling he should be asking 'when', not 'where'.

’...know where you are?’

"What?" Spike jerked his head up, startled, and flexed his fingers around the wrist he was still holding. "I'm - we're here, we're in... It's still Sunnyhell, isn't it? It's - we're still here, mate. She didn't do it yet." Spike looked up at Xander and wiped impatiently at his eyes, blinking against the random flickers of light overhead that seemed to be coming from a torch.

"What're you doin' here, anyway? You never came around before."

 

A dozen responses flashed through Xander's head, everything from denial, to apology, to the mess that was the truth, but instead he said, "There's a first time for everything, huh?"

His arm was beginning to ache, so Xander leaned his hip against the altar, letting his thumb sweep back and forth, lightly over Spike's skin, between the eyes, the rhythm matching his breathing. "I'm working up above ground. But the guys aren't gonna understand if they find out you're a vampire."

And then, because sometimes a half lie with a truthful ending was better than confusing honesty, he added, "I came to take you home."

 

"You did?" Spike closed his eyes against the rhythmic sweep of skin-on-skin that was sending little shivering prickles all through him. "But aren't we... You're not tyin' me up, mate," he said finally, and then flinched, pulling Xander's hand off of him altogether as the touch became too much - became uncomfortable and almost claustrophobic.

Something wasn't quite right and Spike closed his eyes, forcing his mind to work - shuffling aside the scatter-shot images that were flashing past and making it focus. He took a deep breath and it came to him: heated metal, machine oil, cordite. Other humans, but not the ones that he...remembered.

"What the fuck is going on, Harris!" he hissed, sudden panic sweeping over him. He jerked at Xander's arm and felt himself coming unbalanced - felt himself falling and he cringed, because when he hit the floor it was going to hurt.

 

Xander swore, catching Spike's weight, then swore again when there wasn't nearly enough of it, wanting to put his arms around Spike to steady him, but jerking back when the light touch sent a spasm through Spike's body and he went still, letting Spike lean against him.

Or not.

"What's - what is it?"

 

"Hurts.  Touching - hurts," Spike muttered, settling slowly against Xander's side.

"Jesus.  Sorry." Xander felt his heart still going like a jackhammer in his chest, making the sweat prickle between his shoulder blades, and run along the band of his patch with the effort of holding absolutely still, bracing Spike. "You're okay here, Spike.  Safe. My crew is up there on the surface with a crane. They're going to lower a basket for us because I've only got one harness, and you're hurt."

 

Xander wasn't making any sense at all. Cranes? What the hell? Spike lay against him, panting, waiting out the surge of needle-prick pain that had washed over him when Xander had grabbed at him. God, he was tired. Just so fucking tired and the damn scars would not stop; the maddening itching burn just went on and on until he wanted to claw his skin off.

"Okay, okay, we'll... Whatever you want, Harris... Just - just don't... I don't wanna see the Slayer, yeah? I don't...wanna...fight." Xander's heart was pounding, thrumming through his body and Spike reached clumsily, blindly for Xander's chest, patting at the source of the thundering surge of blood.

"Be okay, Harris," he mumbled. "Just need to sleep a while..." He took in a long breath, comforted by the familiar scents. Coffee, salt, sugar. Some sort of soap, faintly spicy. And earth - green - a smell that took him back to the cave and Africa and pain... He twisted in remembered agony, whimpering. God, he couldn't do that again, he couldn't...

 

Spike's hand patting his chest, comforting him, was wigging Xander out in a way he hadn't been wigged since the first collapse of the Hellmouth, the first wrongness of weird roommate Spike before it all went to hell.

"Wanna go home," Spike whispered, the grumbling roar of some heavy machine overhead rattling the air.

 
"We're going home." Xander's hands fluttered helplessly, millimeters from Spike's skin, unwilling to touch when even the vibrations of the crane lowering into place above them made Spike shudder and cringe. "No Slayer," he promised, "No fighting. No ropes. I just need you to pretend to be sane human guy for me until I can get you off site. Think you can do that for me?"

 

"I can do human, Xan-derrr," Spike said, remembering for a moment a time when he was supposed to be Xander's American friend, hiding from...from something...

"Soldiers here? Harris - the soldiers -" Spike jerked away from the warm, solid body that had felt...so good despite the sandpaper-rasp of pain over his nerves.

*Fuck, just want this to end, so fuckin' tired of running...* Spike finally looked at Xander - really looked, and felt a moment's clarity return to him. Xander looked - different. Patch over his eye still, but his face was thinner - his hair shaggier. And he was still. His single eye met Spike's squarely, no flinching away or nervous shuffle - no nervous babble, which was new. *Get it together, for fuck's sake,* he thought, and slowly moved his legs until they were hanging over the edge of the altar.

"Okay, Harris. I trust you, mate."

 

"It's like I said: first time for everything, huh?" Because a little witty repartee was so much better for his sanity right now than hopping on the Crazy Spike Train of Thought. "Just keep it together until we're leaving the site." Xander tried not to give in to the urge to wrap an arm around Spike's waist, the way he was moving like an old man. Like a really old man. "And Spike?"

Xander waited until Spike looked up at him, scarred eyebrow raised in an expression that shouldn't still be so familiar after so long.

"Be English. Please."

 

*What the fuck is that supposed to mean?* "M'always English, Harris," he drawled, eyebrow going up. "Fuck..." He paused half-stooped over, groping for his boots. They were under here somewhere, he was sure. His head pounded in this position and his vision was going dark - black-edged tunnel as knives sawed at his mid-section where the scars were being compressed.

"Fuck, I can't - Harris, fuckin' hell..." He groped for the edge of the altar - hauled himself into something like an upright position and looked over at Xander, who looked - a little terrified. "Just - get my boots, yeah? Can't - see." An appalled look crossed Xander's face and then he was crouching down - coming up a minute later with the boots in his hand.

"Ta, mate," Spike said - gaped for a moment when Xander stayed down, tugging gingerly at his jean-leg.

"Help me out, here," Xander muttered, and Spike did his best to help while Xander maneuvered his feet into the boots. It hurt and Spike shut his eyes - tried not to think about it.

"Never should have fuckin' come back here, Dru," he mumbled, and flinched as Xander tightened the buckles.

 

Xander jerked when Spike called him Dru, tugging the hem of Spike's jeans down gently over the boot in apology and lifting Spike's other foot in an odd parody of all those times he and Willow had played Cinderella as kids. Always her idea, but maybe some part of him had liked being Prince Charming. And okay, not following the playing Prince Charming to Spike line of thought any further. "They feel all right?"

"They'll do."

Though Xander noticed Spike shifting his weight gingerly onto his feet, and lifted a hand to Spike, waiting for him to find his balance. Which really didn't help the not thinking about playing Prince Charming to the undead thing either.

"What else do you have? And it's gonna be bright up there. We've got the big lamps all over the site, but it's night. About eight o'clock, okay?" Since the last thing Spike needed was to give the game away by freaking out in the artificial sunlight that had left Xander's internal clock permanently screwed up for his first month on site.

 

"I..." Spike just stood there for a minute because the room was slowly revolving and it was...quite horrible. He was so fucking cold, and he plucked at the edges of his shirt - hissed in pain as he drew it closed and fumbled with the buttons.

"My - coat, it's... It's up on the - altar." He could see Xander out of the corner of his eye, fumbling in the nest of quilts looking for his coat and Spike concentrated on the shirt-buttons, the edge of the altar like a razor cutting across his back. Felt like when he was in the wheelchair and he closed his eyes, trying to push that away. Rustle of leather, and the sudden weight of it around his shoulders; cold, heavy, feeling like needles where it pressed down. Feeling like nails, digging in and he jerked away, stiff-arming the dark figure that was *too close, too fucking close!*.  The coat slithered to the floor.

There was a scuffling - a sharp gasp of breath into someone's lungs and he hunched there, his hands curling tightly into the shirt, buttons forgotten.

"Don't fuckin' touch me, you bastard, don't fuckin' - touch me, this is my house...guest in my house and you don't touch her, you don't -"

"Spike!"

 

Right. Xander had not missed being thrown into the nearest handy hard and bruising object. Good old Sunnydale. Finally felt like home.

And ow.

He could feel the rumble of the crane moving into place and he bundled the leather of Spike's duster under his arm. "Spike. Come on. Time to get out of here."

"-fuckin' touch her! Gonna get out of this fuckin' chair, and make you-"

"Spike!"

Spike stuttered to a stop and Xander held his lantern where it might give Spike at least an impression of his face. "I don't like it here, Harris," Spike said with sudden wide-eyed lucidity.

Xander took a deep breath, calming breath, and let it out. "We're getting out of here." He could hear the grind of the basket being lowered for them. "Now." He held his hand to Spike again, palm up to steady him across the rubble, kicking the bigger pieces out of the way before them and trying not to think about how badly Spike's hand shook against his.

 

The grinding ratchet of the machine above them was like steel bones in an iron cup and Spike wanted to huddle down into a tight ball *I'm a bad man...* but he didn't...wouldn't. He was pretty sure that if he did he wouldn't be able to get back up again and he wanted...

Wanted to try and be - something approaching normal. For Xander, who was doing what he didn't have to do, by any stretch of the imagination. He wondered if Xander had even known about him. Not that Angel had spent much time broadcasting his return to the world - or even the fact of his soul...

*Bastard,* he muttered. Xander was standing there, the radio-thing in one hand, his other arm upraised, the torch acting like a beacon for whoever was running the equipment up there. The basket that was inching down toward them was an open-work construction of aluminum pipes and flooring; a dull silver-grey, spattered with pale mud.

God his feet hurt - like he was standing on broken glass - and whatever fucked up poison in him that had given him a fever was making him shiver hard enough to chatter his teeth. He wanted desperately to wrap his coat around him but he knew he couldn't bear the weight of it.

"Fucking cold," he said, and flinched at the whimper he could hear in his own voice. *Please get me out of here, Harris...*

 

Xander circled the light, holding the walkie close to his mouth so that Dave could hear him over the noise of the basket. "Another three feet, guys." Xander's eye watered from the light shining down with the basket, and he couldn't shake the urge to wrap an arm around Spike; not when his voice shook like that, not when Xander could see Spike's hands tremoring like moths in his peripheral vision. "It's warmer on the surface." Though he had a feeling even that wouldn't help with the heat radiating from Spike's skin.

Shades of high school basements. What the fuck is it about this place that brings us all back? He wasn't, wasn't going to think about what it meant that even death, apparently, wasn't enough to get away from Crazy On The Hellmouth.

Yet.

And he wasn't prepared to think at all about how many people might have been lying to him when he'd been told Spike was dust.

 

 

The basket swayed under them and Spike clutched desperately at the rail, trying not to let himself be thrown into the sides any more then he had to be. The light coming from above them was bright, and even with Xander's warning still fresh in his mind he cringed a little, squinting his eyes nearly shut. His jaw ached from clenching it, from trying to keep his teeth from rattling right out of his head and the vibrations that traveled up through his feet and hands were like shocks from a cattle-prod.

"Harris, god... Can't -"

"What? What'd you say, Spike?" Soap-sweat-sweet, comforting scent that moved closer and Spike bowed his head and let it rest on Xander's shoulder, shuddering in what was nearly tears again as the onslaught of sensations became too much.

"Hurts, it hurts, please... Just - gimme a drop of something, yeah? Just - something - Jesus!" As they cleared the edge of the hole the lights spangled to full brightness and even through closed lids it was like hot metal shards, stabbing his eyes. He felt his knees going and gasped, scrabbling at Xander's shirt and the heavy, webbed harness that circled his body still.

"Fuck, Harris - help me..."

 

No thinking. Sometimes, no thinking was easier. Xander flicked the latch on the basket gate and scooped Spike into his arms, awkward with the coat.   Speaking as close to his ear as he dared, feeling the shivery touch of Spike's curls against his cheek.

"Hide your eyes against my shoulder if you can. I'm gonna get us to my trailer first. There's whiskey there." Not that there was supposed to be. But between the human and demon bodies, it wasn't the first time Xander'd had to carry a shaking friend into his trailer for a stiff drink.

Xander's collarbone pressed against Spike's forehead and he rolled his head a little, easing the crackling pain as he simultaneously sought to burrow deeper, away from the light and the machine-stench of oil and heated metal and petroleum. And people, other people, all sweat and aftershave and decaying dinner, blood like poisoned iron in their veins and Spike thought he might be sick.

He clutched at Xander's shirt, the humiliation of being carried like a child outweighed by the curdling ache of the weight of his boots as they pulled on his ankles; the sharp press of the harness-buckles, the bones in Xander's arms.

*Christ, I'm a fuckin' mess...* Dimly he heard Xander talking - someone answering - and he pulled in breath after breath, taking comfort in the good scent of leather and skin, of honey-sweet that just seemed to be Xander.

"Jesus, Alex. What happened to him?"

"Dave, if you call Carl and ask him to come in early, I'll explain it all tomorrow, because I am so not up for it tonight."

"Want me to call ahead to Alicia too?"

"Nah. He doesn't need a paramedic." Xander glanced down at Spike's hair, dusty against his shoulder as he headed to the parked golf cart, trying not to jostle Spike any more than he had to. "He's just tired and dehydrated."

"But-"

"And crazy."

Dave took a half step to the side.

"Jesus, Dave. Harmless crazy. Just crazy."

"Okay, so he's crazy. Why's he here?"

Xander murmured wordlessly as he eased Spike into the light cart's passenger side, then climbed over legs and into the driver's seat, making sure Spike was settled safely against him before answering Dave, meeting his eyes with a half shrug. "Same reason we all are. It's home."

 

The seat was cold - too hard - and Spike shuddered all over, his coat a cold weight in his lap.  He heard Xander still talking - saying something about home.

*Home...home...god, wanna go home...* He reached clumsily for Xander's arm - plucked at his sleeve. "Wanna go home, pet."

 

Xander looked down at Spike's fingers moving against his arm with all the strength of a kitten and something flipped over painfully in his chest. He took his hand off the wheel, twining his fingers briefly with Spike's, palm to palm before bringing Spike's hand to rest against his sternum, the better to cushion him for the ride across the site. "Yeah. We're going home."

But home meant home to a house with lots of frozen dinners and no blood. And while he was pretty sure Spike wouldn't say no to the whiskey, he doubted it would do him much good. He winced along with Spike when he popped the brake and the cart shuddered. He looked out across pocked and uneven ground - there was no way this wasn't going to hurt him.

Grimacing in silent apology, Xander eased the cart into gear, trying to drive over the smoothest ground in the least amount of time. "We're gonna stop by the trailer, Spike. Get some whiskey in you while I let the guys know Russ and Carl are covering the rest of my shift." He didn't know if Spike was listening or if Spike was even making sense of the words, but without his crew listening to them anymore, it felt good to talk. Productive. Sane. "I have a new truck.  You'll like it. All leather interior. Great sound system."

Xander winced at an explosion on the ridge, feeling its echoes shuddering through Spike until he whimpered against Xander's chest, which hurt even more than the percussion. "Okay, maybe the sound system isn't what you want to hear about yet, but once you're better, you're going to love it."

Because there was no way. No way Spike wasn't going to get better.

Vampires got dusted. Or decapitated. Or blown up, or melted from the inside out saving the world.

They didn't get sick.

Or lie trembling against his chest, smelling of incense, dust, and something bitter.

 

Spike felt every one of his joints on the short ride; they all seemed to be creaking and popping and grinding in an escalating chorus of pain. Xander's heart beat tum-tum-tum against the palm of his hand and Spike just tried to relax - just lean onto the solid, warm mass of the man and let him cushion Spike from the jouncing and swaying.

When the explosives went off it was a tangible thing - dense air compacting against him and pressing his flesh onto his bones and he whimpered again, softly. His coat was cool and too heavy and his eyes were still tearing from the lights. The tears seemed to sting faintly on his cheeks.

*Know you want me to be Not Crazy Guy but...dunno if I can, Harris...* The temptation to slip back into the cluttered, fever-twisted darkness of dreams was very tempting and he fought it - fought it with deep breaths of Xander-scent and the faintest twitch of his fingers, stroking the bit of warm skin that was under them.

It was like the night Xander had come home from the hospital. Still logy from pain-killers, stinking of old blood and fear and anger. Finally at home, finally quiet and Xander had settled carefully on his couch and leaned his head back, bandage stark white over his missing eye.  It had taken a couple of minutes for Spike to realize that Xander was crying and then he hadn't known what to do.

Finally he'd just crouched down behind the couch, one arm up on the back, his hand hesitantly and gently combing through Xander's hair - stroking over his hot forehead. Again and again, while he hummed a skein of tuneless notes under his breath and after a while - ten or fifteen minutes - Xander had shifted and sighed and rolled his head a little - let his cheek bump Spike's wrist and just rest there, and he'd fallen asleep.

 

*Trust. Gotta trust him...do trust him...brothers in arms an' all that rot...*  "You'll have to get my bad side this time," he said, but he wasn't sure if Xander heard him or not. And then the little cart ticked to a stop.

 

Xander felt the muscles in his neck give an odd twitch and shudder at Spike's words, and he turned his head slowly. "It's my turn to take care of you, huh?" He set the brake on the cart, not moving yet, giving Spike a moment's stillness before Xander would have to gather him up again.

 

He took the time to look at Spike, really look, from the snarled grown-out curls to the too-hot hand that still rested against his chest. "Been a long time coming," he said, brushing his fingers against Spike's wrist then plucking Spike's hand off his chest to rest on his leg. "Stay there. I'll come around and carry you again."

This time, in the shade of the trailer, Xander circled the cart, draping Spike's duster over his forearm for extra cushion and pulling Spike's arm around his neck carefully. "Okay?"

"Just do it, Harris." Spike's eyes were closed and up close, Xander could see clearly the pale blue veining his lids. "Won't be a better time."

"Right. Hold on."

And then back to playing Prince Charming, only he'd dropped Willow so many times that she'd switched to making Prince Charming's manservant Jesse carry her instead.

Xander wasn't going to drop Spike. He was going to carry Spike into the trailer, set him down on the couch, get his boots off, and give him as much whiskey as he could keep down.

Which all went fine up until the setting Spike down on the couch part when Xander's back popped and twinged. He closed his eye, leaning on the arm of the couch with a wince, muttering. "Jesus, Prince Charming is getting old."

 

"I'm no sodding Sleeping Beauty, Harris," Spike grumped, but the hairy, worn couch was rasping at him through his shirt and he twitched miserably, too exhausted to move away, to weak to sit up and stay up.

He watched as Xander shot him a quick, smiling look and then straightened slowly, his hand to his back.

"Something me and Willow and Jesse used to do," Xander said, rubbing his back slowly and watching Spike. Spike watched him back - twisted his fingers into the edges of the shirt in an effort to keep from clawing at the scars on his torso. He'd done that once a few days ago and almost passed out from the pain. The way he felt now - he'd pass out for sure. Another wave of clammy cold swept over him and the shakes kicked back in, winding his muscles up tight on his bones and he gasped softly, lost in the white-hot flashes of pain that stabbed from his stomach out, again and again.

He closed his eyes, unwilling to meet Xander's steady gaze any longer - not when he could feel the tears drying on his cheeks, and not when he could feel the hazy darkness slipping back. Voices were rushing and whispering at the limit of his hearing and any moment he was going to really be Crazy Guy. He didn't want to do that in front of Xander. Again.

*Just hold on, hold on, hold on... Jesus, hurts... Like those damn tasers...* "Fuckers - wouldn't dare come after me without your damn...special equipment an'...an' drugs... Stop it!" He shuddered all over and went limp, but he could feel the spasm gathering again, deep in his muscles and he gritted his teeth tight shut and waited, hoping to ride it out - feeling more tears well and slide down his skin, utterly out of his control.

 

Xander looked up from the cabinet at the shout, whiskey in hand and chewed his lip - watched the tension build in the too-thin body again.  There was something wrong, very wrong, about watching Spike cry. More invasive than walking in on him naked and god knew he'd done that enough.

Xander knelt in front of Spike, watching the play of phantoms over haggard features. Not being able to touch him made it harder, so his fingers only brushed feather light at the silvery tracks on Spike's face, remembering Spike doing the same for him, his fingers blissfully cool to fevered skin even under the pall of painkillers. Remembered knowing it was Spike's fingers touching him, not Caleb's. "Spike."

Spike shuddered under the touch, turning his head away and Xander withdrew his fingers hastily, curling them in against his palm. "Don't want you seein'..."

"Hey," Xander said quietly, "Brothers in arms, remember? Seen it all. Here." He uncapped the whiskey, wrapping Spike's hand around the bottle and almost smiling when sense memory kicked in and Spike lifted the bottle immediately to his lips, tipping his head back to let it flow down his throat.

With Spike drinking, Xander let his hands fall briefly to rest on his thighs, taking in the visible damage for the first time in the harsh light of the trailer. He reached out, letting his hand hover over the three black slashes across Spike's torso, murmuring the kind of calming nonsense words he'd used so much at African sickbeds when Spike's muscles quivered beneath the not-touch.

Then he dropped his hand and his head, opening the buckles on Spike's boots. He didn't know where the urge to say it came from, but as he eased Spike's left foot out, he found himself saying, "You did good, Spike. Holding it together back there."

 

"Tried. Didn't want... Didn't want to make you..." Everything sounded like a plea for reassurance, and Spike just couldn't let himself go there. Not...yet. He was fine. He hissed softly as Xander eased his boots off and took another sip of the whiskey. Not his preferred brand, but better than nothing. It was already taking the edge off, in his underweight condition, and the slow heat curling out from his belly felt good.

It also made his fever-shakes worse, and he gripped the bottle tightly so it wouldn't slip free of his grasp and wished for a blanket. Shuddered to think of how a blanket would feel, but god - it seemed like he'd been cold forever.

His boots thudded to the floor and he stretched his toes, grateful to have the weight and chaffing gone.

"What...next, Harris? What're you... What're you gonna do with me?" His voice was just a little bit slurred, he realized, and his limbs felt weighted with stone. His head did. His brain was buzzing and blanking and sending him the strangest images, blotting out the dark-haired man who was on one knee by his feet, elbow on upraised knee and a look of mixed sorrow and worry on his face.

*Please take me home, please do it, Xander... Can't stand to be alone now, can't stand it...* He didn't dare say that aloud, but he met Xander's steady gaze and hoped the man could read it in his eyes.

 

"Do with you? Thought you'd know already, since we've done it twice before." The affectionate teasing came so easily after the long year of emotional distance it surprised Xander, and he found himself smiling again, watching that haunted, fearful expression flit over Spike's face.

"Tell me." Spike's voice was harsh around the edges - from drink, dehydration, dust, or tears Xander didn't know - figured it for all three.

"I'm taking you home with me, Spike. And running you a warm bath, because don't think I never noticed my hot water bill increasing when you lived with me, pal. I'm on to all your secret indulgences, including the honey almond bath oil - which, yes, I still buy." Xander bundled Spike's boots and coat together, inhaling that leather-smoke-Spike scent he remembered so well. "Then I thought a nice dinner of O positive with a chaser of A neg and a big soft bed to sleep in."

Xander held up his hand to forestall any possible objection. "Word of advice. Do not turn down the offer of the bed because my bed is about as close as either of us are gonna get to heaven any time soon. This expiry-free offer void where prohibited, must be 18 or older, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera." He rested his forearms on his knees, fingers laced loosely together. "Does it meet with Monsieur's approval?"

*Come on, Spike. Stay with me. Don't go back there again.*

 

Spike yearned toward the heat that was coming off Xander - even that far away, he could feel it, like a tiny little sun.

*I remember, I remember...* he thought, feeling his eyes blink and blink again; lids almost too heavy to keep open, his head sagging back on the couch, his grip on the whiskey bottle going weak.  His hands and his feet and even the burning across his chest and belly going very far away. Xander's face swam in the dull-yellow light of the lamp he'd turned on; shadowy and bronzed on one side, starkly white on the other from the fluorescent bulbs in the kitchen area.

He'd been about this out of it when Xander had hauled him out of his closet - dragged him into the bathroom and gotten him into the tub, tight-lipped and silent. Rubbing briskly - almost hurtfully - at the dirt and blood and tears that stained him, detritus of the basement - of his nearly killing Buffy. Whipped dog cowering at the First's feet, and he hadn't wanted anyone to see him - to have to see the useless creature he'd become.

But the bath had felt good, and the too-large robe Xander had loaned him and been soft and deeply scented with the human's good, salt-sweet scent, and he'd silently accepted the mug of blood and the plate of cheese and crackers and sat there, shaking himself to pieces and letting Xander's soft, slow voice babble on about work and money and Andrew and the First. Somehow sticking him back together as effortlessly as he'd mended the broken window at the house on Revello.

Spike blinked and lifted his head a fraction - looked at Xander who was just waiting, unaccustomed patience and silence from the boy who never shut up.

"Guess you know me pretty well, Harris," he slurred. He lifted the whiskey bottle marginally, sloshing the liquid against the glass. "Hope you got better than this shite at your house."

 

He did. One lone unopened bottle of Jack Daniels sitting in the spare bedroom gathering dust.

When he'd bought it, he'd told himself it was for guests, without letting himself dwell on which guest had been the only one to drink JD, or why it seemed right to put the bottle in the second bedroom.

Instead of admitting it out loud though, he said, "You must be feeling better. Which means it's time for Alex to go be responsible so we can get out of here before you reach the bottom of that."

No response greater than a familiar, if weak curl of Spike's lip and Xander pulled himself to his feet, reluctant to leave Spike on his own for the time it'd take. A small Hellmouthy part of him was afraid he'd come back to find nothing but a dusty bottle of cheap whiskey. "Spike-"

*'Spike' what? Spike, don't leave? Where would he go, and when did I turn into such a woman?

Xander cleared his throat, reaching out to brush his hand over a curl, reassuring himself of Spike's solidity. "Don't get lost in there before I get back."

 

"Do my best," Spike murmured, sinking a little lower on the couch, grimacing at the scrub of it's upholstery across his back. He watched Xander just stand there for a moment, looking at him with his lower lip caught between his teeth. Then Xander turned and went out, easing the door shut and Spike gave up fighting and let his eyes close, letting out a weary sigh.

*Changed, he has. Grown up. Guess we all did. Had to, didn't we? No more seein' the world with my best girl. No more hair-braiding and...and whateverthefuck for Harris.* Spike took a half-hearted pull at the whiskey and made a face. It really was shite. *Harris looks good, though. Like he used to, kinda...*

The heavy, unhappy man Spike had shared a last drink with over a year ago in Sunnydale was gone, and this leaner, harder man looked more like the boy who had plunged into a dark alley, risking his life for some stranger - for the Slayer.

*You don't know what you missed out on, Buffy,* Spike thought, and he slipped into a half-doze.

It seemed like moments later there was the creaking groan of the aluminum steps outside and the door swung open. Spike startled upright, the whiskey slopping over his hand and knee and he hissed as the alcohol stung his skin.

"Makin' me waste it, Harris -" he said and then froze in confusion as a hulking man - as big as Angel - shouldered inside. The pinkish-tan skin of a descendant of Vikings, corn-gold hair and blue eyes wide in astonishment. Camo pants, white t-shirt. The man shut the door behind him and Spike struggled to his feet, gasping. The man was too big and too blond, and too - too everything. He looked like some kind of - soldier, he looked like that soldier and Spike stumbled away a step, the bottle slipping out of his grasp and thudding to the carpet.

"Fuckin' back off," he growled, effect ruined by his chattering teeth. The man blinked, frowning at him. "Haven't got that fuckin' choke-chain round my neck anymore, do I? So get the fuck outta here." Spike inched back another step, wincing, letting his eyes flicker over the cramped space, looking for a weapon.

"Hey, look. Alex said -" The man advanced, hand held out, and Spike jerked away, staggering back two more steps and catching his heel on something - tumbling down in an agonizing heap of limbs.

*Get away from him, get away, get up, damn-it! God, god -* Spike tried to scrabble backwards on heels and hands, but his arms gave out and he sprawled there, looking up in horror at the looming figure that advanced, eyes dark with anger, hands reaching.

"Don't!" Spike moaned, and curled himself up - got his hands over his head and clenched himself tight, feeling the high wheeze of breath escape him as the scars pulled and compressed and flared into newer, sharp-edged agony. "Don't, don't, don't -" He tried to stop himself but he couldn't and he didn't notice the pound of footsteps outside, or the crash of the door.

 

"Russ! Russ, Jesus, man! I asked you to stay out of the trailer." Xander struggled to edge around Russ to Spike, crouching low to the floor as every whimpered 'don't' felt like it tightened an invisible band around his chest.

"Christ, Alex. I'm not going to hurt him. Just wanted to -" Russ trailed off, holding up the blanket he kept behind his desk for those rare cold mornings, and Xander spared him a glance, deflating at the look of unhappy apology on Russ’ face.

"Yeah - I know, man." Xander reached for Spike and froze when he drew in a deep, shuddering breath, curling in on himself so tightly Xander was afraid the fragile skin would split, stretched as tight as it was over his bones. He didn't - couldn't take his eyes off Spike. "Wait outside. Please?"

He felt Russ hesitate then the blanket dropped to the floor next to him before Russ retreated to the door.

 

"Call me from home, Alex. I want to be sure you got him there all right."

"Thanks, Russ." Xander waited until the door closed before approaching Spike again, speaking low and soft the way he did when the tone mattered more than the words. "He's gone, Spike. I won't let anything happen to you. Come on, we're almost out of here." He heard the words vaguely and couldn't have repeated what he said again after.

He set the whiskey upright and out of the way, kneeling next to Spike. He was close enough to smell the bitter underlying scent of him, stronger now, and held out his hand as he would to a skittish animal.

 

Loud voices raised in anger or panic, and Spike curled up even tighter, hating himself for it but utterly unable to stop. He couldn't take...whatever they were going to do. Not on top of everything else, not on top of the pain that was already shuddering through him.

*Hurts, hurts, hurts, fucking god...hurts...  Sick. I'm sick...been sick... Wait -* Something was different. He could smell alcohol, sharp and medicinal. He could smell earth *buried in here, buried again!* and the musty stale odor of indifferent cleaning. But also...sweat. Sweat and a kind of lemon-spice scent, soap scent. And sweet like baked apples. Spike abruptly lifted his head, hope blooming in his chest as he tried desperately to focus on the figure kneeling beside him.

*Please, don't be - don't -* "Who is it. Who is it? H-harris?"

"Yeah. Harris. Xander, Spike. It's Xander. Won't let anybody hurt you -"

"Thank Christ," Spike said - sobbed and grabbed Xander's hand - jerked weakly until he could pull hand and arm to him, against his chest, hot as a burning brand and smelling right, smelling of...

"I know you, I know you...know you... Sick is all..." Spike murmured, over and over, shaky sigh of relief and Xander's hand in his hair, light as a feather.

 

Xander watched Spike rock, helplessly resting his hand against snarled half-blond curls.  "It's okay.  You're gonna get better."  Xander turned his hand in Spike's grip to pull back, holding still when Spike whimpered, and pressed a fingertip against his jaw. "We're leaving here now. I need to carry you out to the truck."

"'M not a sodding child, Harris," Spike mumbled into Xander's fingers, breath hot like a sick human.

"No. You're a very sick vampire who's freaking me out because vampires aren't supposed to get sick." Xander gently disengaged his arm from Spike's grip, sliding it under his knees, the other around his back, and gathered Spike to his chest again, carrying him back down the steps and out of the trailer. "You just had to be the attention seeking vamp again, didn't you?"

"F-fuck off." The epithet would have been much more effective if Spike's teeth hadn't been chattering and if he didn't burrow against Xander's chest like a child, fingers gripping the edge of his flannel with blue-white knuckles.

"How weird is it that I worry less about you when you're telling me to fuck off?" Xander thought he felt Spike's shakes change a little, maybe something like laughter.

"Harris. Stop."

"Not of the plan, Spike."

Spike lay his hand against Xander's clavicle and pressed, and Xander followed the line of Spike's gaze to Russ who was watching them from the wall of the office trailer. "Please."

"You sure?"

"'M sick, not helpless."

Xander decided not to point out that Spike didn't have much of a case against helpless while being carried around. "Okay. Hey, Russ?"

"Yeah? Look, guy, if I'd known what would happen -"

Spike cut him off with a sharply upraised hand, masking the wince with a dose of Big Bad. "'S me who should be apologizing, mate. I'm sorry for -" Spike cut himself off abruptly, and nodded. "Just sorry."

Russ waved the apology away and jammed his hand back in his pocket. "Let Alex take you home and make with the mother hen instincts. But if he offers you his chicken soup, run away."

"Ha ha, Russ. I only tried to make it once."

"Once was enough to declare it a biohazard, man. Get out of here. Carl's coming in a couple of hours, and Daniel from C crew'll be here to fill in till then. And tomorrow night." Russ folded his arms and fixed Xander with a glare. "Non-negotiable."

"Thanks, Russ."

Russ shrugged. "You let Dave take time off for his mom. We're returning the favor."

 

His moment of old-school-Spike had cost him, and the vampire let his head sag down to rest wearily on Xander's shoulder, too tired to even flinch anymore. The warmth made him shiver and Xander made a wordless, soothing murmur, fingers stroking over Spike's ribs.

"Sorry, mate. Didn't mean to..." Spike said, and Xander just shushed him. A minute later they were at the truck - a looming, glittering expanse of dark grey and chrome, impossibly tall to someone used to the low-slung lines of the DeSoto and Angel's Viper.

There was a crunching of feet on gravel and the blond man - *Russ, he's Russ* - jogged up.

"Forgot your stuff, man," Russ said, subdued, and he swung around Xander to open the truck door, Spike's duster and boots going into the back seat. Warm air, strong leather-and-Xander scent and then Xander was carefully lifting him up and Russ was, large, callused hands drawing a moan from Spike he couldn't suppress. Xander stood up on the running board and carefully, gently, drew the seat-belt over him, locking it in place.

"Can't be too careful, huh Spike?" he said, and Spike managed a bit of the Big Bad - lifted eyebrow and curl of lip.  But that was all in the face of the agonizing pressure of the seat-belt.  Then Xander was climbing down and Russ was handing something over and shutting the door. Xander walked around and climbed up, keys jangling. He settled a heavy flannel shirt and a worn, dark-brown leather satchel between them on the seat and a moment later the truck roared to life, smooth purr of a powerful engine. The air-conditioning had been left on and it kicked in, semi-cool air blowing strongly from the vents and Xander hastily shut it off.

"Okay - ready?" he asked, and Spike rolled his head on the soft leather of the seat, looking over at the human who looked back, unblinking.

"You gonna kill us with that bloody patch an' all?" Spike croaked.

"I hardly ever hit anything," Xander huffed, and Spike managed a rusty laugh.

 

Xander felt a knot of tension in his shoulders ease.

Because while rusty, rough, and weak, it had still been a laugh.