Wesley stared again at the address given to him, glancing from the crumpled piece of paper to the building in front of him, and back again. *This* was the infamous 'Jadis'? This relatively small, unremarkable building that he must have passed by a hundred times? Wesley shook his head. What did he expect? It was hardly likely to be painted in leopard print with a bright red neon light outside proudly proclaiming 'Whorehouse - all species welcome'? Of course not. The best method of disguise was to be hidden in plain sight. A clich� perhaps, but that didn't mean it wasn't true.

Hand resting on the cool brass doorknob, he gave it a rough twist and walked briskly in.

++++

"So, if you don't mind my asking, Sir, why exactly are you here?" Plastering a fake smile across his thin lips, Philippe realised that he should have left this to the receptionist to deal with, but oh no - can't have shaky customer relations now could we?

Embarrassed, Wesley tugged absently as his collar, trying to explain his presence yet again. "I'm not here for a woman, you see. I - "

"Oh that's quite alright sir, we have many males available, each well-tailored to your every - "

"No!" The Englishman violently exclaimed. "I'm looking for a vampire, his name..." His voice weakly tailed off at the realisation that he'd now made himself appear even more perverse.

The owner gave him a confidential smile, and a drum-like tap on the nose. "Ah, I see." He took out a pad and started to make notes. "And would sir wish to be bitten? I'm afraid we no longer provide a siring service." He shrugged apologetically. "I'm afraid a few of our workers got a little...carried away..."

Good Lord, he thinks I'm a bloody necrophelliac!

"Look," Wesley said with a slight panicked edge to his voice. "I am not here for any form of intercourse with a male or female, living or dead." Pre-empting the manager's next query, he continued, "...nor with any other types of fauna." For pity's sakes, does he think I'm Welsh? "I just want to speak to this fellow. His name's Spike, also known as William the Bloody and I have reason to believe he, uh...works here?"

Offering a disarming smile, Philippe steepled his slim fingers together in contemplation.

"And why exactly, my dear little man, do you wish to 'meet' him?"

"He owes me money," Wesley lied. "I promise there will be no violence. I just want my cash."

"Well I'm afraid young William may be a little short of funding at the moment. Perhaps if you'd like to head next door, we can negotiate something a little more... appropriate?" He nodded towards his private office.

Having exhausted all of his cunning, Wesley decided it was time to act on Plan F. "I'll pay you. He owes me enough to make it worthwhile."

The magic word uttered, Philippe stopped in his tracks.

"And would that be in cash or cheque?" he swiftly asked, voice as smooth as the Persian rug beneath their feet.

The other man sighed, and reached for his chequebook.

++++

A firm, but gentle tap on the door.

"I'll be with you in a minute."

Tugging the last rope loose from his already chafed wrist, Spike absentmindedly rubbed at his blistering skin, wishing that his next client would have a fetish for pampering vampires with large amounts of blood and a century's supply of cigarettes, rather than simply tying him down and fucking him dry. He sighed.

Oh well. A bloke can dream, can't he?

About all I can do right now...

Another tap at the door.

"Hold your bloody horses. Come in early and it'll be extra," he warned, too annoyed to care about his supposed 'subordinate' status.

Pulling a pair of trousers over pale legs, he half walked, half hopped towards the door and flung it open.

Looking down at him was a brown-haired man, dressed almost as badly as Giles, and awkwardly examining his surroundings as if expecting a myriad of randy demons to jump him on the spot.

"I believe you are Spike?" he queried in a voice holding more nerve than his appearance let on.

Oh lookie, he casually observed as he cautiously let the man in. A fellow traveller from the mother county. He watched as the man took in his surroundings in distaste, carefully edging around the mattress as if it were a dead body. Hesitating, he sat and glanced at Spike, as if expecting the other male to jump on the bed and start revealing his deepest secrets.

It was obvious, Spike eventually realised - Male, British, knew who he was, and didn't want to get his hands dirty. Well well, look what we have here...

Now *this* is interesting, the vampire noted as he sat not far away from the other male. What does a Watcher want with little 'ole me?

++++

Nervously glancing at the vampire's exposed chest, Wesley decided he'd already had enough of crossed lines for the decade and went straight to the point.

"I'm not here for..." Oh come on man, you're an *adult*, just say it, "...for sexual gratification."

Spike raised an inquisitive eyebrow, desperately wishing for a smoke. Instead, he started to pick at the remnants of black polish still stuck to his nails.

"Oh really?"

"I've head, from an acquaintance, that perhaps you might..." He glazed intently at the other man's deep blue eyes, searching for something to indicate a soul. Some spark of humanity. Some twinkle that suggested love, compassion, inherent goodness. Some.... other random clich� to help him out. "I mean, what I'm trying to say is, and I do realise this is a unique situation but..."

"For God's sake bloody spit it out already," Spike snapped, his usual sarcastic demeanour returning knowing that was in relative safety...so far.

"Do you have a soul?"

And for the first time in months, Spike laughed.

++++

Annoyed, Wesley removed the cross from the back of his pocket and held onto it firmly, watching as the blond erupted into yet another bout of hysterics.

"I'll take that as a no then."

"Sorry mate but that's the funniest thing I've heard in ages," Spike chuckled, wiping tears from his eyes. Really, it wasn't that funny but God he needed something to laugh at after all this crap and..."Hey!" he swiftly backed away from the small piece of wood that was half an inch away from burning his eyebrow off. "There's no need to be getting all unfriendly-like, you know. I won't hurt you, more's the pity..." mumbling the last few words.

"Which leads me to my second question," Wesley continued smoothly, still brandishing the crucifix. "Why exactly are you here?"

"None of your business." Leaning languidly against the wall, Spike looked the picture of nonchalance. "Now either you came here to get your question answered or you really don't have a clue about foreplay. I'm assuming you're done either way, so sod off."

"Actually, I came here to help if I could, but seeing as you're obviously content with your situation I'll be off." Wesley started for the doorway, frustrated at this obvious waste of time.

"What if I told you I didn't kill people? Didn't even hurt 'em a little?" came a slightly tentative voice, swiftly growing in arrogance. "What would your precious Watcher's Council think of that? Picture of restraint, me. Should give me an award, really. Or at least immunity from the Slayer..."

Unconvinced, Wesley nevertheless pulled up a chair, the small bottle of holy water in his pocket clunking against the side as he sat down. "I'd say that you probably weren't telling me the whole truth, but I must admit to being intrigued. You have...quite the reputation."

Satisfied with the ego boost, and eager to find an ally who could potentially get him out of this shithole, Spike launched into his tale of chips, annoying blond Slayers and oh-so unfortunate misunderstandings (it wasn't him, honest. The little witch's position was practically screaming to be taken advantage of...), leaving out the occasional strategic detail.

Wesley listened, half disgusted, half pitying. What this creature had done was without any moral value, but to lower himself to *this* simply in order to survive...It showed a zeal for life that he had not recognised in any other soulless creature. It was, at the very least, extremely disturbing. And he got the feeling that Spike was not exactly finding his current situation to be as trouble-free as he'd hoped. The way he kept picking absently at his nails, giving cautious looks every time an unexpected noise was made...If Wesley didn't know better he'd say he was...

"So prove it."

Forehead lined in confusion, Spike observed a proffered bare arm. "You want me to try to bite you?"

"I wouldn't advise it," informed his new confidante with a dangerously cool edge. "Pinch me, and be well aware that I can recognise a good actor."

Sighing dramatically, Spike gave the thin flesh a hard pinch, and immediately yelped as the uncomfortably familiar pain lanced through his skull. One of these day he'd be able to tear that Iowa kid a new one...Or maybe several.

Frankly amazed that William the Bloody was indeed telling the unvarnished (well, perhaps a little polished...) truth, Wesley rubbed at the pinkening skin on his forearm and made a slightly revised offer to the one he had originally envisaged.

"I'll assume you want to get out of here?" If for nothing else, mused the man, to get away from the smell. For pity's sakes, it was worse than a Trakken demon's armpits after a particularly heavy game of table tennis.

Rubbing his sore temple, the vampire nodded in the affirmative.

"Then I suggest you come back with me and work for the side of good."

A new sense of defiance suddenly welled up within Spike. Does he think I'm completely broken or something? Think a little rough shag's gonna make the Big Bad go running like a whipped puppy? Forget that. I stay here, I get paid, hurts a bit, but I can't really help that. I can hack it. Only been a month or two and already feels like years but...I can hack it. Yeah. How dare he assume I've gone soft? I'm fuckin' *evil*, right? Right? A slightly trembling hand clenched into a fist he answered Mr. Poncey-Wankery-Watcher-who-probably-wanted-to-humilarte-me-anyway with his usual erudite air.

"Bugger off!"

Resisting the urge to make a sharp comment on exactly who was buggering who, Wesley carefully placed the card with his own phone number down next to the obviously conflicted vampire and made his goodbyes, for some reason disappointed that things hadn't gone better. After all, he had gone to all this trouble...

"If you change your mind..." his last words trailed off as Spike slammed the door behind him, leaving the demon alone to contemplate his situation.

Well, he couldn't say he hadn't tried.

++++

It didn't hurt.

Really.

He'd been through worse. He's been through Angelus, for fuck's sakes, hadn't he? So why should one poxy human be scaring him more than the Scourge of Europe? Oh yeah - point One - The Scourge of Europe occasionally gave a damn, and Two - at least he could've fought Angel back.

Thrust into again, body pinned to the floor, he bit back a groan. The thick belt whipped against his bruised legs again, and he started to smell blood. In and out, up and down...constant repetition. He was being torn both inside and out.

So his weak body may have betrayed him, but he still had his mind, right? Sharp as a tack, a little psychotic, little neurotic, but what did you expect from a demon getting fucked over six ways from Sunday?

Comfort ignored, rolled over and presented with something that really should have a health warning stamped to it's base, he gagged at first, cursing involuntary responses that should have died long ago along with his humanity.

His 'client' smiled, release approaching and grabbed the other male's head, thrusting. "Take it all or you get nothing, boy."

Almost three years ago Angelus was saying the same thing.

He swallowed.

~~~~

"Spike m'boy, things really have gone to pot haven't they?" Patted on the head like a dog and left to his own devices whilst he watched his Sire fuck his love. Helpless.

"Don't worry" his Sire had promised, "I'll take good care of her, then maybe later we can have our own fun, huh?" Angelus regarded the wheelchair-bound vampire with a look of unbridled derision. "I know we can find something you're good for."

And with a mocking kiss blown in his direction, Angelus had left.

~~~~

Patted on the head and left chained to the wrought iron headboard he watched his last fuck of the day leave, promising to return soon.

Bloody cold here.

He coughed, ribs jarring, watching as a slow trickle of blood dripped from wrist to chest. Watching as it soon became a small pool nestling in the hollow between his collarbones.

The door shut and he was left alone. Again.

Oh no, this didn't hurt at all.

Maybe...maybe once he recovered consciousness again he might find that number the Watcher left?

If nothing else, he could make a decent crank call.

*****
tbc