Baloo, my boy, lie still and sleep
It grieves me sore to hear thee weep
If thou'lt be silent I'll be glad
Thy moaning makes my heart full sad.

Rough and whispering, the voice spread warmth deep inside him and to wrap around the places nothing else could touch. The pain was vivid, every part of his body twisted and throbbing. Tears traced crazy paths along hot skin, and the wet, gasping sound came from lungs too hurt to truly sob.

Baloo, baloo, baloo, baloo
Baloo, baloo, lu-li-li-lu

He struggled through the black to try and open his eyes, to see what sang to him and touched him so delicately. So desperately. But his eyes wouldn't open and there was only the voice, telling him that it was all right.

O'er thee I keep my lonely watch
Intent thy lightest breath to catch

Cool, gentle pressure on his face, catching the tears as the fell. Breath gusting over skin that felt raw, quieting the flame. Touches in his hair, running over and over to the pounding of a single heart.

O, when thou wak'st to see thee smile
And thus my sorrow to beguile. . .

Murmurs in between the song, as if it hurt to sing so much. But never silence, never stillness. Always words, ghosting along nerves to teach them more than pain, more than hurt. Words that made the tears come faster, because it was not for him. Never for him the peace they offered, hard lessons learned before speech and skill. Pain and fear were all he knew. . .

Baloo, my boy, lie still and sleep
It grieves me sore to hear thee weep.

Warmth spread over him, bundling around him like the blanket he'd lost so long ago to 'maturity', 'adulthood' and a small fire. More touches, more soft words, over and over, never flagging, never faltering, always there on his skin and in his mind.

Baloo, baloo, baloo, baloo
Baloo, baloo, lu-li-li-lu

It wasn't true. It couldn't be true, what they said, because it never had been before, never would be now. It couldn't be true. . .

*****************

Have you ever heard your body scream, without ever using lungs and vocal-cords?

It was that sound that woke him, jolting him from drugged half-sleep into dazed alertness. Freezing, he held his breath.

Not there?

Some lessons are learned so early, so deeply that they never leave. They form a routine, and there's comfort in following the routine, because nothing else ever was-routine or comfortable. The first was to determine not self-but them.

No breathing.

Lances of fire in his chest made him grab sharp lung-full breaths of air; wet sounds of a body working. The only body.

Not there?

There was comfort in routine. Without the routine, there was none. Wary unease pooled in his belly, making his skin itch and tighten. Sounds: the hiss and crackle and drip and drop but no in and out and in again. The thud-thud of a terrified heart, but without the measured counter-beats that usually greeted a waking.

Minutes ticked by. There was procedure, even now, but without the familiarity to provide false-comfort. Wait, be silent, don't make the first move. Unconsciousness brought kicks, but then withdrawal and flimsy offerings of shelter. Just wait.

Minutes turned to hours and he must have slept again. Light edged through closed lids, warming the left side of his face and the top of his left shoulder. Sunlight. Warm. Nice. Not there before.

Not there?

Minutes-to-hours and still alone? No breathing but the shallow sounds they had never made. No thumping but the tumbling beat in his ears and behind his eyes. Not there. Alone. Alone? Uneasiness coalesced into fear, the routine stripped away to leave. . . nothing.

Click. The whisper of movement, cool air brushing along his face, and low, measured inhale-exhale-inhale-exhale-inhale-

"I will not hurt you."

Close up throat, concentrate on deep, melodic voice, polished and proper with just a hint-

"You must breathe, child. He was quite insistent of that."

Bad!

Too deep, too fast, and tremors shook him as saline burned behind tightly closed eyes. Convulsing on the solid breath lodged in his throat, he could not fear cool touch upon his arm, strong hand upon his back, pressing-

The lump dissolved, leaving shivering agony in its wake. Hot, scalding hot tears dripped from closed eyes, and more lumps formed as breathing grew difficult.

"You must breathe."

Badbadbadbadbad!

The wet heat could not be stopped, sliding out despite focused pressure. The touch on his back shifted slightly, and the edged lines around his chest eased. More deep, shuddering breaths, the rhythm pulling him back in and out and in and out. . .

"I will not hurt you."

In and out and in and out and in and out.

"You are pack. You are protected."

But he did not hear 'protected'. Abandoned, bereft, cast out, shunned, rejected, scorned, alone. . .

A sharp tap on his temple. The flare of pain broke through the haze and he jerked his head up to stare-at spots, from holding his eyes so tightly closed. Blinking produced flashes of color and the image of a woman's head.

"You are pack. Feel!"

Feel? Feel. . . pack. Feel pack. Feel the pack, no matter how small or skewed or fractured. Feel pack, buzzing deep within areas that saw little daylight but tied directly to nerves and heart. Ties still bound, despite the tug-and-stretch. Still bound.

"Are you pack?"

A twitch served for a nod. He was pack, included and not alone.

"As pack, you are safe. I am not pack."

Spots finally cleared, revealing huge dark eyes in a lined and weathered face. Those luminous eyes blinked, and the lights deep within them resolved to waver and become reflections again. Two sticks held together a bun of jet black hair. Little hands rested on narrow legs, against a kimono of black and silver.

"I am not pack," was repeated.

No, not pack. But not enemy. No hate no fear no worry-just little and scared and want. Want smell.

"I do not wish to hurt you." He froze again, untrusting of that beginning. Not wish but want. . . "I must check the bandages. Will you let me?"

He blinked. Bandages? Freeing an arm-that caught the light and glittered-he pulling his blanket up an inch. Just enough to let light shine down his naked body.

Gold was everywhere. Snake-like, it threaded through his skin from neck to feet, like hundreds of little worms burrowing into him. Translucent material was dotted among the gold, over areas he knew were too serious to be stitched closed. Wood was wrapped around one arm and one leg, thin leather holding it in place. He looked like a child's crazy-paving, a toy put together all wrong.

A gentle touch made him look back up. Something she saw on his face made the aloof expression soften into something much nicer. "You will heal," she told him quietly. "All will be well."

He nodded and slumped back down against the cushions, ignoring the way various bits of him screamed in response.

She hummed while she worked, something soft that he didn't recognize. It kept him calm while she checked him over with professional skill and competence. It hurt-it hurt a lot-but he was silent the whole time, concentrating on breathing. He had to breathe, pack-leader said so.

"Finished." Xander blinked at the satisfied pronouncement, noticing that the stray beams of sunlight were no longer touching him. Had he fallen asleep? But it had hurt, and he knew better than to sleep while it hurt. . .

The whimper was growing in his throat, and he swallowed repeatedly to rid himself of it. Except he didn't know where he was, and he wanted-he wanted-

"He will return soon. He has not left you, this I promise." He stared at the small woman, unblinking. "Are you thirsty? Hungry?"

He was thirsty, horribly so, but he could not open his mouth to tell her. He wanted-he needed to know that he was still. . . still. . .

"Xander. Look at me." And he was drowning, falling, lost in depths so dark that it was literally the absence of light. There was nothing but blackness, all around him, but not lost, and not alone, and he wasn't so little anymore. Wasn't he? Wasn't he supposed to be? He liked it when he was little, because little meant safe and cupcakes and a dirty-white blanket he could still taste when his eyes were closed. Little meant someone to take care of him, protect him from the things he was too small to understand, too small to deal with on his own.

Tears were falling again, burning red patterns down his skin, and the whimper had turned into sobs. Arms stiff and throbbing, skin turned pale against true gold, moved to wrap around himself in a vain attempt to offer comfort he couldn't feel, because he was too little! Just small and cold and scared and he wanted so badly that it ached more than the cuts, the broken bones, more than the look in his mother's eyes when she'd settled herself on him and he'd known, really known just how bad it was. Just how scary it was. When he'd understood for the first time what denial tasted like and how much he needed-

"Shhh, luv. Love. Hush, now." Oooh, pretty voice was back! Cool skin resting against his flushed one and strong, so strong arms were moving him, positioning him, a living doll to heat the cold, cold bed at night. He was moved against something hard and soft and not warm but so nice, touching almost from neck to knee. Words competed with the rush-rush of blood pounding in his ears, touches dancing over skin that couldn't take even the gentlest pressure but still needed it, craved it. The sweet-sharp smell of blood filled him, almost drowning it out, almost overpowering it, but not really.

Musk and leather, cigarettes and pain, and below that something more, something deeper.

Home. He wept, losing himself in the scent of it, sobbing out two decades and four years of pain and terror that he'd never told anyone before, never never never. Home. And he wanted to believe, wanted to believe so much that the pain of his broken body dimmed in comparison because he hadn't, he couldn't. Wanting was dangerous, he knew that, but it was so much, so strong, and please, please make it better, make it not so much, please. . .

"I'm here, my love. I promise I'm here. You're safe now, precious. Nothing will hurt you ever again."

******************

This time waking was. . . better. No silent, swallowed screaming, no mumbled songs. Just breathing. Soft pressure on his forehead, cool breath gusting in and out over feverish skin. A twitch of movement and he recognized the lump at the top of his head as a nose.

"Ow."

A sharply indrawn breath and then what had been his blanket started moving. "Mornin', pet," was muttered in his ear. He stifled a giggle-the voice was high and light, from a sleep-full throat. It made him sound almost falsetto.

"Hm?" Rumbling vibrations turned the laughter into a silent moan. "S'funny, luv?"

"Silly." And his own voice was falsetto, but that was okay too.

Blue eyes widened and stared into his. For a moment he thought he saw fear, true fear, the kind of fear that said 'please, no, not this one too', but then it was gone and there was only amusement and affection. "Am I silly, then?"

"Yes." Another giggle, which called up an answering smile. "Pretty."

"Nah. Too bony to be really pretty. You are, though. Even now, you are. . ." There was pain in the voice again, like there had been before with the pretty song. Pain was bad. Besides, the pretty man was wrong.

"Not," he said, wrinkling his nose and shaking his head. Looking down at himself, seeing the cuts and bruises and pudgy bits and dented bits, he blinked back tears. "Ugly," he whispered. "Broken."

"Never." Quick as a flash, there was a hand cupping his cheek, making him look up into blue eyes that were filled with their own tears. Eyes that were completely serious and not the least bit mocking. "You are beautiful, love. Don't ever think different. An' you are not broken. Don't keep broken things. Toss 'em out. An' you-" he stressed, tilting his head so that he continued looking into his eyes- "are not broken, ducks. You are strong, and pure. Always pure."

"Mommy says I'm bad. Daddy says I'm dirty." The comments were rote, things he knew and had known all his life. But it still hurt to say them out loud.

"Never. Y'er mum's a ravin' looney, an' your da's a pathetic sack o' rotgut. Nothing comin' outta his mouth but drink. Don't believe a word of it." The eyes were back, staring into his own with such fervor, such deep belief that he couldn't help but maybe-just maybe believe. The pretty man wasn't leaving, after all. He was still there, still touching and talking and saying such nice things. . .

"Mommy and Daddy love me," he whispered. Which wasn't true, he knew that. But they were supposed to. . . weren't they?

"No, Xander. The crack-whores you call parents do not love you. They used you an' abused you an' got only what they wanted from you." The pretty man was very close now. Such a nice, pretty man.

"I know," he whispered again, because he did. He'd known that for a long, long time. Love was red hair and cookies and ice cream in the park. Love was a hand helping him to his feet and accepting the one he offered. Love was quiet nights in front of the tv, heckling movies that could never capture the creatures that did go bump in the night. Love was thank you and it looks good on you. . .

Except they loved someone else. They always loved someone else. And even when it was him. . . it wasn't. Because he was bad, and ugly, and broken, and no one could love him.

"They were idiots, Xander. Utter gits."

Nice, pretty man. So silly, the pretty man. Because they weren't gits, they were his parents. And maybe if he hadn't been so bad, and stupid, and ugly, and broken then maybe they might have loved him. Been nice to him. And then maybe. . .

"They shoulda loved you, pet. Right morons of them not to. Know why?" And the pretty man was moving, sitting up and carefully moving him so that he was still pressed up close, legs wrapped around a narrow waist, and an arm supporting him around his back. Hair was brushed away from his face and a forehead rested against his own, so that their noses rubbed together. And blue, blue, blueblueblue eyes were looking straight into his and he couldn't look away and didn't want to because they were so pretty, even though he was so close it looked like there was only one big blurry eye, instead of two.

"Because I love you, Xander."

Feather light touch of lips against his own, and suddenly he remembered. Not what happened, that was easy to remember, even when he wanted to forget. . . he remembered that he wasn't little. He hadn't been little for a very long time, and this was Spike, kissing him. Soft, gentle, loving kisses, warm against his mouth, and shouldn't he be kissing back?

His mouth opened involuntarily, not much, just enough that a tongue could lap at the openness there, and he must have morning-breath from hell, but it didn't seem to matter because it was gentle touches, sweet, loving touches that never faltered as they kissed and licked and sucked and gently nipped.

And this was different than before. Than ever before. There was no gloss or fruit, or plump softness. There was stubble, and rough, broken patches, and a hard aggressiveness that even his dominant lovers hadn't been able to match, even now when it was couched in loving gentleness. There was cigarettes, and fear, and a lingering hint of copper, along with pain and love. And it tasted better than anything.

He moaned, or gasped, or something, because his mouth was open wider and a slick tongue was rubbing against his own, and he was kissing. Really kissing. Tongues tangling together, not battling, just touching, tasting, feeling. He was crying, he knew, his fingers curled into ice blond locks that weren't cemented down with gel, and that alone told Xander everything there was to know. He kissed back harder.

"I'm sorry," was whispered when they both realized that Xander had to breathe, and the kisses trailed along his face, removing tears that still fell. "I'm sorry." Nibbling delicately at an earlobe, before returning to press hard at lips that welcomed the contact, craved it, never wanted it to end, except there was that breathing thing-

I love you. I'm sorry. I'm here. Beautiful, special, wonderful, strong. Mine. Mine.

The words poured out in between the kisses and Xander wallowed in the emotion behind them, became a sponge, the Sahara, desperate for the liquid relief the words brought. More kisses, and this was the first time, he realized. The only time. Over a month, and never had there been kisses, let alone like these. There had been everything but kisses, and he hadn't realized he'd wanted them until he had them.

Had him.

*****
* Lady Anne Bothwell's Lament
*****

The ceiling was pretty. Swirls of black were worked into the wood planing, creating a soothing pattern he ran his eyes over again and again. He figured it wasn't random, maybe some kind of Asian character? He didn't know. But it was pretty. Soothing. That was good.

He had no idea how long he'd been studying the pattern above him, but he guessed that it didn't matter. He was warm, resting on oddly shaped yet strangely comfortable cushions. The pain wasn't even too bad, so long as he kept his body mostly still. His mind was calm, staring up at the pretty patterns. They made it easier not to think about-other things. Made it easy to think about nothing but the patterns.

Which was wrong.

He remembered coming home. Little fag's finally showin' his face? Prick! Look at wha' y've done t' your mother! He remembered when the beating started, remembered when it got so horribly worse. No son o' mine's gonna be a fag. Your mom didn't raise a fuckin' fudge-packer. Icy hot pain that dragged through his skin, followed by rivers of blood. The sharp crack and dull thuds as his body was pummeled into submission.

Xander!

The drunken, cruel look in his father's eyes. Pretty little boy. The look in his mother's as she ran her hands along his body, uncaring of the injuries she touched. Oh, Alexander. I'm so disappointed in you. You were such a promising boy. Her weight upon him and the sticky, slimy feeling of warmth wetting-

Let me in!

"Come in," he whispered in the stillness of the room. His voice was hoarse, but not scratchy and weak the way it had been the first time. His eyes returned to the whirling patterns above him, visible in the warm sunlight, tracing them in a more conscious attempt to calm down. Being agitated made him hurt more.

But not enough. Not as bad as it should.

Broken leg. Dislocated arm. A host of cuts, some of them quite deep, on his front, the ones on his back-reaching from neck to knee-intermixed with bruising that felt down to his bones. Ribs were at the very least cracked, possibly outright broken. The hot, wet feeling in his gut that had followed a particularly vicious hit with the crowbar had to have broken something, which meant internal injuries.

He should be dead now. Or in traction. Or screaming in tortured agony, waiting for a break in the pain so he could beg for morphine, for an overdose, for something.

He wasn't.

Not that there wasn't pain-there was definitely that. But manageable pain. Bearable pain. The kind he imagined he'd feel if he went several rounds with a Slayer who wasn't pulling her punches, followed by a few very active patrols, finishing with a trip to the gym. He hurt and he knew it was going to take time and work to feel okay again. . .

But he would.

Xander! Let me in!

He'd let Spike in. He remembered that. Thank god he's okay, he thought inanely, suddenly remembering why Spike hadn't been there to begin with. He'd die if he had to go back to the Initiative. Trapped behind glass with too-white walls and people poking and prodding and dissecting and taking every-

Pretty patterns in the wood. He traced them for a while, his mind circling warily while he gathered his thoughts. They had a tendency to fly away and it was so pretty above him. . .

Spike saved me.

He understood that. It was hard to miss, given he was lying here in a strange room that wasn't a hospital, feeling. . . recoverable. What he didn't understand was why.

Opening aching eyes, twisting his head just enough that he could see the familiar combination of white and black glowing eerily in the doorway. Something in him forcing lips and tongue, throat and lungs to produce the combination the voice demanded. Sinking back down onto scratchy cloth, fighting a smile because now, now it was over. . .

All that blood, soaking into everything. A feast for a starving vampire, with two humans ready and willing to act as pre-chipped hands. Xander had slipped away to the peaceful realization that at least Spike would benefit. He'd get a good meal, and Xander was happy that his death would give that to the vampire. That his death would be good for something.

Spike saved me.

There was something that was supposed to accompany that thought. An addendum, a clause, an explanation, a something. He didn't know what it was. He hated that more than anything; the parts of his life where he would d something, say something, and it would be lost to the void of black unconsciousness. This time, though, the lack of memory tore at him, ripping apart gray matter to find the something that would make him breathe easier, the bit of knowledge that would explain why he felt so-

"Good morning, Xander."

He froze.

A whisper of cooler air across his skin told him the door was opening, quiet footfalls approaching him. He did not look away from the ceiling, even when whoever it was knelt beside him. "How are you feeling?" Something was unsnapped, making him start violently. "You must breathe, please. He was rather insistent about that."

He? Pack-leader. Pack-leader says I have to breathe.

He inhaled too quickly, coughing as sweet air turned rough and cut into his already abraded throat. Warm, small hands touched him and this time his violent reaction propelled him up against the wall.

Or it would have, if those same small hands hadn't held him down.

"None of that, please." The hands did not move, resting comfortably where they touched his chest and shoulder and he gradually relaxed into their warmth. "Will you stay calm?"

Will you hurt me if I don't? he though. The fear was instantaneous. Deep in his mind, something wailed and keened in counterpoint.

"You must stay calm, Xander. You must breathe. If you do not, I fear for what William might do."

It was the amusement rippling through the smooth silk of the voice that made him finally calm down. That, and the realization that pack-leader would be upset if he wasn't well behaved.

Spike saved me.

"Now, then. Let me do most of the work." With that bizarre admonition, Xander lay passive as the small, warm hands exerted a startling amount of strength in moving him around. Soon he was in a sitting position, able to actually see more than the pretty ceiling that still called to him.

The small room seemed covered with candles. Most had gone out, but a few still burned fitfully. Beside him a small woman in a black-and-silver kimono watched patiently. "I know you," he whispered, his throat still not particularly happy at being used. "You own the magic shop. Willow likes it."

"Indeed." Which was an odd answer, and he was able to catch several different nuances in it. If only he knew what theymeant. "I must check your wounds, now." Hands touched him again, but this time to turn his face so that he was looking in her eyes. Deep, dark eyes. . . depths so dark that they were the absence of light. . . "I will be as gentle as I can," she said quietly, "but this will hurt. Do you understand?"

He nodded, throat suddenly tighter.

She worked quickly, occasionally interjecting comments about his recovery and the means she had used to get him there. It did hurt, but concentrating on her voice and the patterns above him helped immensely. I'm going to be okay. That was what she stressed again and again. Glancing down at himself only served to convince him of it.

He knew what he should have looked like-a lifetime at home and years with the Slayer had given him many mornings to examine injuries from the previous night. Instead, smooth, mostly unbroken skin stared back at him. There was an occasional bandage, which was carefully removed. Most revealed reddened patches of skin, already in the final stages of healing. His leg was bound in black strips of some material he couldn't identify, which were also removed.

"Scars?" he asked while she rubbed something cool and tingly into his back. It felt good, which surprised him. She'd hurt him plenty before, and this should have hurt like hell. Wasn't the first time the crowbar had been used, and he knew how long cracked bones and the bruised flesh atop them remained painful.

"You will have them," was the immediate response, "but not many. There is a salve you must apply regularly. It will help convince the skin to knit back seamlessly."

No scars. Well, no more scars. Which, given what they'd done to his front-

A sharp tap to his temple made the world loose its red-tinged madness. "You are here, and you are safe. No one will hurt you, Xander." A brief hint of a smile crossed stern features. "Well, no more than I have already."

"Okay," he replied dumbly. She got him turned over again and a tray containing a bowl and a glass appeared in his lap. He blinked at it. "How-what-how did-" His mouth seemed unable to get the words out coherently.

"You are here because William brought you here. I have been tending to you for four days."

Shock kept him docile as she began feeding him a rich chicken broth. Four days? I've been here days? God, Willow never lets me go two without calling- Click. Oh, god, she knows. Those unreadable eyes, watching him and waiting. . . She knows, she knows, she knows, she knows, she-

"Enough!" Black eyes glared at him, pinning him to the cushions, unable to do more than gasp. "You were hurt, and I healed you. I neither know nor care what hurt you, so long as I know it will not happen again. I do not like my healing to be undone. William has promised to see you safe, and that is all I care about."

"But I-but you-must-"

Whatever she read in his face softened her grim demeanor. "I have guesses, yes. William has not confirmed or denied anything, so they remain guesses. I do not, however, think they are wrong."

Wrong, bad, dirty, don't touch, bad, ugly, stupid, broken, broken, bad, go away, don't touch!

"I think no less of you for what I guess," she continued. "If I had, William would not have brought you here." She caught his eyes, something sparking in their depths. It made him take a deep breath and pay attention to her words. "You are safe here, Xander."

The litany halted, shocked at what he couldn't have seen. He couldn't have. Because it looked like she. . . cared for him. But that couldn't be true because he was . . . he was. . .

Spike saved me.

Lost in his thoughts, he remained quiet while she spoon-fed him the soup and helped him drink the liquid in the cup. It wasn't water, but it tasted cold and clean like water did and quenched his thirst. It was nice. Then she helped him lie back down and he looked at the patterns some more while she bustled about the room.

She doesn't bustle, he thought muzzily. She glides. Floats. Mm. Cool.

She finished whatever it was she was doing and went to the door. "I've closed the shutters," he heard her say quietly. "He is dazed, and will possibly grow more so as my medicines take effect. Perhaps not. He is coherent. I will leave you, now." The door shut.

The sound of someone settling beside him and a cool, gentle touch on his cheek. "Hey, puppy. How you feelin'?"

"Spike." He leaned into the touch, just a little, keeping his eyes on the ceiling. "I don't hurt."

"Yeah, Song Li's good. Very good." Feather light touches caressed him, and he hummed a bit, under his breath. "Hey. You awake in there?"

"Pretty." It was too hard to look away, so he didn't. Just pressed himself closer to the cool, soothing touch as it moved up to pet his hair. "Nice."

"What's pretty? The ceilin'? Yeah. Li was tellin' me, got symbols up there, worked into the finish. Supposed to be good for patients." More petting and Xander was feeling nice, now. Not hurting. Not really sleepy. Content. So long as the fingers didn't stop moving. "Can I see too?"

"It's pretty," he said by way of agreement. Big, strong hands moved him with a gentleness he would have scoffed at a month ago, arranging him so that another body could lay next to his.

"You make a good pillow," he said from the crook of Spike's shoulder. One hand continued to pet, pet, pet, pet him, the other rubbing slowly over his un-damaged arm.

"Glad to oblige."

They lay quietly for a while, lulled into a half-doze by the twisty, curvy patterns. It was nice.

"What do you remember?"

Xander! Let me in!

"You saved me." His voice wasn't supposed to be that high, was it? Swallowing only made him notice the lump in his throat. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" It was too tranquil to yelp, but that's what it sounded like. Just with less volume. "Pet, Xander. . . what the hell are you sorry for?"

"I was bad. I went back. I knew you didn't want me to. I knew you-"

"Shhh, now. Don't cry, luv."

"I'm not. M'not a baby."

"Not a soddin' baby. Gonna quote me, do it right, dammit." But the humor was strained and Spike let it die a muted death.

Silence again. The feeling that he was missing something important was back, stronger than ever and very much connected to Spike-but it was hard to stay worried about it. With the pretty pattern and nice, safe touches on him, and the smell that exuded pack and safe and home, it was hard to do anything except lie there.

"You knew. Didn't you?" he blurted out, even though he knew he shouldn't be talking. He shouldn't be pressing this, because he didn't want to know. Not really.

"I knew."

"I'm s-I thought I hid it better." The cool form beside and below him tensed. Apologies were bad, then, and he accomodated the knowledge instantly. "I thought I hid it better," he finished softly, relieved when the muscles below his head relaxed.

"You hid it well enough." Spike turned his head so that he was speaking almost directly into his ear. "Too well, really." More silence, and Xander wondered what that comment was supposed to mean. "I smelled the blood. An' the makeup."

Oh. That was. . . bad. He wasn't supposed to be bad, except the words were being pulled out of him because he was bad and- "I'm sorry."

Arms tightened around him, and he was nuzzled gently. "For what? For gettin' beat on by them you couldn't fight against? For takin' it when you coulda fought back? Not your fault, luv. Not ever your fault for that."

But it was. Wasn't it? Spike was right, of course, he could have fought back for. . . for years, now. He could have, but he never did. "But-but only you can-can hurt me. That's what you said?"

Spike growled low in his throat, freezing Xander's tears before they fell. Shifting, he repositioned them so that they were both on their sides, Xander's head still on Spike's arm, blue eyes boring into brown. Blue, blue eyes. . . "Not about that. Not about mine or theirs, just about you. An' hurtin'. You shouldn't hurt, Xander. Not ever."

When has Spike ever called me by my name?

Xander! Let me in!

"But you knew," Xander protested weakly. "You knew, and I was lying and that was bad and I don't-I don't want to be-you knew."

"I knew," Spike confirmed, "an' I never pushed you away." How had he known what Xander was trying to say? Was Xander trying to say that? He didn't know, but it sounded so good that he didn't argue it. "I knew, an' I never thought you broken or worthless. I knew, Xander, an' I kept you closer." Big hands, killer hands, brushed away a stray tear. "Told you, pet. You're mine. Not about them touchin' what wasn't theirs to play with. Bout you not believin' I'll keep you."

Something deep within the back of his mind flared bright, a glorious cry of happiness sounding even as tears rolled down his face. "Keep me?"

"Told you, puppy. Don't do anythin' less than forever."

"Oh." The something was there again, he could see it in Spike's eyes. But he didn't know what it was and even as he watched the light faded into a muted pain. Within his mind the happiness became twisted, tainted. He was hurting pack-leader. He didn't know how, and he didn't know how to make it better, but he was. That was bad.

Spike didn't seem to think so, content to pull Xander closer and hold him until the tears stopped. "Um, S-Miss Li, she-she said. . . four days?" Spike made a soft hm noise when spoken to, eyes half-closed in drowsy contentment. "What happened? I don't. . . I can't remember. After I heard you."

Lids flickered up, and for a moment Xander swore he saw- "You invited me in." The words were flat, and this time Xander did see pain and remembered rage flaring in dark blue eyes. "Got in. Got you out. Took you here."

"F-four days? Ago?"

"Yeah. Four days. Li, she's. . .she's a healer. Of sorts. When I-when-" he cleared his throat roughly. "Figured here was best. No officials askin' funny questions, no Scoobies clusterin' about. An' better healin' too."

"Oh." He bit his lip, wishing he could concentrate more. There was something he wanted to-oh, that was it. "Is she human?"

Rueful chuckle, but the pain and rage lessened so that was good. "Don't know. Don't rightly care. She's powerful, very powerful, so I'm not about to go askin' after her parentage."

"She said she used. . . magic."

"A bit. Mostly was just Eastern medicine, 'stead of Western." The comforting croon he vaguely remembered was back in Spike's voice, slurring the words together. It was nice. Comfy. He liked being comfy. "But yeah, some magic. That a problem?"

"No." He thought about it some more. Turned his head so that it was pressed deeper into Spike's neck. His lips tickled white skin stretched over a collarbone. "Giles says that magic can't be used to heal people."

"Yeah, cos the Watcher knows everything' 'bout everythin', he does." A sigh and Spike cuddled closer. Pretty Spike. "He's half-right. Can't use magic like he knows to heal, um, sickness. Illness. But injury, that's different. Wounds, specially those done out o' violence, they leave a signature, an echo, in the magic. Least, that's the way Li tells it. She can use that echo to tell your body the way it should be, whole an' healthy an' not hurtin'. Makes the healin' faster an' better an' you won't scar as much."

"That's good," he said placidly. "Is Willow mad at me?" He wondered why he sounded so dreamy.

"Christ, I know she warned me that you'd act funny, but you sound like you're bloody stoned!"

Xander turned his head again; that was a weird answer. "M'not. . . stoned. Not a druggie." He wondered why he sounded so petulant. And childish.

"No, you're just flightier'n hell. Right. S'been long enough, I think. C'mon, puppy. Time to get up."

"Don't wanna." He pouted outrageously, knowing he was pouting, but surprised when Spike just rolled his eyes. The pout usually worked. "Sleepy! And, it's pretty. Don't wanna leave the pretty."

"There's more-pretty where we're goin'. Now, don't fight me, pet. Gotta get you in there. Come sunset, we're leavin'."

"Leaving? Leaving where? I like it here." He grinned inanely as Spike swung him-carefully-up into his arms and carried him from the room. "Bouncy!" he exclaimed, wondering why Spike was giving him that look. "What?" he pouted again.

"This is not just you regressin'. You are stoned. Bollocks." Spike shifted him so that he was being carried with only one arm. Whoa, he thought; Spike wasn't even straining. Vampire strength is so cool. He watched as Spike poured some gloppy green stuff into a big bathtub and then ran water over the top of it.

When the water was steaming invitingly, Spike shifted him and Xander suddenly realized just what was going on. "Hey, no!" he said and began to struggle. It hurt, but he didn't care. "That's green! And slimy! I'm not going in there!" But despite his protests he was being lowered into the greenish goo.

"Oh, for bloody-! It's not gonna hurt you, pillock. It's gonna-just get in the-fuck, chip, I'm not tryin' to hurt him-bathtub!" Xander glared up from his position seated in the water before he realized-

Warm.

He held very, very still while Spike slid behind him. Why was he struggling again? He wasn't sure. Then Spike's voice was in his ear and he forgot. "See? Song Li has good stuff, yeah? Gonna get some o' this for us, in our place. Take baths together just like this, all warm an' tingly."

It was warm and tingly. Suffusing his body with soothing calm, and-oh! There were patterns on this ceiling too! Pretty!

He relaxed back against Spike's chest, humming a little as strong arms encircled him again. Legs brushed his, coarse hair scraping together and suddenly Xander realized he was naked. Had been naked the whole time. So was Spike, behind him.

The warm chuckle reverberated through him, legs tightening a bit to enclose him further. Touching? Touching. . . good? "Just figured it out, did you? Don't worry, pet. Song Li's the discreet type."

"Oh. Okay. Why is the water green?"

Muffled laughter bounced off his neck in response.

They stayed in the tub a long time. It was nice in there, and he was losing some of the 'flightiness' Spike didn't like, the more they stayed there. Also, Spike was very happy to touch him. Not in a bad way-his mind shied away from the very thought-but a nice way, petting like was a puppy-my puppy, you are, boy-all over his body, in a soothing caress that felt very, very nice.

First, though, there had been the shame.

How could Spike want to look at him? He was dirty. Broken. Ugly. Worse, the heat, the incredibly sensuality of Spike's gaze made him think. . . bad things. Bad things about heaviness and sticky moisture and-

But Spike had slithered around so that he could face Xander, staring into his eyes, whispering things that Xander couldn't believe. Except Spike kept saying them, and there was no hint of mockery or bullshit or anything but utter sincerity in the eyes that wouldn't let go of his. There was just concern and honesty and something that blinded Xander even as it reassured him. Something that he should recognize but he didn't, and it made him so frustrated. . .

And then Spike was touching him, differently than he had been before, because this wasn't just comfort-at least, not Xander's comfort. Sliding over skin that should have been red and raw. Running over bones that should have been shattered. Gliding over blood that should have filled the bathtub instead of his skin. Spike just touched, tracing imagined patterns, rubbing soap into skin that was oily from sleep and sweat, rinsing it clean with fresh water.

He wanted to stop it. He was ashamed, a disjointed litany of bad and ugly and broken circling in the back of his mind. But the touch on his skin was gentle, almost reverential, and the look in Spike's eyes when Xander dared meet them was blinding, and so happy.

He didn't know why. He couldn't possibly fathom what was so great about touching his skin. Even skin that was much more smooth and unbroken than it should have been.

He stopped thinking, eventually. It was hard to think and easy to trust Spike. So he just let go, relaxing back where Spike directed and allowed the vampire unrestricted access. It felt good, what Spike was doing. So good. Those big, dangerous hands were so tender as they rubbed and massaged and eased. He drifted under the caress, only noticing one little detail in the back of his mind. . .

*****